Chapter 17
The next day Beth had to admit that regardless of the way he spent his nights, her husband was doing his duty during the day.
He presented himself after lunch to escort her to the Delaneys and also provided her with a neatly written list of the more interesting intellectual events taking place in Town over the next few weeks.
Hannah More was scheduled to talk, and Maria Edgeworth.
There was a presentation on the sculpture of the Renaissance and a lecture on the migration patterns of birds.
As an indication that such events were not beyond the bounds of the haut ton there was a musical and literary entertainment under the patronage of the Marchioness of Salisbury and the Countess of Jersey.
“Perhaps I should set up as a patroness of the arts,” she said.
“If you wish.”
Beth searched his face for any change, for any hint that he had spent a night of passion with his mistress. There was none.
“If you don’t object,” he said as they left her room, “we could walk to Lauriston Street. It’s not far and it’s a pleasant day.”
Beth was happy to agree but found it difficult to strike up a conversation. The obvious topic was the play the night before and she wouldn’t touch that with a barge pole.
“No more news of a battle,” she said in the end. It was an idiotic thing to say as the word would be all over Town in minutes when it arrived.
“Mad rumors. The news we’re getting is four or five days old. Someone was spreading word that the allies are routed. Another that Napoleon is shot by his own men. Both are denied by the War Office.”
“Is it possible it won’t come to battle?”
“Not unless someone does shoot the Corsican. It seems mad that one man’s overweening ambition can cause such destruction.
So many lives….” He broke off and they walked a ways in silence.
“We have this group of friends,” he said at last. “We were all at Harrow together. Nicholas, Con, Francis, Hal, Dare…. There were twelve of us. Only ten are still alive. Hal’s lost his arm—Damn the Corsican. ”
“Surely it isn’t all Napoleon’s fault,” Beth pointed out. “Major Beaumont lost his arm in the Americas, and that war can’t be laid at Bonaparte’s door. Men, after all, don’t seem to need much excuse for war.”
He flashed her an irritated look but then gave a brief laugh and said, “Oh no. I’m not going to be entangled in a topic like that just now.
I’m pleased you want to get to know the Delaneys,” he said.
“I think you’ll like Eleanor, though she’s not bookish.
If you’re wise you won’t tangle in a battle of wits with Nicholas. ”
“He’s a genius?” Beth queried skeptically.
“I don’t know what he is. He never went up to university.
Took this mad fit to travel then went to some strange places.
Any meaningful conversation with him travels equally unpredictable roads.
I once saw him reduce a parson to incoherence.
I’m not actually sure,” he said thoughtfully, “that he’s a Christian. ”
“Good heavens.”
Lucien looked at her in mock astonishment. “Have I shocked you? Drag your mind out of narrow, conformist paths, my dear.”
Beth was shocked. She and Aunt Emma had questioned many things but never Christianity. She and Lucien had arrived at a neat, narrow house which at least did not look pagan.
“What is he, then?” asked Beth nervously.
Lucien just grinned and applied the door knocker.
An immensely proper butler answered the door and smiled. “Welcome, my lord. They are at home.” Beth was somewhat reassured. This was not a house of disrepute.
“Good,” said Lucien. “My dear, this is Hollygirt. Hollygirt, make known my wife, Lady Arden.”
The butler bowed. “Honored to make your acquaintance, your ladyship.”
It soon became clear formality at number eight, Lauriston Street, stopped with the butler. Lucien swept Beth along and into a large drawing room which had more the look of the senior girls’ parlor at Miss Mallory’s, except that most of the occupants were male.
Nicholas Delaney was sitting on the floor with two young men—one an amazingly handsome russet-haired specimen and one snub-nosed ginger—apparently playing with a large toy soldier.
Another man, a fine-boned blond, was sitting at a table by the window writing.
Hal Beaumont, Eleanor Delaney, and a noticeably pregnant young lady were sitting in a group being amused by a beautiful, amiable baby.
A darkly poetic man was playing the piano.
He looked up as they entered and swung into a creditable version of a fanfare of trumpets.
Everyone looked up and in an instant Beth was caught up in a whirlwind of welcomes, introductions, and questions. It was like a large and very strange family.
She was snared by Eleanor and cut out of the group. “You’ll never remember who’s who,” said Eleanor, “so pay no attention. Come and meet Arabel instead. She has more manners than anyone else here.”
Beth found herself on a sofa beside Hal Beaumont, meeting him for the first time since that extraordinary conversation in the rose garden. He smiled at her without constraint. “You’re looking well, Elizabeth. I was sorry not to be at the wedding. Problems at my estate.”
That had been his excuse. Beth saw he was keeping to his word; now she was married there was no hint of the warmth he had expressed just that once. “We missed you,” she said and added, “I have to tell you that I prefer to be called Beth.”
He looked intrigued but said, “Beth, then.”
“And I’m Amy Lavering,” said the girl holding the baby. “And this is Arabel. I hold her a lot in the hope she can teach my little one some decorum. My husband’s Peter, the handsome one on the floor.”
Beth looked over. Peter Lavering certainly was handsome but since Lucien had now joined that group, Beth felt she could debate the singular. She let it pass. “What are they doing?” she asked.
Eleanor explained. “Miles Cavanagh—he’s the gingery one—brought that thing as a gift for Arabel.
Entirely unsuitable for a girl, but Nicholas, of course, said there was no reason Arabel shouldn’t grow up to be a soldier—horrid man.
It doesn’t work. Instead of marching it hurtles like the mail.
It shot right off the table and broke its musket, so now it’s restricted to the floor. ”
Someone released the switch and the rosy-cheeked grenadier shot forward about three feet and fell on its nose. Its feet gave a few pathetic little twitches. Arabel’s attention was caught, and she gave a squeal and stretched for it.
Her father leapt to his feet and came to sweep her up.
“No, no, little plum. Learn to resist wounded soldiers. They’ve been the ruin of many a fair maid.
” He grinned at Hal with no awkwardness about the injury at all, then smiled over the child’s head at Beth.
“Welcome. What form of insanity does your heart crave? Here we satisfy all.”
Beth was a second too late to stop the betraying flicker of her eyes towards Lucien, and she saw it register on Nicholas Delaney though his expression never altered. “I don’t know,” she said hastily. “I think I like sanity.”
He promptly popped the baby on her lap. “Talk to Arabel. She’s the only sane one here.”
Beth had never held a baby before. The youngest girls at Miss Mallory’s had been seven. The baby at least was a professional and settled happily against her chest mouthing one of her own knuckles.
Beth looked at Eleanor. “What a lovely child.”
For a moment Eleanor looked very serious. “Yes. We receive precious gifts from strange places.” But then she smiled. “She’s due for a feeding and her nap. If you’d care to come upstairs we could all take tea in civilized peace while I feed her.”
Though the notion was startling, Beth agreed, as did Amy.
Eleanor took the baby and carried her over to her father who kissed her softly on the lips. “Sleep well, Plumkin.” Arabel gave him a smile but turned straight back to her mother with a serious look. Clearly the demands of her stomach were beginning to wear down her manners.
Beth wondered if such a sweet nature was the cause of the devotion everyone showed the child or the result. She had no experience of family life, but she’d never imagined a father as warmly loving as Nicholas Delaney.
Her eyes sought Lucien’s. He smiled. “Go and learn how it’s done. I want a child just as charming and well-behaved as Arabel.”
Beth raised her brows. “I thought you wanted an heir for Belcraven.”
“No,” he said, “that’s my father. I want a string of little Arabels. Then,” he added mischievously, “an heir for Belcraven.”
Considering her virginity, Beth was finding this discussion in front of a roomful of strangers rather challenging.
“What a shame,” she said tartly, “men cannot carry and birth the children. We could share the load.” There was a burst of laughter, and Beth took the chance to escape and catch up with Eleanor and Amy.
“Good for you,” said Eleanor. “Men sometimes talk as if producing babies is as easy as making a loaf of bread. Ah, Hollygirt,” she said as the butler appeared. “We’ll have tea in my boudoir and then please see what the gentlemen want.”
Beth spent an enjoyable hour drinking tea and chattering.
The conversation was mostly of pregnancy and babies, but she didn’t mind.
Presumably she would come to that one day though at the moment she didn’t quite see how.
She wished she had the nerve to ask these two friendly and clearly happily married ladies for advice on husband management, most specifically how to make him want to seek her bed, but she didn’t dare.