Chapter 4
The next day, waiting for the marquess to arrive, Beth was prey to a distressing degree of nervousness, not helped by Miss Mallory’s poorly concealed anxiety.
“Are you quite sure, Beth? Do but consider. Once away from here anything could happen to you.”
Beth summoned up a cheerful smile for the woman who had been like a mother.
“Please don’t fret, Aunt Emma. I have the twenty guineas you gave me in my hidden pocket.
If anything goes amiss I will fly back to the nest. And when I have my philosophical salon established in London you must come and visit me and meet Hannah More and Mr. Wilberforce. ”
“Even that is not worth selling yourself for, Beth. The marquess is not a sympathetic man. I can sense such things. How will you endure it?”
“I think you malign him,” said Beth, hugging Miss Mallory. It was not a total falsehood. The marquess might be a man of fashion, but he had been sensitive to all the awkwardness of their situation, and he had not forced any physical attentions or false sentiment upon her.
As the coach drew up, she saw he was showing his sensitivity further by riding alongside the luxurious chariot instead of inside with her.
After waving a last farewell to Miss Mallory and a few of the older pupils, Beth collapsed back against thickly padded silk squabs and rested her feet on an embroidered footstool.
A soft woolen blanket lay nearby in case she should be cold and velvet curtains could be drawn to ensure her privacy.
She admonished herself not to be swayed by such trifling luxuries, but she could not help feeling the contrast between this and her few other journeys, which had been taken on the public stage.
She leaned out for a last acknowledgment of the farewells and only realized as the coach carried her out of sight that one of the waving senior girls had been Clarissa Greystone, and she had been crying.
Beth liked the girl and had talked with her from time to time, but she had not thought Clarissa would be so upset at her departure.
Then she remembered how Clarissa had tried to speak to her the day before. It was too late now, but she wished she had found the time. The girl had been unhappy lately. Perhaps she had a brother in the army, though Beth did not think so.
In truth, Beth told herself sternly, there was no justification for her own self-pity when the shadow of war hung over them all.
If Napoleon could not be brought to see reason, many fathers, sons, and brothers would be maimed or dead, which made a luxurious, if loveless, marriage seem a petty tragedy indeed.
She occupied herself for a little while in viewing the scenery. Spring had greened the grass and trees, and they rolled past occasional mats of yellow daffodils and blue harebells. A hare ran twisting and turning crazily across a meadow. In another field lambs frolicked near their mothers.
It was Beth’s favorite time of year, but this spring heralded only misery, and though her problem was small in the greater scheme of things, it dominated her thoughts.
It would take most of the day to reach Belcraven Park, so Beth took out Miss Mallory’s parting gift to her—Self-Control, a Novel, by Mary Brunton.
It was supposedly based on the most upright principles.
Though Mary Wollstonecraft had despised works of fiction, Miss Mallory thought it wise to permit the older girls to indulge their taste for novels, but only through directed reading.
She had asked Beth to send back a report on the book as soon as possible.
By the time they paused to change horses, Laura Montreville had rejected her dashing suitor for the excellent reason that he had first tried to seduce her before attempting the more subtle lure of marriage.
By the time the next halt was called, the handsome colonel had persuaded Laura to allow him two years in which to prove himself a reformed character, and Beth was becoming a little impatient with the heroine.
If she did not love the man she should give him no reason to hope.
If, as it appeared, Laura did love him, it was silliness to demand that he give up all outward show of his feelings for her because of some notion that uncontrolled emotions paved the way to hell.
Mary Wollstonecraft had urged the honest expression of feelings and beliefs, and that meshed very well with Beth’s naturally honest temperament.
Beth found herself wondering what Laura would have done in her own situation.
She decided the young lady was so lacking in reality and common sense she would have sunk into a decline and died.
Now that would serve the marquess and his father as they deserved, thought Beth with a grim smile, and ruin their plans into the bargain.
Unfortunately, she could not see how it would do her any good at all.
She just wasn’t the stuff of which heroines were made.
She lacked the right kind of sensibility.
Beth conceived a better plan than meekly fading away.
The marquess was obviously unhappy with the marriage plan.
If she was sufficiently abrasive, unattractive, and unpleasant, surely he would think a lifetime tied to her was too high a price to pay for a pure-blooded heir.
It would be no effort at all to be abrasive and unpleasant.
The horses were changed frequently and with lightning efficiency, but when the team was unhitched at Chipping Norton the marquess opened the door.
“We will break the journey here,” he said. “You will be glad of a meal, I’m sure.” The hours of riding had ruffled his curls and brought a shine to his eyes. His smile was genuinely friendly as he asked, “I hope you are not finding the journey too tiring.”
As she descended the steps Beth repressed an urge to respond favorably to this goodwill. She was not normally ungracious, but such good humor would not answer at all. She put an edge on her voice as she said, “How could I, my lord, when everything is of the first stare?”
His smile dimmed. “It is going to be very tiresome, Miss Armitage, if you are to carp at everything that is better than utilitarian.” They had reached the door of the inn, and the host was bowing low to usher such exalted guests inside. Beth quailed. She had never been treated so in her life.
Lord Arden, however, appeared oblivious to the man as he added, “And if you will not make any effort to consider my feelings, then I perhaps will see no reason to consider yours.”
Shocked back into consideration of her main problem, Beth stared at her husband-to-be.
“Truce?” he asked.
That wasn’t what Beth wanted at all. “Am I never to say what I think?”
“It depends, I suppose, if you want me to say what I think.”
All too aware of the host, still bobbing and bowing, Beth carried on into the private parlor. When they were alone she challenged him. “Why would I not wish you to speak your mind? I am not afraid of the truth.”
He shrugged off his riding cloak and dropped it over a chair. “Very well,” he said coldly. “I find you unattractive and this whole situation abominable. Now, how does that help?”
“Since I already knew that,” she shot back, “it hardly changes matters at all.” But it did. Beth was foolishly hurt by the very disgust she was seeking. And if the situation was abominable, why was he tolerating it?
He was leaning against the mantel, looking at her as if she were an intrusive stranger—an intrusive, ill-bred stranger.
“Except now it is spoken,” he said, “and before it was decently hidden. Spoken words assume a life of their own, Miss Armitage, and cannot be unsaid. However, in the cause of sanity I am quite willing to pretend if you will join in the game.”
“Pretend what?”
“Contentment.”
Beth turned away, her hands pressed together. “I cannot.”
There was silence, a chinking, then she heard his boots on the floor as he walked towards her. “Here, Elizabeth.” He sounded nothing so much as weary.
She turned and took the wine he offered, sipping cautiously.
It was a rare indulgence at Miss Mallory’s, and it encouraged her to resist the peace offering it represented.
She forced herself to meet his disdainful eyes.
“I have not given you permission to use my name, sir. I would ask you to remember, Lord Arden, that this matter—which is a minor disturbance to your life—has destroyed mine. I have been taken from my home, my friends, and my employment, and forced into a way of life in which I can expect no pleasure.” She put her glass down with a snap.
“It will take me a few days longer, I am afraid, to be able to pretend contentment.”
His eyes sparked dangerously. “I am not generally considered to be repulsive, Miss Armitage.”
Beth’s response was swift and tart. “Nor is a baboon, I’m sure, in its proper milieu.”
Any retaliation from the outraged marquess was forestalled by the arrival of servants with their meal.
He turned away sharply and went to stand by the far window until the meal was ready.
When the innkeeper obsequiously encouraged them to partake of his best, Beth and the marquess approached the table like wary opponents and took seats at the opposite ends.
By silent agreement they ate in unbroken silence.
Beth kept her eyes on her plate. Her heart was pounding, and the delicious food formed lumps in her dry mouth.
For one moment she had faced leashed fury such as she had only ever imagined.
She had feared him, had feared that he might hit her, throttle her even.
But she couldn’t be terrified of him. Not if she was to turn him so totally against her.
It was beyond her at the moment, however, to attempt more taunts, and there were no further words before the journey resumed.