Chapter 15
It was becoming increasingly clear to Beatrice that she was precisely as her father claimed; unworthy of love and not destined to find it.
It was difficult to show that measure of vulnerability to her husband.
While she had anticipated his kindness, for Owen was almost always gentle and generous, she had not expected his compassion and sympathy.
. She thought, for a moment, that they might be able to fall for one another, and she would have found love after so many years of thinking she never could but then came the harsh reminder.
He was kind to her out of obligation, and he married her to save face. There was nothing more to it to find, and so she needed to stop looking.
When they returned home, she took herself to her room without waiting for Ella.
She looked in the mirror, pulling each pin out from her hair until her deep brown ringlets were freed once more.
She studied her face, trying to catch a glimpse of the duchess that she was supposed to be, but it was not there.
All that she could see was a lost girl that was not quite one thing and not quite another, not even her father’s daughter.
It should have moved her to tears, and she could not work out why it was not.
All it made her feel was an immense sense of injustice, and when she looked at herself again, she saw a determined scowl.
She smiled at herself, a plan already forming in her mind.
It was later in the day than she would have liked, but she had time to begin.
Taking some paper and a quill, along with an inkpot, she made her way through each room of the house. She noted everything that she disliked, organizing it all by room, and did not stop to speak to anyone, not even Mrs. Forsythe, who began following her after they nearly collided.
“May I help you, Your Grace?”
“No, I can do this, thank you,” she replied, walking on.
“But I know the places to go for the replacements.”
“And you are welcome to do that with me, but for the moment I only wish to decide on what to change. My husband has said that I can do as I please, and I intend to.”
“Very well. Will you… will you be going into every part of the house?”
“Not as yet, only the ones that my friends shall see. I want them to be comfortable here, and this will not do. I cannot settle any longer, Mrs. Forsythe.”
She did not sound half as desperate as she felt, and she was pleased about that.
Something inside of her had broken, and she no longer wished to sit to the side and accept what was given to her.
She did not like her surroundings as much as she knew that she could, and so she would change them.
Then, she would decide what to do with her husband.
Her first change was that she wanted to put some color into her home. The furnishings were expensive, but when she looked at the household she could not see any of Owen’s personality within it. It was a house, and she wanted to make it a home.
“I want the drawing room to be pale blue,” she said aloud as Mrs. Forsythe continued to follow her. “It is a calming color, I rather think.”
“Indeed, it is. Might I ask you something in particular about it?”
“Of course.”
“Might you wish to replace the pianoforte?”
Beatrice looked at it sitting in the corner.
It was clean, free of dust, but it was also worn.
Beatrice had never played it and decided that she played little enough that it would not make a difference as long as it worked.
She pressed a key, and no sound came out.
Pressing another, it made an discordant note that caused her to shudder.
“I see what you mean,” she agreed. “Yes, a new one will be necessary. I would hate for one of my friends to try to play it and have that happen.”
She slowed, knowing that her housekeeper was the most valuable asset she had. It was for the best that she listened and took her advice, although she still intended to have her voice heard.
They moved on to the morning room. It was, as with all the other rooms, neat but dull, draped in heavy green damask that swallowed any light that came in.
“It is too gloomy,” Beatrice said, looking around. “I should like to replace the curtains with something lighter. The colors must change too, for the room will be dark no matter how much we try to light it.”
“The late Duchess found it restful,” Mrs. Forsythe replied. “His Grace never wanted to change it.”
“I find it dreary, and I think it needs to change,” Beatrice said firmly, turning toward the window where the sunlight struggled to break through the fabric. “Something pale, such as a cream.”
The housekeeper hesitated. Beatrice wondered if there was something that she was not telling her, but if she was not going to tell her of her own accord, then she was not going to demand it. If there was no reason against it, then she would do as she pleased.
“That will show the dust sooner,” she explained.
“I do not mind dust,” Beatrice said. “I mind sitting in the dark. I understand that the late Duchess liked it this way, but I do not.”
Mrs. Forsythe’s mouth twitched, as though suppressing a smile. Though Beatrice did not like being so firm, she was pleased that it was working. It was also undeniable that her housekeeper was rather enjoying the changes, even if her loyalties lay fundamentally with Owen’s late mother.
“Very well, Your Grace. I’ll write to the upholsterer in town. It may take some time.”
“I’m sure it will,” Beatrice said lightly. “But it will be worth it. Besides, I am certain that he will work quicker for a fee, and if we tell him how important it is, he may well make an exception for us.”
“Your status certainly will help, as well as the fact that three more duchesses will be arriving to see his work.”
They moved on to the parlor room. The air was faintly musty, even though Beatrice knew it was cleaned every day, and several of the chairs looked as though no one had sat in them for years.
“These are dreadful,” Beatrice said, touching the stiff embroidered cushions in a vain attempt to soften them. “Does anyone ever use this room? I have only just noticed how hard it all is, and I have sat in here.”
“Until your arrival, the room was not used at all. His Grace prefers his study when he receives guests, and so there was no need for it.”
“Then perhaps we should make this room a little more welcoming for when I do,” Beatrice said.
She looked around, truly taking notice of how it looked. It was one thing when she shared a drink in there with Owen, but another entirely when she was to host in there. Her friends were not judgmental, but that did not mean she did not care how her home looked.
“Remove two of the large armchairs,” she began. “They are crowding the hearth. We can bring in some smaller ones from the east parlor. And I wish to have flowers kept here. They are to be changed regularly.”
“I will see to it. The gardeners will need notice if you want regular arrangements, of course.”
“Then we will give them notice,” Beatrice replied.
She was beginning to enjoy her position, and she loved that she could ask for anything she wanted and have it given to her. She would never want too much, but it was good to know that she would have people willing to give it to her if she ever did.
“I do not need anything in particular. They may choose, and it would be best that they use anything in season.”
Mrs. Forsythe took note, agreeing with her. They climbed the stairs next, and Beatrice paused outside one of the guest chambers. The decorations were crimson, once again heavy and dark, and Beatrice wondered if everything had been chosen by the late Duchess and never changed.
“I think this room could be made more comfortable,” she said. “As it is, it feels old, and do you see the wallpaper? It is peeling.”
“It is seldom used,” Mrs. Forsythe said. “Most guests were housed nearer the south wing when His Grace had them, and so it has been years since anyone used it.”
“Then it is time that we prepare it. I would like to replace the hangings with cotton, white or cream, and air the mattresses. This way, I can offer it to the Duchess of Lupton’s children and give my friend some peace.”
Mrs. Forsythe inclined her head again with approval. She was not saying it in so many words, but Beatrice hoped that this was something that all the staff wanted. Her housekeeper clearly had pride in the household, and she wanted her to like it too.
“Do you know, Your Grace, some of the bedding hasn’t been changed since before His Grace’s father’s time. I am only now realizing.”
“Then it is long overdue.”
After that, they descended toward the servants’ quarters. The air grew cooler, the light dimmer, and muffled sounds could be heard. It was the path she took to the kitchens, and it was pleasant enough, but it made her think of something unrelated to the furnishings.
“I have noticed the footmen wait very late after dinner,” Beatrice said. “Once the table is cleared, they should be dismissed, should they not? There is no need to keep them standing in the hall until midnight. It must be exhausting.”
Mrs. Forsythe seemed to think for a moment, and then she chuckled.
“That would have been the late Duke. He often took brandy or correspondence after the household retired, and His Grace never changed the directions to the staff.”
“Then I shall speak with him,” Beatrice said. “For now, let them go earlier unless he gives instruction. I will not have the servants working half the night for no reason.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
They finished in the gallery, where portraits of somber-looking ancestors lined the walls. Beatrice could not help but see how similar they all looked, and there was a dull ache in her chest that her own family did not have such a striking resemblance.
“I would like these cleaned,” Beatrice said quietly as they wandered. “They are dull. And the windows too. Half of them are clouded, which means that less light can come in.”
“Certainly, Your Grace. The maids will need ladders, of course.”
“Then you must give them time, and tell them to take care,” Beatrice said. “I do not mind how long it takes; I want this room to feel lived in again. I want the house to feel like a home.”
Mrs. Forsythe studied her for a moment, her face softening slightly.
“It has been some time since anyone’s taken such an interest, Your Grace.”
“Then it’s about time someone did.”
Mrs. Forsythe smiled, a hint of sadness in her eye, and walked away.
When she was gone, Beatrice lingered a moment longer.
The house still felt vast and unfamiliar, but soon there would be traces of herself in it.
There would be light in the morning room, flowers in the drawing room.
It would be the sort of place that she wanted to live in, and one where she would be happy to host.
It was not quite home yet, but it was beginning to bend toward her, room by room.
As she continued to look at the paintings, one in particular caught her eye. It was of a girl, no older than sixteen, with wild blonde hair and hazel eyes just like Helena’s which was perhaps what forced her to stop and pay attention. Beatrice narrowed her eyes, approaching it with caution.
She wondered if she was about to learn of yet another secret, perhaps that Helena had always been known by the family and that was why Owen had been so insistent on protecting her, but as she arrived close enough to read the plaque beneath it, the hairs on her arms stood on end.
Lady Lydia Harcourt, beloved daughter and sister
The resemblance was uncanny between Helena and the girl, and Beatrice hoped that she could one day show her friend the painting. She wondered just who the girl was, for she had never heard of her and there was no date, which was most bizarre.
The room was silent, and there was nobody else near her, and in the quiet she wondered what sort of life the girl in the painting had led, if she had fallen for a commoner like her friend had, or if she attended balls and gossiped with other young ladies.
She wondered if she had dreamed of her debut like most ladies or dreaded it like her friends all had.
She did not know why she was so drawn to it, but she could not tear her eyes away.
“It is time for dinner, Your Grace,” Ella announced, standing by the door.
Reluctantly, Beatrice followed, leaving it behind.
“Mrs. Forsythe tells me you will be making changes,” Owen initiated conversation as they ate.
“Many, yes, as I told you. It is not that there is anything wrong with the house, but it–”
“Does not feel like a home. Believe me, I know.”
“May I ask why you have never changed it?”
“My mother liked it, and I liked my mother. Granted, our tastes could not have been any more different, but I had a good deal of respect for her.”
“And you are certain that you do not mind me making such changes?”
“If I did, do you believe I would have given you reign to make such alterations in the first place? Beatrice, I know that you are used to doing what is expected of you, and so you should think of it this way. Your role is to make this household the best that it can be. I trust that you will do what is right for the household, and I look forward to seeing what you have chosen.”
“I look forward to doing it, especially the changes I have planned for the gallery.”
He froze, eyes wider.
“Why were you in the gallery?”
“It was the final room. Granted, it shall take the maids a while to clean the paintings, but it will look spectacular when it is finished, do you not think?”
“Indeed,” he replied, but his voice was slightly strained.
The following day, Beatrice wandered the household again, so that she could remember what it looked like before the changes. When she went to the gallery, however, there was a patch where the wall was brighter than the rest of the spaces. It was where she had seen the painting of the girl.
It had been removed.