Chapter 9
For her part, Beth found her days too full for philosophizing.
She was set numerous tasks to do with the ball, given advanced etiquette lessons, and taken on drives and shopping expeditions.
Three times they went to Oxford for silk stockings and satin slippers, artificial flowers and kid gloves.
She had the feeling that much of the activity was designed expressly to keep her busy but, if so, she was grateful.
Not only did it allow less time to think, it provided an opportunity to learn.
Resigned to the fact that this was to be her life, she observed everything and learned quickly.
She even began to accept the constant presence of servants and not be awkwardly aware of their every action. But she could not make herself unaware of them as people.
When one day she came across a young boy crying in the garden, she stopped in concern. She remembered seeing the lad in the stables. Though he had a sharp face and a crooked nose, there was something appealing about his lively features and bright eyes, and she did not like to see him sad.
“What’s the matter?” she asked gently.
He looked up, alarmed, then leapt to his feet. “Nothing, ma’am,” he said, scrubbing at his damp face.
“Don’t run away,” Beth said. “You work in the stables, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Will you be in trouble for not being there?”
He hung his head. “No, ma’am. They won’t expect me back quick after old Jarvis took a whip to me.”
Beth could tell from the way he moved that his punishment had not been brutal, but she offered sympathy. “Oh dear,” she said. “Did you do something very bad?”
He nodded, head still lowered. He couldn’t be very old, Beth thought. Not much over ten. She sat on the ground close to him. “I’m Beth Armitage,” she said. “What’s your name?”
He looked down at her with a frown as if the question posed a problem. “I’m Robin,” he said at last, slightly defiantly. “Robin Babson.”
“Well, Robin. Why don’t you sit here for a moment and tell me what’s been going on. Perhaps we can prevent further punishment.”
He sat down and grimaced. “Don’t reckon,” he said morosely. “Me and old Jarvis don’t get on.”
“What did you do this time?”
“Let go of an ’orse. Viking. The marquess’s big stallion. He’s done sommat to his leg.”
“Oh dear,” said Beth, dismayed. She knew the value Arden placed on that horse. “That does sound rather serious.”
“When he comes back he’ll kill me,” said the boy with a gulp. “That or get rid o’ me.”
“The marquess?”
The boy nodded, fresh tears breaking out to streak his face.
Beth wished she could promise to intercede on the boy’s behalf but didn’t think she had sufficient influence in that quarter. Despite their truce, she was not at all sure any words of hers would outweigh damage to Arden’s favorite mount.
“How did you come to let the horse go?” she asked.
The boy looked up warily then obviously decided to trust. “He snapped at me. I got scared….” In a mumble he added, “I don’t like horses. Ruddy great brutes.”
Beth stared at him. “You don’t—? But then why are you working in the stables, Robin?”
“He put me there.”
“Who?”
“Lord Arden. He brought me in and gave me a job in the stables.”
Beth had only the faintest notion of what he meant, but one thing was clear. “If you don’t like the work the marquess will surely find you something more congenial, Robin. Especially as you are not suited to working with horses. I’ll speak to him—”
“No!” exclaimed the boy, eyes wide. “Please, ma’am. Don’t do that. He promised I can work with his horses!”
“But you don’t like horses,” Beth pointed out.
The boy looked away, stubbornly mute, and Beth frowned in bewilderment. “So you don’t wish me to speak to the marquess on your behalf?” she said at last.
“No, ma’am.” He stood and wiped his face on his sleeve. The effect was to smear rather than clean. “I’m sorry for bothering you, ma’am. Please don’t say nothink to him.”
Beth was genuinely touched. She suspected that this waif was as much astray at Belcraven as she and, for some reason, as bound. “I won’t, Robin,” she assured him. “But if you need help you must ask for me and I will do what I can.”
“Thank ye kindly, ma’am,” he said and ran off.
Beth sighed. Would the marquess really beat the boy again, she wondered, and perhaps more severely? She didn’t like to think so, and yet many masters would feel themselves well within their rights. She knew so little of Arden, but she did suspect him to be capable of violence.
And what was she to do about it? She was so unused to violence that she wanted to hide from it, to hide even from the thought of it, but she couldn’t live like that.
Beth rose and stiffened her resolution. Despite the awkwardness of her situation she would keep an eye on the matter of Robin Babson. She could not spend the rest of her life turning a blind eye to violence and cruelty, and Lord Arden would have to come to understand that.
The marquess returned on the day of the ball. When he strode into the duchess’ boudoir, where she and Beth were taking tea, Beth almost saw him as a stranger. He looked quite unlike the cold, forbidding despot she had built in her mind.
He had taken the time to change, of course, but there was something of the outdoors and exercise still about him. He was relaxed, and the exhilaration of the drive was still in his eyes.
Had he heard about his horse? she wondered. And what had happened to poor Robin? She could not believe he was just come from a scene of violent retribution.
He kissed his mother’s cheek and grinned at her. “You are blooming, Maman. We should force you to hold grand entertainments more often.”
“Silly boy. You are the last of my children to marry. I hope not to do this kind of thing again.”
He was still smiling when he turned to Beth, but the warmth became impersonal. “Elizabeth. I hope you are not being run ragged by all this.”
If this aloof tone was the best he could do, thought Elizabeth, they were in the suds. “Of course not,” she said, assuming a lively manner. “But anyway, this all has the attraction of novelty for me, my lord. I never realized the amount of hard work involved in celebrating a wedding.”
“Only the wedding of the heir to a dukedom,” he said dryly. Beth thought she detected a genuine dislike of pomp. How strange. More and more Lucien de Vaux was becoming a conundrum she very much wanted to solve.
“So after the wedding we can live quietly?” she queried.
He produced a creditably fond smile, but it covered implacable intent. “I hadn’t planned on it, no. We have the pride of the de Vaux to consider, my dear. Will you dislike a life of fashionable entertaining very much?”
The silent message was that her likes and dislikes carried no weight with him at all. Oh God, thought Beth, they were back to their old ways. Quicksands indeed. They never said what they meant and never meant what they said.
She turned away, making a business out of pouring him some tea. “If I do dislike it,” she said as she passed him the cup, “you will be sure to hear of it … my dear.”
After a startled moment he smiled in a genuine manner. “I fear I will … my sweet despot.” Cap that, his eyes said.
Beth was tempted but didn’t know where it would all end. The marquess was not a man to bow out of a conflict. She contented herself with fluttering her lashes and aiming at him a sweet, hopefully simpering, smile. She had the satisfaction of seeing his lips twitch with genuine humor.
Beth noted the duchess watching them with a misty smile and thought, don’t build on this too much, Your Grace. We are both learning well to be actors.
“I have brought you some eligible men, Maman,” said the marquess. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind! Of course not, you dear boy. There can never be too many eligible men. Who? And where are they?”
“Amleigh, Debenham, and Beaumont. I’ve left them in the morning room enjoying more substantial refreshment.”
The duchess frowned slightly, though there was a twinkle in her blue eyes. “The last time Lord Darius was here he attempted to build a champagne fountain. And Mr. Beaumont has always caused a great lack of attention among the younger maids.”
“Well,” said the marquess turning sober, “he will doubtless be a focus of interest again but in a different way. He’s lost his left arm.”
The duchess mirrored his sobriety. “Oh, the poor man. How is he?”
“Well as always, really. And he manages nearly everything. He don’t like to be fussed.”
“I’ll tell Gorsham,” said the duchess. “And I’ll go odds it will only increase his attraction among the maids and every other female in the vicinity. I look to you to control your guests, Lucien.”
“Of course, Maman,” he said with a boyish grin. “I gather you wish this to be a devilish dull affair.”
His mother laughed. “Of course I do not. How would anyone believe it was your betrothal ball if it went off smoothly, you wretched boy? Go away and look to your friends before they find mischief.”
He kissed her cheek again before he left, but Beth only received a slight wave of the hand. She looked up to see the duchess studying her enigmatically. Nothing was said, however, and soon she was sent to her room to prepare for the evening.
Laid out on her bed Beth discovered a beautiful gown, the one the duchess had ordered from London and that the marquess had been sent to collect. Beth had approved the selection without much interest, but the picture in Ackerman’s Repository had not prepared her for the beauty of the garment.
The ivory figured silk, inset with satin panels edged in pearls, glowed and shimmered in the candlelight.
Beth had never even seen such an exquisite gown in her life.
When she touched it it rustled and slithered against her fingers in an orchestration of sensuality.
Redcliff hovered over the gown with all the pride and protectiveness of a mother with a new baby.