Chapter 16 #2
The duchess wanted Beth to lie down and rest, but she chose instead to sit in her private boudoir and continue her reading of Self-Control. She had, after all, promised Aunt Emma a critical evaluation, and she was so out of patience with the book she wanted to be rid of it.
The sentiments expressed there were impossible to reconcile with the reality of her situation.
Once, from a state of ignorance, she would have found Laura’s search for a man of unblemished perfection quite understandable.
Now she doubted such a paragon could exist, and if he did she suspected he would turn out to be hard to live with.
It would be such an effort to live up to his standards.
Moreover, having taken the first tentative steps into the world of passion, Beth distrusted this “controlled” assessment of candidates for matrimony.
Beth was guiltily aware that Mary Wollstonecraft had thought passion a poor basis for marriage, but surely there had to be something in it of the heart as well as the head.
Beth considered the intimate details of Mary Wollstonecraft’s life, which had always been tactfully glossed over by Aunt Emma.
Mary Wollstonecraft had, after all, lived for many years with her lover, Gilbert Imlay, and borne him a child.
She had tried to commit suicide when the relationship began to fail. Not much of self-control there.
Laura, Beth thought sourly, would doubtless have been delighted to be described as,
“A perfect woman, nobly plann’d
To warn, to comfort, and command.”
Beth had considered that quotation again and again and was beginning to wonder if it hadn’t been a subtle insult, or at least a complaint. Lucien doubtless wanted a paragon for wife as little as she wanted one for husband.
She was doggedly reading, disliking Laura more and more with every page, when Marleigh announced a visitor. “A young lady, your ladyship, unaccompanied but respectable. Miss Clarissa Greystone.”
“Clarissa!” said Beth, delighted. “How wonderful. Please bring her up.” Clarissa could not really be said to be a friend, having been a pupil and six years Beth’s junior, but she was a serious-minded young woman and pleasant company, better than Laura Montreville.
When she came in, however, there was something brittle and forced in the girl’s manner. She was dressed in an expensive cambric gown with a fashionable bonnet on her head, all evidence that the family finances must have improved, but she did not look happy.
“Clarissa,” said Beth. “How nice to see you. So you have your Season after all.”
“Yes,” said Clarissa in a quiet voice.
Beth ordered a tea tray and seated her guest.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.
Clarissa waited until the door closed behind Marleigh and then fell to her knees by Beth’s chair. “No! Oh dear Miss Armitage—I mean, your ladyship. Oh please help me!”
Beth pulled the girl to her feet. “Whatever is the matter Clarissa?”
“I … I am being forced to marry.”
Beth pushed the girl onto a lounge and sat beside her. “Marriage is the lot of most women, my dear,” she said reasonably. “You see that even I have come to it.”
“But you have married the Marquess of Arden,” wailed Clarissa, “and I am to marry Lord Deveril!”
“Deveril!” exclaimed Beth in horror.
Clarissa sunk her head in her hands. “I see you know him. Miss—Your ladyship, I cannot! Not to save us all from the Fleet I cannot!” She suddenly fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a sheet of paper. “He gave me this.”
Beth unfolded it to read the heavy black script. It was a list of rules for Deveril’s wife, stressing total compliance and spelling out the punishments for transgression, mostly physical. It sounded like the rules for the sternest house of correction.
Beth was stunned. “I quite see how you feel … I hear Marleigh. Try to compose yourself, my dear.”
The entrance of the butler, followed by a maid with a cake stand, gave Beth time to collect her wits.
What a pickle. But she would never abandon this child.
She had suffered the distress of a forced marriage but, she admitted, to a man who had much to recommend him.
To be forced to wed such as Lord Deveril!
It roused personal feelings. On the one hand, she was grateful that her fate had been kinder. On the other she recognized that the duke would still have forced the match if his son had been an imbecile or another Deveril.
She poured some tea and sweetened it heavily. “Come, Clarissa, drink this and we will talk.”
The girl sipped the drink and then put it down, choosing instead to wring her hands. “My parents have no trace of mercy. I have begged them! But my father…. He gambles. We have nothing left and there are my two brothers…. My mother says it is a daughter’s duty.”
“It is no daughter’s duty to marry Lord Deveril,” said Beth firmly. “If you must marry, surely a better match can be found.”
But even as she spoke Beth knew it was not so.
A dowry was needed for a good match. Only such as Lord Deveril would pay to gain a bride.
It was not as if Clarissa were a beauty.
She had a rather long face and a wide mouth and unruly gingery hair.
It was true that she had a lively personality and, at the moment, had youth on her side, but she was not the type to drive a man to forget the advantages of a handsome dowry.
“Is the marriage imminent?” Beth asked.
Clarissa shook her head. “The engagement is to be announced next week, but the wedding will be in September.”
Beth took the girl’s hands. “I will help you, Clarissa. I do not know yet what can be done, but I will find a way.”
Clarissa smiled mistily. “Oh, your ladyship!”
“And I think in view of that you must call me Beth. We are, after all, conspirators.”
Clarissa relaxed as if a great burden had been lifted. By the time the girl left, Beth felt as if the burden had been shifted to her own shoulders. Clarissa had such faith in her and yet Beth had no idea how to change her situation.
Clarissa had left Lord Deveril’s set of rules on her chair and Beth picked them up.
A rereading stiffened her resolution. Clarissa’s distress was justified; no woman of integrity could stand by and allow what was little more than a lifetime of legalized rape and slavery.
Beth might not have been able to fight against her own situation, but she could fight for Clarissa.
She thoughtfully placed the sheet of paper between the pages of her book.
This also reminded her of Robin Babson. She had been so entangled in her own predicament that she had not given the boy a thought for weeks.
She rang for Redcliff and together they made their way to the area behind the square where all the big houses kept their horses and carriages.
There was only accommodation for about ten horses and three carriages in the Belcraven mews.
Quite modest by de Vaux standards, thought Beth wryly.
Just the tax on horses and carriages paid by the Belcraven estates would bankrupt most people.
She told herself firmly to stop thinking in such a vinegarish way and went to pay respects to her horse, which had just arrived up from Hartwell. Goodness knew when she’d find time to ride Stella again.
All the time, Beth was alert for any sign of Robin.
Then he came out of a stall with a bucket in his hand. He looked in good health and was whistling.
“Robin,” said Beth.
He turned curiously, then put down his bucket and touched his forelock. “Milady.”
Beth went over to him, aware of Redcliff’s disapproval. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” she said.
“Course I do,” he said cockily. “Watched yer leaving after the wedding, didn’t I? Right fine do that was.”
Beth was surprised. “Are you saying you were at the wedding?”
He goggled. “Not likely! No, ma’am. We had a right bang-up feast the day after. All the staff. It were bloody marvelous. Beggin’ your pardon, milady.” He wasn’t the slightest bit repentant for his language. Lucien was right. He was a scamp.
Beth was content. There was clearly no tragedy here. At that moment a man came into the yard. Beth thought he was the head groom. He said nothing but clearly disapproved. “You had best be on with your work then, Robin,” she said.
The boy cast a cheeky look at his boss and winked. “Right enough. All the best, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Robin.”
He went whistling on his way and Beth returned to the house with one burden eased.
That did not help the problem of Clarissa, however, and further consideration of that situation was not reassuring.
Clarissa’s parents were unlikely to give up their plan unless another way out of their predicament could be found.
That meant, Beth supposed, money or a better and equally generous husband.
Beth was in no position to find either. She supposed the marquess might be, but would he sympathize with Clarissa’s predicament?
The duke or duchess? Even if they saw the wickedness of the projected match she doubted they would interfere between a daughter and her parents.
It was surely against the law. By the time Beth prepared for dinner, she was no further ahead in her search for a solution to Clarissa’s problems.
Lucien returned home with no definite news of Napoleon’s whereabouts.
The fact that Bonaparte had imposed an embargo on the French ports, preventing goods, people, and news from leaving the country, suggested the worst. All those in the know seemed to think the confrontation would be any day.
Prices on ‘Change were fluctuating madly with each rumor.
But for all that, life must go on, and the Season was in its final lighthearted weeks. Even the news from Brussels was as much of balls and receptions as it was of war. Beth found it extraordinary.