Chapter Seven #3
Her thoughts in turmoil, she returned inside and climbed the stairs to check on Thomas.
Seeing him sleeping in his beautiful blue room, her heart ached further.
She had behaved appallingly, after all Edward had done for them.
She had turned down the father of her child.
Had she made him feel unwanted, as she had felt these past fifteen months? She would not put that on anyone.
Heading back downstairs, she returned to the room with the art supplies.
No one had ever done something as kind as this for her before.
Edward had gone above and beyond in every way.
She sat looking out at the parkland, attempting to draw the landscape, but even though she had longed for time to be able to do this, she couldn’t focus on sketching right now. Only him.
Last night, Edward had been honest with her, telling her he did not regret their actions before—that nothing could have prevented him from lying with her.
And hadn’t she felt the same? But she hadn’t told him as much.
She had remained silent, withholding her forgiveness from him, believing if she accepted his apology, it would leave her vulnerable.
Yet if she wasn’t willing to forgive and forget, how could this marriage ever be a success?
Her distance might hurt them both more. She felt wretched that she had made him believe an untruth.
She had told him she didn’t want him to kiss her and that was a lie.
Did she really want them to be two strangers living together, sleeping apart?
With his words, and his actions, Edward was at least trying to fix the trust that had been broken.
What had she done? Absolutely nothing. She wondered what she could do for him, to try to restore the connection between them.
Maybe if she could find the courage to speak to him and be honest, be brave enough to touch him, she could reach him.
She found that sitting there, she was missing him, which was strange, as she had lived without him for fifteen months—why should she be pining for him now?
She looked down at her drawing and thought how much she would like to be sketching him, sitting at the piano, rather than the view outside.
His face was far more fascinating to her.
She remembered the gallery. She hadn’t yet been inside and decided to find the portrait of him she knew would be hanging there, wondering what further insights it might reveal about the man.
Entering the long corridor lined with pictures, she walked past generations of regal faces who had graced these corridors, dressed in their finery.
She felt the weight of their gazes on her, as if they could sense a stranger in their midst. As if they were wondering what she was going to do about her predicament.
She recognised Edward’s picture instantly and came to stand before it. He was so handsome—it was as if his blue eyes could see right into her soul, and she felt her heart rate kick up, just looking at the painting. How did he have such an effect on her?
Next to him hung the portrait of a man a few years older than him, and she thought it must be William. They had the same nose. Thomas’s nose. Her heart went out to Edward again for his loss. He probably needed her support right now, but instead, she had pushed him away.
Her gaze trailed over his father, the Duke, in the next portrait—he had been handsome too when he was younger—and a woman, who must have been his mother.
She was a vision of beauty. She had dark hair and wild, blue eyes.
Edward’s eyes. Where was she, Bea wondered?
What had happened here that was so bad it had made Edward think he didn’t want to marry.
She stared up into all their faces, hoping for answers, but she knew she would only get them from speaking to her husband.
A determination settled in her stomach. She would be there for him, in any capacity that he needed her, as he had been there for her today, making her feel at ease with his friends, and in showing such support of her and Thomas, and her interests in art.
She knew the circumstances of how their union had come about were far from perfect, but there were worse things to base a marriage on than desire, weren’t there?
A storm was hovering on the horizon, dark clouds looming, and huge raindrops began to pelt against the windows, matching the swirling torrent of her feelings.
She couldn’t stay here waiting for Edward to return, not now she had determined what she was going to do.
She needed to speak to him, to reach out to him, now.
She couldn’t wait another moment, knowing he was at his mill thinking badly of her.
She informed Martha she would be gone for some time and asked George to fetch the coach.
Mrs Potter fretted around her, saying she shouldn’t be going anywhere on her own in this weather, yet Bea had made up her mind.
There was no talking her out of it. ‘Where to?’ George asked, as he helped her up into the carriage.
‘Frankton Mill,’ she said, more courageously than she felt.
As the carriage jostled along the drive and through the streets, her doubts began to set in.
What if Edward didn’t want her anymore? She knew he had far too much pride to come to her room again after she’d rejected him; that she would be the one to have to breach the gap between them.
But what if she was too late? What if she had ruined everything, before it had even begun?
Her mind whirred the whole way there, her stomach in knots, and by the time the coach finally pulled up in the spot where she had bumped into Edward the other morning, she was a trembling mess.
If George hadn’t opened the door for her, she might well have stayed huddled inside. Instead, she forced herself to take a deep breath, smooth down her gown and step out. There was no going back now.
George held a parasol for her and she looked up at the mill through the rain, rising like a mountain before her.
It was impressive—vast, rectangular and made of local stone.
Several storeys high, there were rows of large windows to let in the light, and huge chimneys dominating the roof. Edward really had made something of it.
Bea rushed through the pelting rain to the door and stepping inside, coughed a little, as the air was thick with dust. The clamouring noise of the machines matched her beating heart as she looked around for someone to point her in the direction of her husband.
She accosted a passing woman and raised her voice to be heard. ‘Pardon me, I’m looking for Lord Harrington.’
‘He’s over there, miss,’ the woman said, pointing to the far end of the work floor.
A mixture of renewed nerves rushed through her.
There were hundreds of people—men and women—all hard at work, but Bea glanced over to where the woman had gestured and saw a group of men huddled round a machine. It was strange Edward should be on the factory floor, wasn’t it? Had the woman got it right? There was only one way to find out.
She concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other as she made her way through the crowd.
Drawing closer to the group of men, her bravery almost deserted her as she wondered what Edward would say when he saw her there—he might be angry with her for coming, and yet surely he couldn’t be any more furious than he was already?
As one by one members of the group saw her, they stepped aside. She thought, upon seeing her luxurious gown, they must have guessed who she was. Just days before, they wouldn’t have looked twice at her—she would have been seen as one of them.
The last of the group parted and her husband came into view and her heart stuttered, for he didn’t look like her aristocratic husband—he wore no coat and tails, not even a shirt.
Instead, his chest was bare, covered in grease and grime and sweat as he struggled underneath the machine, trying to reach something that seemed to be stuck.
Her heart flew to her mouth at the risk he was taking, his hands so close to the moving metal.
It was surely a dangerous job and one he should not be doing.
‘There, got it,’ he said, triumphantly.
‘Edward?’
His eyes went wide—and in his shock he caught his finger against the machine. He swore, loudly, his brow furrowing.
‘Are you all right?’ she gasped.
Still scowling, he eased himself out and upright, finally unfurling to his feet and coming face-to-face with her. ‘Bea. What are you doing here?’ he shook his head.
With his dishevelled dark hair and brilliant blue eyes, his magnificent chest exposed, for a moment, she lost the ability to speak. She just stared.
‘This is no place for a woman.’
His brusque words brought her to her senses. ‘If I’m not mistaken, there are many other women here,’ she said, looking all around her. ‘I’m no different. Are you hurt?’
A muscle flickered at his temple, telling her he was displeased; that he thought otherwise. ‘It’s just a scratch.’
He wiped his hands with a rag—then his jaw, his chest, but his eyes never wavered from hers. She felt her cheeks heat. She was grateful when a man passed him his shirt and he pulled it back on, covering himself up.
He came right up against her and leaned down to speak in her ear. ‘This is no place for my wife.’
‘It couldn’t wait.’
He pulled back, a crease forming between his brows. ‘Is it Thomas? Is everything all right?’
‘He’s asleep, safe, back at the house.’
His shoulders sagged in relief and the knowledge that he cared about their son—the hope that he might care about her too—gave her the courage to go on.
‘I needed to talk to you. Is there somewhere we can speak alone?’