Page 24 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“The poor young man,” Beaumarsh said, returning her attention to their conversation. He emitted an overly sorrowful sigh. “He must be heartbroken.”

“Hardly. He’s in love with my sister,” she said with a snort.

“Ah, the lovely Miss Isabelle?” he replied, grinning.

“Oh, no. He’s aiming higher even than Izzy,” Clementine replied. “He’s holding out for Beatrice, but he shan’t have her, I promise. You’ve not seen her yet or you would not be wasting your time here with me, I assure you.”

Clementine had never in her life been jealous of her sister’s beauty and was therefore startled to hear the faint tinge of bitterness that accompanied this statement. She glanced at Beaumarsh, wondering if he had heard it too, but he merely looked entertained, awaiting more information.

“Bea is a diamond of the first water,” Clementine said gravely. “Incomparable. She is too good for this town, and I intend for her to have a season. She’ll marry a duke, even without a vast dowry behind her, you mark my words.”

“A duke?” Beaumarsh repeated, quirking one elegant eyebrow. “Well, no wonder I have failed to impress you when you have such ambitions.”

“Oh, only for Bea, my lord, not for any of the rest of us,” Clementine said, putting her hand to her heart and affecting a pious expression. “In all honesty, Bea would be quite content to spend the rest of her days in Little Valentine and marry a local lad, for she has no ambition in that regard nor any concept of her own beauty. I think she would live in a cottage with no modern conveniences and still find herself perfectly content.”

“And you, Miss Honeywell, what would you settle for?” he asked, a teasing note to the question.

“Oh, I shan’t marry,” she said with a laugh. “I shall look after my father, for he will never be where he is supposed to be else, and I shall be a doting auntie to all my nieces and nephews.”

She looked back at him, expecting him to make some playful comment about her lack of ambition when she might have the pious prig of a schoolteacher for the asking, but he did not. Instead, he looked vaguely annoyed, and she wondered if she had unwittingly offended him again. Clementine recalled her words, running through them to check she had said nothing that might put his back up, but found nothing.

Uncomfortable with the silence, she carried on talking, aware she ought to shut up but finding it impossible to do so.

“Mr Allenby is our schoolteacher, and I shall tell you a secret, if you promise not to breathe a word to anyone, but I do think him rather a prig. He’s very well thought of, and seems to be good at his job, but he’s so very stern. The poor boys never seem to have any fun, and fun is important for children, don’t you think? I know that’s not a very fashionable opinion, but my sisters and I had so much fun when we were children, well, until Mama died, but that’s a different thing.”

Clementine swallowed, cursing herself for rattling on. Well, it was a good thing she had never had a season, for she would clearly have wasted the opportunity. Flirting was obviously beyond her talent. Not that this came as a surprise, merely rather a disappointment. As the silence stretched on, Clementine felt increasingly foolish. No doubt he was cursing himself for having stopped to speak to her and was racking his brain for a polite way of leaving her again. She ought to say goodbye herself and put an end to the torture, but she was strangely reluctant to do so. Instead, she kept on talking, though each word made the situation worse.

“Papa is trying to raise funds for a girls’ school, too. He believes women ought to be educated, as do I, though I imagine you can think of at least one excellent reason against the argument. I’m afraid I am that scandalous thing, a woman with a brain and a will of her own, which is why I shall never marry. No man would stand me questioning his good sense or listen to me explaining why my way of doing a thing is better. Well, apart from Papa, but someone must keep him in order. He’ll turn up for Sunday service on a Wednesday afternoon without me to keep his appointments in order, you mark my words. But besides that, no one would have me, and I would never marry a man who thought I was chattel, his to do with as he pleased, or displeased, and so you see, I shall stay single.

“It is really not so terrible a fate, for Mama has left me a little nest egg, and Papa has also made provision too, so I shall do well enough. Also, though it might seem a strange thing to you, people here rather like me and welcome my interfering in their lives, though I cannot blame you for disliking it so, as you do not know me at all and—”

“If you will excuse me.”

“What? Oh, yes, of course. I beg your pardon, I do not usually rattle on so, but hark at me, tongue enough for two sets of teeth this morning,” Clementine said desperately, giving a nervous trill of laughter that was like no sound she had ever made in her life before.

“Forgive me, but I-I have things I must attend to. Good day to you, Miss Honeywell.”

“Yes. Good day to you, Lord Beaumarsh,” Clementine said jovially. She held herself together until she was sure he was out of earshot before turning and cursing out loud.

What in the name of everything holy had she been thinking? Utterly mortified, she wanted to do nothing more than curl up into a ball and will herself out of existence. However, she was not so weak-willed as all that, and so she decided she must make a virtue out of her appalling morning and entertain her friend with all the horrific details.

Chapter 8

Villains, victory and valedictory.

Willow Cottage. Little Valentine, South-East Coast of England. 6th June 1815.

“—and then I babbled on, telling him all the reasons I should never marry, but it was quite all right as Mama had left me a little nest egg and Papa had also made provision. As if he cared a fig about my plans. Honestly, Clara, I wanted to walk into the sea I was that horrified but I could not make myself stop,” Clementine said in exasperation, feeling hot all over as she explained about her run-in with Lord Beaumarsh.

Clara regarded her over the rim of her teacup, clearly fascinated by her description.

“I’m sure it is not half so bad as you make out.”

“He came upon me talking to seagulls,” Clementine repeated.

“Well, yes, I can see how that might have been somewhat mortifying,” Clara admitted, struggling not to laugh.

“It’s not funny,” Clementine grumbled, though she could see very well why it was amusing to anyone who had not been at the centre of it.