Determination (The Chaplain's Legacy Book 2)

18 Sunday

Bea enjoyed Sundays, for it was the one day of the week when she could be sure of having her father to herself for a little while. Mama always took the carriage, but Bea and her father chose to walk to church. It was a bone of contention between them.

“Persons of quality do not walk with the servants, Mr Franklyn,” Mama said disdainfully.

“We are all equal in the sight of God,” he replied. “On the Sabbath, I like to walk to church in humility and penitence, like the sinner I am.”

But Mama did not see herself as a sinner, and saw nothing wrong with putting the horses to on a Sunday, even for the short journey to church. Bea did not mind, for she could walk with her father and it was, for a little while, as if Mama had never come into their lives.

She had no objection to Mama in principle, for she had seen for herself how the little worry lines that had begun to cloud Papa’s forehead vanished after his marriage, and he smiled a great deal and seemed very happy. No loving daughter could object to that. But for herself, she found Mama oppressive and restrictive, and was therefore disproportionately pleased when she could enjoy her papa’s company alone.

Today she tucked her arm into his as they set out. “This is pleasant, is it not? No rain, and it is not uncomfortably hot. But sadly our last Sunday at Landerby. How we shall miss our new friends!”

“You have enjoyed yourself, I think, mingling with all these great ones. More than at Marshfields, or am I wrong about that?”

“Not wrong, no. The Marshfields people always seemed to look down on me, so I could never be quite comfortable there, but here… would it be improper of me to say that there is more generosity of spirit?”

He nodded slowly. “My inclination is to agree with you. Shall I tell you a secret? I never feel comfortable at Marshfields, either, for all that they are my wife’s relations. They look down on me, too, and, which is worse, they look down on your stepmother, because she married a man like me.”

“Why do we keep going there, if neither of us enjoys it?”

“Because it is your stepmother’s home, and it gives her great pleasure to stay there. And I confess, it is amusing to write to one’s acquaintances and mention that one happens to be staying at the Duke of Camberley’s seat. Or here, as guests of the Duke and Duchess of Wedhampton.”

“Have you written to all your acquaintances while we have been here?”

“Hmmm… yes, I believe I have. Some of them twice. We have come a long way, you and I, from that little house in Newcastle.”

“I liked that little house,” she said.

“Oh, so did I, and we were very happy there, but I like Highwood Place a great deal more. My inheritance was most unexpected, but our lives have improved immeasurably because of it. We live more comfortably, and have been given the opportunity to raise ourselves in society. As a result, I have a most excellent wife, and you will soon have a husband worthy of you.”

A husband worthy of you.Those were Bertram’s words, too. “Who is a husband worthy of me?”

“Why, a nobleman, of course, who will make you noble, too. Is that not your aim?”

“Then why did you encourage Mr Fielding to propose to me?”

He laughed. “Should I not have done so? I imagine you gave him short shrift. I cannot see you in a parsonage, somehow.”

She was uncomfortably silent for a moment. “I was rather rude to him, I confess. But if you think I should marry into the nobility, why encourage him at all? You could have sent him packing, as you have done with plenty of others you deemed to be fortune hunters.”

“I take my lead from your stepmother in such matters, Bea. We are moving in her world now, and she knows how to judge these people better than I do. My duty is only to determine a man’s financial position, but she decides who is suitable to encourage and who is not. Who is eligible.”

“But Mr Fielding?”

“I know. He was a sizar at Cambridge. Do you know what that means? He worked his way through university. His lordly friends merely paid to attend, and did not even have to take any examinations to achieve their degrees, whereas he paid a lesser amount and acted as a servant while studying hard for his degree. I admire such perseverance, but your stepmother would not normally approve of such a suitor for you. However, here she tells me that everyone is acceptable since everyone is a friend of the Duke of Wedhampton. So, I felt safe in allowing him to approach you.”

“Even though you knew I would turn him down?”

“You might have been harbouring a tendre for the man, Bea. I live in hope that one day you will discover the joy of falling head over heels in love.”

“Now that would be unforgivably foolish of me,” she said, although it was odd how her thoughts flew instantly to Bertram, and those fiery kisses. “Unless I should happen to fall in love with a man of noble birth.”

But her father did not laugh. “I am serious, Bea. No title, no grand estate, no amount of money will ever outweigh the pleasure of a smile from the person you love most in all the world, or the warmth in your heart as you return it.”

“Mama?” Bea said wonderingly.

“Not this mama, no, although I am very fond of her. It is your true mother of whom I speak. My dear Eloise.” His face softened into a smile, perhaps drawn by some happy memory. “I was very fortunate to have her for a little while, and I do not expect ever to receive such a blessing a second time. I married your stepmother for other reasons, and she too has brought me happiness… of a different kind. Every marriage is unique, unlike any other.”

“But love is not necessary for happiness,” Bea said firmly. “Mama says that love is an illness, and if one catches it, one must endeavour to recover as quickly as possible.”

Her father laughed, but shook his head. “With weak beef tea and regular bleeding, I suppose? Your stepmother is an admirable woman in a multitude of ways, but she does not know everything.”

They were joining the throng approaching the church by this time, so the conversation lapsed, but as they waited for Mama’s carriage to arrive, Bea pondered her father’s words. She had never heard him speak so openly about his two marriages before, although there was nothing that surprised her. She remembered very well his grief after her own mama had died, and her baby brother with her, and she knew precisely why he had married her stepmother — to secure his new position in society as a gentleman, and to provide a chaperon for Bea, so that she could make a good match. A husband worthy of you. But who? If only Bertram—

But such thoughts were fruitless. She had given up Bertram, and must find a different husband. There must be another man in the world who set her afire. Just a few days ago, she would have said that all she looked for in her husband was a title and an income commensurate with his rank, but now, she knew there must be something more.

After the service, the congregation milled about outside the church for some little time, and a great crowd set off for the walk back to Landerby. Bea found Mr Fielding beside her.

“Miss Franklyn,” he began in a low voice, and for an instant she was terrified that he would renew his addresses. But he went on in a humble tone, “You must allow me to thank you for your most gracious letter. Despite my despicable presumption in approaching you—”

“No, no! You must not say such things.”

“Indeed I must, for is it not true? It was insufferably arrogant of me, and I know now that I am not worthy of you… could never be worthy of you, and therefore I cede the field to those better qualified than I. But these few weeks have been the happiest of my life. You have given me an ideal of womanhood, and I shall never forget you. Thank you!”

Before she could reply he melted back into the crowd and was instantly lost to view, while Bertram and his other friends drew forward to her side, as if by prearrangement. They immediately began to rattle away light-heartedly, but she was not in the mood for frivolity. Her thoughts were filled with poor Mr Fielding, who was so besotted with her that he regarded her as an ideal of womanhood! Was ever a man so deluded?

Oh, but to be loved so well! It was gratifying. It was humbling. She recalled her father’s words… something about a smile, and how it warmed the heart, and she wished — oh, how she wished! — that she could love that way and be loved in return. Perhaps her father was right, and a title would mean nothing beside such happiness.

***

Sunday evenings were normally dreary. No music or dancing, no cards, no reading beyond religious tracts and nothing to do beyond desultory conversation, for no one was very lively. The only blessing Bea could see was that she could put aside the hated needlework for one day.

This evening, however, the duchess had a plan for their amusement. Chairs were arranged in the saloon, and when all had taken their places, she stood at the front, beaming at them.

“We will all recite from memory,” she announced. “It does not have to be strictly religious, although passages from the Bible must always be acceptable, but quotations from great literature would be welcome, too. Shakespeare… and similar writers of great merit. The duke will begin… you have a patriotic piece, I believe?”

“It is ‘We few, we happy few’. I am sure everyone knows it. From Henry the Fifth.” He struck an attitude, as if he were on a stage, and began his recitation, and if occasionally he muddled the words or needed a prompt from the audience, no one minded, for it was better than sitting about being bored.

Then the duchess recited a pretty little poem, and one by one the company rose to take a turn, in rank order. Only the marquess, whose difficulties with speech rendered him ineligible to participate, was exempt.

As she waited for her turn, Bea pondered what she should recite. She had a number of poems at her disposal, but it was a question of what would best please the company. But then Bertram whispered in her ear.

“Horace.”

She turned to him, eyes wide. “No! I cannot… can I?”

He grinned at her. “Why not? Is it not perfect for a gathering such as this?”

Did she dare? She was breathless with excitement — to speak in Latin, publicly! She glanced at Mama, smiling benignly, her own performance completed satisfactorily. She would not smile if Bea were to use her Latin! But a learned poem was not the same as knowing the language, and she barely understood a quarter of Bertram’s ode. Surely she had the courage to do it?

When her turn came, she rose and walked slowly to stand before the audience. Even then, there was time to draw back, to stay with the safety of Shakespeare or Wordsworth or Scott. The Lady of the Lake — she knew a good piece from that, and Mama would smile and be pleased with her. But she caught Bertram’s eye, nodding encouragingly to her and the die was cast.

She set her feet at the proper angle, arranged her arms and straightened her spine. “Carmina liber tertius, carmen novem.”

A murmur passed through the room, as soft as a summer breeze. She saw surprised looks exchanged, expressions become more alert, as anticipation filled the air.

“‘Donec gratus eram tibi nec quisquam potior bracchia candidae cervici iuvenis dabat, Persarum vigui rege beatior’,” she began, the words of the long-dead Quintus Horatius Flaccus ringing out, tentatively at first and then with growing confidence. She tried to capture Bertram’s intonation as best she could, but in the end, the magic of the words caught her in its thrall and she forgot the watching company, forgot everything but the beauty of the ancient words.

She came to the end, and silence fell. Then the room erupted in cheers and applause and cries of ‘Splendida!’ and ‘Magnifica!’. She curtsied to them, laughing, and as she made her way back to her seat. The marquessmurmured, “Wonderful, M-M-Miss F-F-Franklyn,”as she passed, beaming at her. She caught Bertram’s eye again, and saw him smiling… smiling so widely that her heart lurched in delight. She must have done it well, for he was pleased with her!

She took her seat and someone else stood up to perform, but she heard none of it. Her heart still raced with excitement. She had done it! There were one or two words she was sure she had mispronounced, and one line in particular where she had muddled the metre, but on the whole it had gone off tolerably well. The gentlemen were pleased, anyway… Bertram was pleased, and that made her glow inside. It was odd how she valued his approbation above that of anyone. No doubt that was because he had been at such pains to help her learn. It was gratitude she felt for him, nothing more.

Eventually, she dared to look at her stepmother, but she was gravely attending to Miss Pikesley’s stuttering performance, so there was no hint there of her reaction, but her father smiled benignly at her. He was pleased, at least, and that must also be an object with her.

By the time all had performed, the room felt horridly warm, the air close, all the ladies plying their fans vigorously. Someone threw open the doors to the terrace and there was a general movement outside. Bea heard Lord Grayling’s voice in her ear.

“Shall we walk, Miss Franklyn?” he murmured.

At last, an opportunity to see if the baron’s kiss could set her on fire. “That would be delightful.”

He offered his arm and they strolled along the terrace and then onto the narrow strip of lawn beside it. Without a word being spoken, he steered her onto the nearest path and then outwards, into the garden. It was full dark by now, and no light from the saloon penetrated so far, but she was not afraid. Lord Grayling was with her, and no harm could come to her in his company. They walked slowly, and before long her eyes adjusted to the gloom well enough to make out the dark shapes of the overgrown shrubs and the pale line of the gravel path unfurling before their feet. She knew where she was — just around the next corner was the marble seat by the old fountain. They reached it, and with one accord, stopped. She turned expectantly to face him, he lowered his head, she closed her eyes…

“Miss Franklyn! Miss Franklyn!”

Distantly, from nearer the house, several voices called out. Bea heaved a sigh, but Lord Grayling chuckled. “We are not to be permitted a moment alone, it seems. Is that Atherton’s voice? And Fielding, I fancy.”

“Whatever can be the matter? Why are they looking for me?”

“Let us find out.” Raising his voice, he called out, “Miss Franklyn is here.”

“Where are you?”

“The Minerva fountain,” he called back.

Footsteps on the path gradually became louder, until Bertram and Mr Fielding appeared at a rush. Bea heaved a sigh of pure annoyance.

“There you are, Miss Franklyn,” Bertram said, waving a shawl at her. “Do, pray, wrap yourself up and come back to the house. The night air… my mother would never forgive me if you were to catch a chill.”

“I am not cold,” Bea snapped. “I can hardly catch a chill on such a balmy night. What is the matter with you, Bertram? You have windmills in your head if you think I would— Wait a moment. That is not even my shawl.”

“Never mind,” he said, wrapping it around her shoulders. “You should not go directly outside from an overheated room into the night air without a shawl. Do come back to the house.”

“Miss Franklyn is well protected now, and I shall not keep her out long,” Lord Grayling drawled. “I thank you both for your solicitude, but you may leave Miss Franklyn to my care.”

“Absolutely not!” Mr Fielding said hotly.

“She will be better protected inside the house,” Bertram said, glaring at his friend. “Come, Bea. I will not have you risk your health like this.”

“I am not some weakling who—” she began, but there was yet another interruption in the form of an irate Miss Grayling.

“That is my shawl, Miss Franklyn, and I will thank you to hand it over at once. And Mr Atherton, I would remind you that taking another person’s property is theft. Whatever were you thinking?”

“I beg your pardon, but I was so concerned for Miss Franklyn’s health that I picked up the nearest one to hand.”

“If you had asked, I could have told you that the green cashmere was hers, which at least matches her gown.”

“Here, take it,” Bea said, ripping the shawl from her shoulders and thrusting it into Miss Grayling’s hands. “I neither want nor need it. Mine is much finer, anyway.”

“Certainly, if one has more money than taste. I shall leave you to your tryst with my brother.”

Head high, she stalked away.

Lord Grayling chuckled. “Miss Franklyn, unlike my sister, I suspect these two gentlemen are not intending to leave us to our tryst. Shall we relieve them of their anxiety on your behalf and return to the house? After all, Mrs Atherton would never forgive her son if you were to take a chill, and we would not wish to cause a family rift, would we?”

“Well…”

He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “There will be other evenings, and other trysts, I sincerely hope.”

In the still night air, his words carried and Bertram glowered at him. Now, why was he so anxious to interfere? It was too bad of him to prevent her from testing Lord Grayling. There was so little time left! Only three more evenings at Landerby, that was all. Three more opportunities for a tryst, whatever that was. Surely Bertram understood the urgency? But there was nothing to be done about it tonight. Silently, the group made its way back to the house.