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Women aren't supposed to ride; that's what the stable keeper had told her. Ms. Mulwray had had her own brand of looking down her nose at Nadia, constantly lording over the poor girl and chastising her for disobeying her ailing father, or sometimes for showing any sort of thought or initiative whatsoever. She'd had a whole week to deal with the same sorts of issues she'd dealt with her whole life - the preconceptions and the greed she dealt with as a prisoner of her own womanhood - that by the time Egan had hitched up the horses and readied the carriage to carry her across the moors and through the forests and to Lord Beckham's doorway, she had already decided precisely how she planned to deal with the dinner her father had arranged with the mysterious man.
She had no interest in him - no interest in any man who would continue to benefit from the warped power structure that the aristocracy placed on the burdened shoulders of the workers and the women like her. She'd sit; she'd be perfectly personable. She'd say as little as she needed to, eat as little as she needed to; she'd keep her integrity, and she'd leave. That'd be the end of it, she decided; and her father, as much as she loved him, would have to deal with it.
"You're going to try to have at least a bit of fun, right, m'lady?" Egan implored, interrupting the jaunty tune he had been whistling the entire ride from the gates of Emerys to the rocky roadways leading in to Lord Beckham's estate in Berrewithe. Lady Havenshire remained obstinate, responding in as few words as she could.
"Perhaps, Egan," she lied; she knew precisely what she planned to do, and none of it involved 'fun'. Living a week, a few weeks; any weeks, really, as a woman with a will of her own would never be fun. It had been fun carousing in Canada, and India, and even in the United States; it had been fun, being her own, free person, without the burdens of warped expectations on her shoulders. Now, she knew she'd have no fun again, unless a man decided for he she was allowed to have it.
"That didn't sound very confident," Egan's endless insight provided. "You'll at least give the food a good try, right? I'm curious how the house staff's cooking measures up to Ms. Ranold's usual dinners."
"I preferred your whistling, Egan," Lady Havenshire responded, nonplussed.
"If I recall quite rightly, m'lady, one of the last trips of ours evolved into a rather pointed conversation of how you couldn't stand my whistling very much," Egan quipped. "Am I to take it as a compliment that you're pleased to hear my tunes again, m'lady?" he asked facetiously.
"Take it how you like, Egan," she sniped, and quite obnoxiously, Egan began to whistle again. Like an angry child Lady Havenshire simply bore it, too proud to object. The carriage began to hit rather rough patches of terrain, the horses whinnying and the wagon-wheels creaking; she found herself tilted back against the bench, carried slowly up the side of a rather steep hill, as deep clouds broke to reveal a simmering orange sunset on the horizon. She peeked from inside the vehicle to see the estate of Lord Beckham - its appearance, the sun behind it cresting down through cottony gray-black clouds, taking the girl's breath away.
"Quite a place," Egan said in surprise, stopping even the whistle of his sarcastic tune, simply beholding the manor. "I'm not certain where you may have met this man, m'lady, but her certainly seems prepared to entertain."
"Yes," Lady Havenshire said, turning away and ignoring her own surprise at the manor. He was still just a man, and she wouldn't ignore or forget or be charmed out of making the point she had come here to make today. She crossed her arms, looking instead at the sweeping, rocky hills dotting the estate, a landscape nearly as stormy as the man she remembered from that night - his expression entrancing, but mysterious; concealing beneath someone charming and funny, but clearly troubled. She couldn't dispel all those curious thoughts she had of him, no matter how hard she tried, so she instead ignored them as best she could and tried to maintain her focus on her mission.
"You know, he may not be the greedy scoundrel you think he is, m'lady," Egan whispered conspiratorially.
"That's quite enough, Egan," Lady Havenshire said in a huff, ignoring the beautiful, palatial estate before her. Egan chuckled, driving the horses around the bend and leading the carriage to the doors of the estate.
"Announcing the Lady Havenshire," Egan boomed, pulling the door to the carriage open for her. She hesitantly lifted her ornate, white-blue gown and carefully stepped out of the vehicle, exhaling softly and looking around. Once more the stormy gleam of the manor caught her eye; as darkly enticing as the man she had met that night. She quickly tried to compose herself, wearing her most uninviting expression, as she marched stridently towards the front door of the manor.
"Have fun, m'lady," Egan imparted on her as she left, much to her chagrin. She prepared to open the vast entryway doors, until they flew open before her, bright and inviting faces there to receive the lady.
"Hello and welcome! It's been such a long time since we've played host to such a lovely personage," came the warm and comforting voice of an old woman ushering Nadia out of the cool sunset and into the darkly-paneled, richly-appointed halls of the estate. "I'm Ms. Cauthfield, head of staff here at Berrewithe Manor, and it's an utter joy to host your arrival, m'lady," The old woman insisted, taking the lady's hand and leading her past plush couches, maple tables and gold-trimmed accoutrements. "Lord Beckham has anticipated your arrival all week! We've been preparing endlessly to ensure everything's just as you like it."
Nadia quietly admitted that this... was certainly not what she expected, not when coming to the manor of a stormy man, on a rocky moor, possessed by ghosts of his own past. She had expected... well, frankly, she had expected a woman to shout at her in much the manner she had grown used to dealing with, as she had with Ms. Mulwray. Instead, Ms. Cauthfield appeared to be something of a kindred heart. Her own defenses still starkly drawn up, she couldn't help but be impressed by the beautiful art paneling the halls of the manor as Ms. Cauthfield led her through.
"Is that a piece by Madame Gerard?" Nadia blinked, utterly stunned to see Parisian art adorning the house of a man as dour as the one she remembered.
"You know your art, do you?" Ms. Cauthfield smiled. "Lord Beckham has an eye for the finest painters you'll find in much of Europe, and elsewhere."
"I spent time in Paris," Lady Havenshire recalled, momentarily awestruck. She tried to reel back her surprise, briefly forgetting she had come here to rebuff the man and all he stood for. Instead, she found herself admiring his art as they strolled towards his dining room.
The doors to the dining hall flew open, cool lights dimly illuminating a table covered in ornate candelabras and a gold-trimmed tablecloth. It took her a long moment to take in the wondrous look - and the wealth it must have taken to assemble something so luxurious.
"Lord Beckham's quite excited to see you," Ms. Cauthfield insisted, pulling out a chair for her to sit in - it was taller than she, its wood-carvings hand-painted, weaving beautiful flowery patterns among overstuffed, plush cushions. "He's quite pleased to have you. Is everything to your liking, m'lady?" the old woman asked gleefully.
"I'm... yes, quite, Ms. Cauthfield," Nadia said, a quiet and incredulous laugh in her voice. "I... well, I simply didn't expect this. Given, you see, what I've known of your master, thus far."
"I know how he can come across as," Ms. Cauthfield explained, "but we're all behind him. We, his staff that is, know him quite well."
"I didn't imagine anyone knew him quite well," Nadia remarked.
"Few do, but he is far more of a generous man than he lets on," Ms. Cauthfield said with a smile. It seemed so wrong to Nadia; a chipper maidservant praising her master's generosity so sincerely? Had this been the same man, the one who had inherited from his sister - the one who had taken the family fortune, who had
benefited from this warped system Lady Havenshire so despised? She began to wonder on whether she had too harshly judged him.
"He'll be here in just a moment; I need to check on things in the kitchen. It's been such a pleasure, m'lady," Ms. Cauthfield nodded, rushing off towards the doors at the rear of the long, tall chamber.
Nadia had to admit. Even the dining room chair felt so, unusually comfortable. Nonetheless, she steeled herself. He could present himself as fashionably and as bombastically as he wished; it would do little to change her mind on precisely what she felt about the nature of this entire arrangement her father had made. She wouldn't fall for it. Not for the fancy paintings or the stormy setting or the handsome face, or the mysterious nature of him, or—
"Announcing Lord Beckham, Duke of Berrewithe!" She couldn't stop herself from looking to the door - and there he was, wearing only a simple jacket, that same endless expression on his face; the one she had looked into, had almost gotten lost in, at the dinner party.
"You don't need to announce me, Ms. Cauthfield," Lord Beckham insisted with some manner of derision, as his maidservant emerged from behind him.
