Читать книгу Reforming the Rake - Sarah Barnwell Elliott - Страница 9

B eatrice Sinclair sat very still, holding a slender pen poised over a blank page in her well-worn journal. She wrote three words, but crossed them out almost immediately. She waited for more words, better words, to spill forth. They didn’t.

Frowning, she laid her notebook on her lap, realizing she was too distracted to give her writing the thought that it deserved. How could she concentrate on fiction when reality—her personal reality—was in such a shambles?

She looked around her bedroom for literary inspiration. The walls of her great-aunt Louisa’s house were papered, variously, with pastoral scenes or with complicated floral motifs. Beatrice’s bedroom was a pastoral room. Shepherds and milkmaids cavorted about the walls, and had the added bonus of having trompe l’oeil clouds painted on the ceiling. Personally, she would have preferred to be outside, but Louisa had just called her back indoors; she disapproved of young ladies getting too much sun. A single freckle could spoil a girl’s chances completely, or so she claimed.

Beatrice turned her attention back to her journal and sighed. She’d kept it since her first season, five years earlier. Initially, it had been a diary in the true sense of the word, a place where she’d related each day’s events—Beatrice had quickly realized that if she didn’t occupy her mind in some useful fashion, she’d risk becoming as empty-headed as the rest of the ton. However, as the season drew to a close and she read over her diary, she’d realized bleakly how dull her life had become: party after dinner after ball, all with the sole purpose of snagging some unsuspecting male. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been even slightly interested in any of the gentlemen she met at these endless social events, but she had a difficult time dredging up the faintest enthusiasm for most of them.

By the end of that first season, Beatrice had resigned herself to one thing: in looking for a husband, reality and fantasy would never agree, and the less imagination one had, the better. Where were broad shoulders in the real world? Razor-sharp wit? Tall, dark and handsome? Clearly, these things didn’t exist, and if one could accept that, one would never be disappointed by reality.

Unfortunately, this revelation came too late. By the end of her first season she’d earned the moniker “Cold Fish Beatrice” for her repeated refusals. By her second and third seasons, the many proposals she’d once received had all but dried up.

So she’d spent two years at home in the country and now—older, wiser and much reformed—she was ready to embark on yet another season. This time, though, she had a plan. Wisdom helped her realize that she needed an outlet for her imagination, so, at the sage age of twenty-three, Beatrice had stopped keeping a diary and had turned to fiction. This way, she hoped, she could invent whatever romantic hero she pleased, and resign herself to the stooped shoulders of reality.

So far, her plan wasn’t working out as she had expected, but the season was only a few weeks old.

“Beatrice, this is not acceptable.”

Louisa was glaring at her with extreme annoyance. Even when pleased, her great-aunt was a sight to behold, with her steel-gray hair, her steel-gray eyes, her long nose and her tall, thin body. When Louisa was irritated, however, intimidating took on a whole new meaning. She could incite fear in the stoutest of hearts with a simple curl of her lip, and all that saved Beatrice from quaking in her seat now was the knowledge that, deep down—very deep, perhaps—her aunt was generous, caring and devoted to her family.

Beatrice was afraid she knew what “this” meant, although she asked all the same, biding for time. “I’m sorry, Louisa—what precisely is not acceptable?”

Louisa snorted indelicately. “Your sister informs me that you don’t plan to attend Lady Teasdale’s ball this evening. Why did you not discuss this with me?”

Beatrice began guiltily, “Well…Eleanor mentioned something about there being a new production of King Lear at Drury Lane, and that she had no one to attend with her—”

“Beatrice, you already promised that you’d go to Lady Teasdale’s. Besides, Eleanor is only sixteen! She hardly needs to be going to the theater. I should never have told your father that she could come visit you, even if it was for only a few weeks. King Lear. Humph,” Louisa sniffed. “There’s a man with three daughters for you…and look what happened to him. It’ll only give Eleanor ideas. I’m just glad Helen isn’t here to see it.”

“I think you’re being a little dramatic, Auntie. You couldn’t find three daughters more devoted to their father than Eleanor, Helen and me, and I can assure you that Eleanor’s motives are innocent. She just loves the theater.”

Louisa rolled her eyes. “Back to the subject at hand, Beatrice. Truth is, Eleanor knows that you don’t want to go to the Teasdales’, and as she’s too young to go herself, she figures there’s no harm in you missing the ball.”

“Is there?” Beatrice asked hopefully.

Louisa assumed mock disbelief. “Have you gone off and gotten married without telling me, Beatrice Sinclair? Of course there’s harm in missing the ball—you’re a desperate case.”

Beatrice was used to these comments and knew that Louisa didn’t really mean them…not entirely, anyway. She put on her most innocent face, which was sure to irritate her aunt. “I can’t believe you would accuse me of avoiding Lady Teasdale’s.”

Louisa snorted again. “Do I look like a fool? You’ve been telling me that you didn’t want to go since arriving here last month. Yes, Lady Teasdale is tiresome, but her balls are always well attended, especially by eligible young men.” She sighed. “You’re not even giving it a chance, Bea. The season has been in full swing for two weeks, and I made your father a promise.”

“I know, Louisa…. I only thought that, as I have already been to Lady Teasdale’s annual ball three times in the past—without, I should remind you, much success—”

“Who needs reminding? Clearly, you are not married.”

Beatrice counted to five, praying she wouldn’t lose her temper. “Clearly.”

“And how old are you?”

She almost didn’t answer. Louisa managed to mention her age at least twice a day, and Beatrice had little doubt that she knew precisely how old she was. “I am twenty-three, Louisa, a fact we have already established. I will inform you when this state of affairs changes.”

Louisa clucked. “Impertinent chit. That’s what you get for being long in the tooth.”

“What?”

“With age comes a sharp tongue.”

That’s what I get from spending the past month with you, Beatrice thought, but said nothing.

“At any rate,” Louisa continued brusquely, “I have discussed matters with your sister. She is determined to go to the theater, and I have decided to allow it—if, mind you, you can get your brother to join you.” Beatrice groaned, and Louisa cackled with glee. “Yes, dear, I know that won’t be easy. Ben’ll be as excited about chaperoning his younger sisters to the theater as I am about the two of you going. I don’t think it’s right for two unmarried girls to be traipsing off to the theater together. I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

Beatrice sank back onto the settee. Louisa was right. Ben would have no desire to escort them to the theater, and he probably already had other plans. Still, if she started begging now, by curtain call he’d be so annoyed he’d take them just to make her be quiet. Beatrice wanted to crow with joy, but wisely schooled her features. “Thank you, Louisa. I know how much this means to Eleanor. I’d hate to disappoint her.”

Louisa smiled smugly. “Yes, well, I checked, and the play begins at seven. You should still be able to make it to Lady Teasdale’s at a decent hour once it’s over. And see if you can’t get your brother to come with you.”

And with that, Beatrice’s hopes sank into the carpet, and Louisa sailed from the room with all the dignity of the royal barge. Beatrice collapsed even deeper into the settee, and closed her eyes. It didn’t help; she could still see the triumphant smirk on her aunt’s face. She opened her eyes and looked at the frolicking milkmaids on the walls. Even they looked smug.

Oh, she was dreading the evening to come. It was true— Beatrice had been to Lady Teasdale’s wretched affair three times already. It was considered de rigueur for unmarried young ladies to attend this annual event, and avoiding the thing in the future was one of her few incentives for marrying. Lady Teasdale had five daughters to still marry off and was a cutthroat competitor who made a point of being rude to any ladies of marriageable age not related to her by blood. Lady Teasdale’s eldest daughter, Sarah, had come out the same year as Beatrice. Lady Teasdale liked to remind Beatrice of the fact that Sarah had been married by the sixth week of the season—and to a viscount, no less. In truth, Beatrice felt sorry for the girl—she couldn’t imagine anything worse than being auctioned off to the highest bidder at the age of seventeen. But that didn’t change the fact that Lady Teasdale considered it her job to rub that detail in everyone else’s face.

Of course, Beatrice had to admit that three seasons without managing to find a husband was rather pathetic. And if one counted her two years of restorative hibernation at her family’s home in Hampshire, well…that did make five years of indisputable failure.

Not that she considered it to be her sole purpose in life to get married. She had no problem with remaining single…as long as she wasn’t trying to wed; it was at that point that spinsterhood became failure. The secret to success, she’d decided, was to pursue spinsterhood the way most women pursued marriage. In fact, she’d become quite comfortable with the idea of remaining a perennial spinster, and hadn’t even planned on going to London for the season at all. No, that was her father’s idea.

“You know I love you, Bea,” he’d said, trying to be delicate, “but for heaven’s sake, do you think someday you’ll get married?”

Beatrice had only grinned, not realizing that this time he meant it. “But however would you survive without me?”

He had sighed resignedly. “I should miss you, Bea, but as for surviving…don’t take this the wrong way, but I dream of the day when all of my children find families and houses of their own, and I, God willing, can enjoy peace and quiet once more.”

Beatrice had begun to get a bit nervous, but attempted to cajole him out of this new mind-set. “You’d take that back, Father dearest, after a week. Who would help you organize your library? Who would help you with your correspondence?”

“Who has ever helped me with these things?” he’d asked in confusion.

Beatrice had ignored that remark. “And what about entertainment? How about my harpsichord playing?”

“That, my dear, I would miss least of all. In fact, I hope you take the instrument with you. No—” he’d held up his hand as Beatrice started to protest “—both you and your brother are of marriageable age. Eventually, I would like some grandchildren.”

“But you just said you wanted peace and quiet.”

“Beatrice,” he’d warned.

She’d sighed. “All right. I understand…but yet, Father, I don’t understand exactly. What are you proposing? It’s not as if I’ve been avoiding marriage.”

“It’s not as if you’ve been actively seeking it, either. You’ve had two years respite, Beatrice. If your mother were alive I hardly think she would have allowed it. I’ve been too indulgent, and it’s time you returned to London to give it another go. I’ve discussed this with Louisa, and she agrees. She’s even offered to sponsor you for the season. You can stay with her in town.”

Beatrice had already started to panic. “Aunt Louisa? Oh, no. Why can’t I stay at our town house?”

“Because I won’t be accompanying you, and your brother is there, indulging in God knows what sort of debauchery.”

“I’ll be a good influence on him.”

He’d smiled. “More likely he’ll be a bad influence on you. Louisa will keep you company—and make sure you at least try. I know you too well, Beazie. Left alone you’d just sit about and read novels. And don’t,” he’d added, looking at her firmly, “turn those sad eyes on me. I won’t go with you. I went to town during your first three seasons, and I’ve already promised Eleanor that I’ll be in town when she has her coming out in two years. And then Helen in just a few more years—”

The clock struck four, drawing Beatrice from her reverie. She’d been in London for nearly a month, and that had been a month of hard campaigning, at least on her aunt’s part. No, her unmarried status was not from lack of trying, nor was it from lack of interest—her reputation as “Cold Fish Beatrice” seemed to have faded, and she’d gained a few brave suitors. Try as she might, she was plagued with the same problem of old. Beatrice knew that it was silly and unreasonable, but she kind of, just a little bit, did believe in love at first sight. There was someone out there for her. She just hadn’t met him yet.

But there was no sense in dwelling on it now. She had to start getting ready for the theater. Her father was right: she did read too many novels, and she’d be better off if she pushed all romantic thoughts from her mind.