Chapter 6
Beth was astonished how easy it was for two people to avoid meeting at Belcraven, especially when one seemed set on it. Beth only encountered the marquess at dinner and for the social interaction which followed. Moreover, after that first occasion, it was never just the family.
There was a resident chaplain at Belcraven, the Reverend Augustus Steep, who also served as the family archivist and historian.
A Mrs. Sysonby turned up from time to time.
She was a distant connection of the duke’s who had found herself impoverished in widowhood.
She had been taken in as companion to the duchess but as the duchess felt no need of a companion and Mrs. Sysonby was an enthusiastic entomologist, the lady lived independently in her rooms pursuing her hobby, coming and going as she pleased.
The duchess’s émigré aunt and uncle, the Comte and Comtesse de Nouilly, inhabited one whole wing along with a crippled daughter and a handful of faithful servants. Occasionally they, too, without the daughter, appeared for dinner.
Mr. Westall, the duke’s secretary, and Mr. Holden, his steward, were entitled to dine with the family and did so from time to time, though the steward had his own family in a house on the estate, and Mr. Westall ate frequently at the vicarage where the interest, Beth gathered, was the vicar’s daughter.
In fact, Beth found Mr. Westall exactly the kind of quiet, studious young man with whom she felt comfortable. She enjoyed his occasional company, but whenever she conversed with him she would look up to see the marquess’s eyes on them, hard and suspicious.
Beth wished she could wipe away that suspicion but, even if she found the words, when was there occasion to say them?
During the evenings the marquess did not again attempt to take Beth aside despite hints from the duchess.
During the days, he disappeared. The duke maintained a pack of hounds, though he rarely hunted himself, and the marquess was spending some days chasing foxes.
Beth gathered most of the rest was spent riding and angling.
Anything that took him out of the house.
When they met, his manner was always impeccably courteous and formidably distant.
Beth matched his courtesy as best she could and waited for an opportunity to undo the damage, to convince him of her purity.
Two attempts to have him go apart with her having failed, she was driven to desperate measures and wrote him a note, asking to speak with him privately.
When they met that evening before the meal he said coolly, “I received your note, my dear. Is your need so urgent?”
Understanding him, Beth felt her face go red and snapped, “No.”
Afterwards she wondered with despair if she should have invited him to her bed. It might be her only chance to speak to him in private and presumably then he would discover she was a virgin, or had been.
As they hardly ever spoke to each other, surely no one could believe this farce of a betrothal.
The duke and duchess, of course, simply smoothed over the surface, though Beth was aware of the duchess’s concern.
The Comte and Comtesse de Nouilly were entirely absorbed by their own bitterness.
But the upper servants—Mr. Holden, Mr. Westall, and the Reverend Steep—must have surely found the situation very strange.
If so, they were careful to give no sign of it.
All the same Beth had reason to be grateful to Napoleon Bonaparte. Without the increasingly bad situation on the Continent certainly even the de Vaux family would sometimes have been short of something to say. Instead, each evening, they plunged with relief into the day’s news.
One evening the marquess shocked everyone. “I think it is every man’s duty to oppose the Corsican,” he said. “I wish to offer my services.”
The duke and duchess both paled. “Impossible,” snapped the duke.
“It is perfectly possible,” replied the marquess, and Beth knew this was his attempt to escape. Even into death? Or did he think himself invincible?
“You forget, Arden,” said the duke, once more calm and controlled, “your wedding is set for a few weeks hence. After that and what is now called the honeymoon, we can discuss this subject again.” The words were accompanied by a warning look.
Beth knew the duke was reminding his heir of the weapon he held over his head.
For once the marquess broke the pattern of decorum, pushed back his chair, and left the table. The comte and comtesse looked blankly astonished.
“Is something amiss?” the comtesse asked.
“No, Tante,” said the duchess. “It is merely that Arden has finished.”
The comtesse sniffed. “The manners of the English youth leave much to be desired.” With that she returned to her cake.
For once silence was allowed to take hold of them all. Both the duke and the duchess were pale. The duke’s pallor could well be simple displeasure; the duchess’s was fear.
How many mothers, Beth wondered, were living with fear as the dark shadow of war crept once more over Europe and sons decided they must join the fight?
When the duchess looked up and their eyes met, Beth sent her a look of compassion, and the duchess smiled back.
It was the first moment of true understanding Beth had experienced since coming to Belcraven.
She found it strangely frightening. Perhaps it was the first tentative feeling of belonging, and that was what troubled her.
Beth found herself increasingly fond of the duchess’s company.
The lady was clever, witty, and kind. One day, as they sat in ladylike occupation embroidering a new frontal for the chapel, the duchess ventured a mild criticism.
“Elizabeth, my dear, our story, for the curious, is that you and Lucien are madly in love. It would help the fabrication if you were to spend more time together.”
Beth kept her eyes on her stitches. “I suppose that is true, Your Grace. The marquess, however, shows no inclination to spend time in my company.”
“Do you wish that he would spend more time with you?”
Beth looked up. “Not particularly.”
The duchess frowned slightly. “Elizabeth, are you perhaps, as they say, cutting off your nose to spite your face? What more could you want in a husband than Lucien? He is handsome. He can be delightfully charming.”
“I do not care if my husband be handsome or not, Your Grace,” Beth replied, “and if Lord Arden is charming, he has not been so to me. I find him cold and arrogant.” But then she had to admit to herself that he had not been so until she had said those terrible things.
“It is not really like him, my dear,” said the duchess. “He does not like this situation any more than you. But someone has to give a little. Could you not make the first approach?”
Beth had tried that. She shuddered. “No.”
The duchess sighed. “I will speak to Lucien then.” If she did so, it had no effect.
Apart from the problem of the marquess, Beth became somewhat reconciled to life at Belcraven.
She grew accustomed to the scale of the great house with an ease which surprised her and could soon find her way to all the principle rooms unaided.
She could not deny that she obtained enjoyment from the beauty of the spacious chambers, the exquisite moldings and decorations, and the priceless works of art.
Who could complain, being able to sit in private contemplation of a Rafael Madonna, a Van Dyke portrait, or a landscape of merry Breughel villagers?
Who could be totally unhappy in a marvelously well-stocked library?
This lofty, magnificent room with its two tiers of gilded, glass-fronted shelves became Beth’s primary haunt.
Here were all the classics and many newer and exciting works.
It soon became known that if Miss Armitage were needed, one need look no farther than one of the three deep window embrasures in the library.
Nor did Beth often have to share the room with the Reverend Steep. Though he held the position of librarian, his passionate interest was the muniment room and the family archives. Only if his researches required it did he invade Beth’s territory.
She encountered a different invader one day, however. She was sitting curled up on the brown velvet window seat when clipped footsteps caused her to peer around the curtains.
“Good morning, Mr. Westall,” she said cheerfully, always pleased to see the pleasant young man.
He turned with an open smile. “And to you, Miss Armitage. I should have known I’d find you here. I don’t suppose I can prevail upon you to assist me, can I?”
Beth willingly laid down the entrancing adventures of Sir John Mandeville. “Of course. What is it you require?”
“The duke is interesting himself in a new invention by a Mr. Stephenson. It is a traveling machine, a locomotive which is driven by steam. He believes there is an article on a similar subject by a man called Trevithick, but,” he added with a twinkle, “he cannot recollect in what journal it was published.”
Beth chuckled in sympathy. “It cannot be so very long ago, though,” she said, “for I surely heard of Mr. Trevithick not ten years since.”
“Less than that, I believe. Where shall we start?”
Beth thought for a moment. “I haven’t seen any purely technical collections here, such as those put out by the Royal Society. Have you?”
“Indeed no. I cannot say the duke has shown much interest in engineering before now. Now, however, he says he is resigned to such engines being the key to the future and is determined to understand them.”
“I think either the Annual Register or the Monthly Magazine then. There are complete collections of both. Which do you choose?”
With a shrug the young man said, “The Annual Register.” Then he looked at Beth suspiciously. “Now why are you looking triumphant, Miss Armitage?”
“Why,” said Beth saucily, “because the Monthly Magazine has an index, sir, while the Annual Register has merely a list of contents.”