Chapter 4 #2
Beth opened her book once more but used it as a blind for thought.
Her plan was not as easy as she had thought.
Could she provoke him sufficiently to give him an overpowering antipathy to her without driving him to the violence she had sensed?
She shuddered. She had never encountered such a man before.
There was something about him, something coiled tight, able to be unleashed for good or evil.
Hands clenched painfully tight on Self-Control, Beth knew she must not, could not, marry such a man.
Despite the duke’s assurances, as her husband the marquess would have all right to her body.
He would be free to beat her if he wished.
If he were to beat her to death he would likely incur only a mild penalty, especially as he would have all the riches and power of his family on his side, and she would have no powerful friends to protest.
But she reminded herself of the maxims of Publius. Fear is to be feared more than death or injury. She could not afford fear.
The duke and the marquess needed her in order to achieve their end, needed her in excellent health for successful child-bearing.
That was her protection from extreme violence and, after all, if blows were the price she must pay for making him reject her, she would count it—like the heroes of Athens—a small cost for her freedom.
She smiled wryly. It was perhaps uplifting to think of the brave men of Athens who died for freedom, but she did not fool herself that the next few days were likely to be easy or pleasant.
They changed horses again twice but only in minutes. An hour later, at the next change, the coach halted and the door swung open.
“It is another hour or so to Belcraven, Miss Armitage. Would you like some tea? You could take it in the coach or come into the inn.” The marquess was a model of impersonal punctiliousness.
In the same manner, Beth extended a hand to be helped down. “I would like to stretch my legs, I think. Perhaps I could walk a little here.”
“Certainly,” he said and extended an arm.
Despite her silent debate in the coach, Beth found she did not want his company at all. He was such a big man and so very cold. “There is no need for you to accompany me, my lord.”
“Of course there is,” he said, staring into the distance. “It would be most odd if I did not.”
Helplessly Beth laid her hand lightly on his sleeve, and they strolled along the road of the small town. She tried to force herself to say something offensive, but his silence was like a wall between them, and her tongue stayed frozen.
After about ten minutes, the marquess said, “Perhaps we should turn back now,” and they did so.
At the inn he said, “Would you like some tea?” Beth agreed that she would. He arranged it and left her alone.
When she had finished and made a brief toilette, he escorted her to the coach, mounted his horse, and they were off.
Beth contemplated a lifetime of such arid courtesy and shuddered.
A marriage like that would be death in life to her, but it doubtless would only be an inconvenience to him.
What was needed, after all, to produce a clutch of children?
A few brief, soulless encounters. For the rest of the time he would be able to continue with his present life undisturbed.
Her determination to pursue her plan was reborn and strengthened. To escape this kind of life she would do anything, face any threat.
Not during this journey, however. All too soon the groom on the box made a long blast on his horn and they swept through magnificent, gilded, wrought-iron gates.
They were in Belcraven Park. The gatekeeper and his family doffed their caps or dipped a curtsy as appropriate.
Beth turned her face away. It was not right that these people pay her homage.
The carriage rolled along the smooth drive between ranks of perfect lime trees.
In the meadows to either side, speckled deer raised their heads to watch them pass.
She saw a lake with what appeared to be a Grecian temple in the middle.
She heard the shriek of peacocks—those useless living ornaments of the rich.
Then the curve of the driveway presented Belcraven.
Beth gaped. In the setting sun it was a mountain of golden stone decorated with carvings and crenelations and set with the glimmering jewels of hundreds of windows.
It was enormous, the largest building Beth had ever seen, and the most beautiful. This was to be her home?
Impossible.
When the coach stopped beneath the great curving double steps which led up to massive gleaming doors already open, Beth wanted to huddle in the coach. It, after all, was of a scale much more to her liking. The door was soon opened however, and the steps let down. The marquess stood waiting for her.
With trembling fingers she set her bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons, then ventured out. Hand on his arm she climbed the thirty steps (she counted them) and hoped no one could tell how her knees were knocking.
Inside the doors there seemed to be a great many people, all servants. A portly gentleman of awe-inspiring dignity bowed, then divested the marquess of his outerwear. “Welcome home, my lord.”
“Thank you, Gorsham. Miss Armitage, this is Gorsham, our Groom of the Chambers.”
Beth knew this meant he controlled the running of this enormous establishment, and he certainly looked capable of it. She received a bow all for herself. “Miss Armitage. Welcome to Belcraven.”
Poor, speechless Beth was hard pressed not to curtsy but contented herself with a little nod, hoping it to be appropriate.
“How long to dinner, Gorsham?” asked the marquess as he strolled into a massive hall. Beth followed quickly after. For the moment he was her only connection in this place. She rather feared if they were separated, she’d be thrown out like the interloper she was, or wished she was.
She looked around in awe.
Spiral marble pillars banded with gold marched ahead over a tiled floor which seemed to stretch to infinity.
Marble busts and statues of classical type were set about the chamber, and the walls were hung with ancient banners and weapons.
Forcing herself not to gape, Beth looked up over three tiers of ornate balustrades and realized the room went all the way to the roof where there was an octagonal skylight which let in the afternoon sun.
The whole of Miss Mallory’s school could have fit in this one chamber.
“An hour, my lord,” said Gorsham in answer to the marquess’s question.
The marquess turned to Beth. “Perhaps you would like to go to your apartments, my dear, and meet my parents when you have refreshed yourself.”
Apartments? Beth wanted a hidey-hole and agreed to his suggestion. Gorsham’s raised finger brought forward one of a small group of maids standing ready.
“This is Redcliff, Miss Armitage,” he said as the middle-aged woman curtsied. “If agreeable, she will show you to your room and act as your maid.”
Beth nodded, and when the maid turned to lead the way, she followed.
She needn’t have bothered with the exercise at their last stop.
They walked halfway down the hall and mounted wide stairs railed in gilded wrought iron which took them to the next floor.
They then followed one wide carpeted corridor after another, all casually set with valuable sculptures and paintings, and dotted with elegant furnishings.
They passed three powdered and liveried footman simply standing.
It seemed at least ten minutes before the maid opened a door and stood back to allow an overwhelmed Beth to enter.
“Apartments” had apparently been exact. She was to be housed in a suite of rooms.
This first one was a large sitting room, comfortably appointed with velvet-upholstered chairs, small inlaid tables, and a zebrawood desk.
There was a chaise to act as a daybed near which two vaguely Egyptian figures held hanging oil lamps for evening light.
There was a fireplace with marble bas-relief decoration and a fire already cheerfully burning there, even though it was mild for April.
Graciously arranged spring flowers were placed on two tables, and their sweet perfume floated through all this elegance.
With some trepidation, Beth stepped onto the beautiful silky carpet of jewel-like blues and yellows and went over to one of the two long windows hung with blue damask curtains. It gave a view from the back of the house down over breathtaking grounds to a river.
Beth turned to see the maid waiting by an adjoining door. It proved to lead into a dressing room. Quite modest, she supposed. Only twice as large as her bedroom, her only room, at Miss Mallory’s.
This room was paneled in some rich, golden wood but was quite spartan in comparison to the other.
The floor was bare apart from three small rugs, and the appointments consisted of two chairs, two large armoires, a washstand, a mirror, and a very large chest. There was a fireplace where yet another fire burned. How very wasteful this all seemed.
The maid must have noticed her frowning consideration, for she opened a panel above the fireplace to show a metal tank. “It’s to keep the water warm for a bath, miss. The fires are only let out in the hottest weather. You could bathe now if you wish, miss.”
The woman flipped back the lid of the chest to reveal a large bathtub ready and waiting. Beth couldn’t resist going over to peer at this marvel—it was even decorated with pictures of fish.
This was the first luxury of the day which tempted Beth.
At Miss Mallory’s a proper bath was a rare treat requiring much planning, and the thought of just being able to order a bath and have one was delicious.
And tempting. She suspected, however, that the maid would want to be part of the process, and she was not ready for that as yet.