Chapter 7 #2
Beth could not imagine the hours which must have been worked in the Belcraven sewing rooms, but one of her new gowns, the green sprig, was ready the next day when the first callers came.
It was a very simple gown, gathered with drawstrings at the waist and only ornamented by a green silk sash, and yet it was much superior to her own creations.
The duchess inspected her and was pleased.
She tried to prevent Beth from wearing one of her caps but failed.
In some way the caps had become a symbol for Beth and she would not give them up.
The guests proved to be close neighbors, a Lady Frogmorton and her daughters, Lucy and Diane.
They were accompanied by a friend, Miss Phoebe Swinnamer, a young lady of quite remarkable beauty.
Of which, thought Beth, she was far too aware.
Still, she had to admit that it would be hard for the possessor to ignore a perfect oval face, translucent skin, big blue eyes, and thick, glossy, mahogany, waving hair.
There was something disturbing about the young lady, however—about the way she looked at Beth and the marquess, and the way her friends looked at her.
It didn’t take genius to see that Miss Swinnamer wished to be in Beth’s position.
It was clear that Lucy Frogmorton also was envious.
Beth then supposed that most of the young ladies in England shared that feeling.
For the first time she thought how ludicrous it was that fate had delivered this supposed honor to one of the few sane women who did not want it.
Beth was still puzzling over Phoebe Swinnamer when the young lady managed to snatch a seat beside her. Beth realized that the duchess had been delicately attempting to prevent just such an occurrence.
“Do you live in Berkshire, Miss Swinnamer?” Beth asked politely. After years of teaching, jealous young minxes did not frighten her.
“Oh no,” said Phoebe with a slight smile which did not reach her eyes. “My home is in Sussex, but we spend a great deal of time in London.”
“Then you must enjoy it. I have rarely visited the capital.”
“It is my duty,” said Phoebe. “I am my parents’ heiress. I must make a good match.”
Beth smiled. “I am sure with your beauty and fortune, the choice must be entirely yours, Miss Swinnamer.”
There was the slightest stiffening of Phoebe’s beautiful features, though it was clear she never let the stronger emotions disturb them. “It is kind of you to say so, Miss Armitage.” She looked around. “Belcraven is very beautiful, is it not? I spent the Christmas here.”
Beth now understood that Phoebe had been a serious contender for the marquess’s hand.
Were they in fact disappointed lovers? Selfishly, it had never occurred to her that he might have had to give up a chosen partner to make this match.
Beth glanced over at him, but he was relaxed in friendly talk with the Frogmortons and there was nothing to learn.
She looked back and saw Phoebe had noted that look with satisfaction.
Beth took hold of her wits. The little cat was out to make trouble.
She doubtless had faint hopes of somehow spoiling the present arrangement and reviving her chances.
Beth knew there was no possibility of that and had no mind to have her life made more difficult by the girl.
“Personally,” she said, “I prefer a quiet family Christmas.”
“And where does your family live?” asked Phoebe, probing for a weakness.
“I lived with my aunt in Cheltenham,” countered Beth. “Are your parents here with you, Miss Swinnamer?”
“No, my mother is in Bath while my father lingers in Melton. I’m surprised,” she drawled, with a somehow familiar look at the marquess, “Arden is not still there. He adores hunting in the Shires.”
“The power of love,” said Beth sweetly. “I was not in such a mighty hurry to be wed, I assure you, Miss Swinnamer. But the marquess was positively insistent.”
Phoebe’s charming, shapely nose became decidedly pinched.
Before she could rally, the duchess was there, drawing Beth away. “You must come and talk to Lady Frogmorton, my dear.” As soon as they were out of earshot, she said, “I do hope the girl did not offend you, Elizabeth.”
“Of course not,” Beth said. “I’m well used to young misses. But am I correct in thinking there was an attachment between her and the marquess?”
“Not an attachment,” the duchess said quickly.
“She did seem to have a great deal to offer, and Lucien considered her—partly at my urging, I confess. I do not think he was ever particularly drawn to her. In fact,” she admitted with a rueful twinkle, “he was called away shortly after Christmas on some mysterious urgent business, much to poor Phoebe’s annoyance. ”
Beth shared the amusement, relieved to think her future husband wasn’t nursing a broken heart. They had enough trouble without that.
She sat down to gossip with Lady Frogmorton, a kindly woman who said everything that was proper.
Beth had been right about the jealousy of the daughters, however.
Lucy, in particular, being the elder and sharply pretty, with vivid dark-haired, cherry-lipped looks, eyed Beth with disbelief.
Beth supposed she would just have to become accustomed to this reaction.
When Lucien came to join them she was grateful for the way he behaved.
There was no crude outward show of fondness, of course, but in the way he stood beside her and the tone of his voice he clearly convinced the visitors that, strange though it was, this mousy and rather old woman had stolen his heart.
Beth recognized, however, that this salve to her pride was bought at cost to her heart. When he acted so proficiently it was all too easy to fall under the spell, to forget this was a pact imposed ruthlessly and supported by threats of violence.
She watched carefully when he exchanged pleasantries with Phoebe Swinnamer.
Beth couldn’t hear the words, but his attitude was friendly and brotherly.
In as far as she was capable of it, Miss Swinnamer looked cross, and Beth took unkind satisfaction from that.
It was unfortunate but human to dislike a young woman who was so set up in her own opinion and who clearly regarded Beth as something lower than an earthworm.
The next day brought the vicar and his wife in the company of Sir George Matlock, the local squire, and Lady Matlock.
They, too, Beth thought, looked at her with a trace of puzzlement, but accepted matters, doubtless due to the marquess’s excellent acting.
They were also, however, inclined to gush.
Beth found it strange to be looked up to as a member of the ducal family when she still felt like Beth Armitage the schoolmistress.
She feared it would be much more of the same at the upcoming ball. Beth helped the duchess and Mrs. Sysonby to address the hundred invitations.
“I confess,” she remarked as she dipped her pen into the ink well again, “this seems a great many invitations for a country ball.”
“Oh, but this is a small affair,” said the duchess.
“As there will be other events in London we are only asking the local people and at least half will have to decline.” She tidied one stack with deft fingers.
“Some men are still in the Shires. Women are visiting family. Some have already gone up to Town. But, even so, they would be affronted if we failed to send an invitation.”
This was no relief to Beth. She could still apparently expect over thirty families to come and gawk. She wished she was being sent an invitation, for then she could refuse.
She supposed the marquess, too, wished he could escape the event. He at least escaped to London to execute the duchess’s commissions. Before he left he sought out Beth in the library.
“I felt for form’s sake I should take a tender farewell of you,” he said dryly.
“Consider it taken,” she responded in the same manner. She would never show weakness before him again.
That didn’t prevent a tremor of nervousness when he walked toward her window seat.
He brought to mind a big cat stalking its prey and she was trapped in the deep embrasure.
She began to fear he might break his promise and assault her, but he merely removed her book from her lax fingers and glanced at the title.
“Sallust?” he noted in surprise. “You read Latin?”
How typical that he should think it remarkable. “Yes,” she said coldly, “I read Latin. It isn’t always easy, but it is good exercise for the mind….” Her voice trailed off because he had sat beside her and taken her hand. Quite gently. There was no anger on his face, only bemusement.
“I find you impossible to understand, Elizabeth,” he said thoughtfully. “You read Latin and refuse a fortune in jewels. And yet you claim to be—”
“I explained that,” Beth interrupted angrily, dragging her fingers from his hold.
He shook his head and put the book, open, in her hands again. “Read me a passage and translate it.”
With a grunt of anger Beth slammed the book closed. “Putting me to the test again?” She waved the tome in his face. “Really, my lord. Do you think knowledge of Latin a proof of virtue? What then of the whole of the male aristocracy?”
Disarmingly, he laughed. “Ah, but it’s the Greek that does us in.”
He gently rescued the book and let it fall open again.
He smiled as he read, “‘Ita in maxima fortuna minima licentia est.’ I seem to remember at Harrow I didn’t believe that high station limited freedom.
Perhaps old Gaius Salustius had something after all.
” He closed the book and placed it on the seat.
“Can we possibly, do you think, cry quarter? This is all going to drive me mad. If you are willing to behave like a lady, the least I can do is act the gentleman. I promise never to refer to our unfortunate conversations again.”