Chapter 20
Owen had never been any good at Pall Mall, but the joy he felt watching his wife far outweighed any misery he might have felt at losing terribly.
He had not given her a lucky mallet at all; he had not lied to her when he said he did not believe in superstition. Instead, he had given her one he selected at random and gave it to her in the hopes that she would believe it to have a special ability and not be so afraid to play.
His ploy worked, it seemed.
“She is much happier with you,” Dorothy said as the two of them lingered behind the others. “I have never seen her feel so much. I can tell that you are taking care of her.”
“I do what I can as her husband, but you should know that all these changes have been of her own accord. I assume you all know that she had been the one to renovate the household?”
“Indeed, and she never would have done that before. You have met her father, so you know as well as I do how she was never allowed to even have an opinion before.”
“I did assume that when I met him. It is as though he hates his own child, and I cannot begin to understand why.”
Suddenly, her eyes widened.
“Do you not listen to gossip, Your Grace?”
“You may call me Owen, you know. We are friends.”
“My apologies,” she whispered. “But, do you truly not know what is being said of her?”
“If anything is being said of my wife, I believe she would tell me.”
“That is the thing, I do not believe that she knows. We were prepared to comfort her, but she has not said a word about it, and we do not want to ruin the event.”
Owen raised an eyebrow, slowing as he prepared to take his turn. It was true that, since their arrival, they had not spoken to anyone that frequented London, and so if anything was being said about either of them, they would not have known.
“Might you be so kind as to tell me, then?” he asked.
“I can, but I do not think it is wise to tell Beatrice, not yet at least. She is enjoying herself, and I do not think it is the right time. Then again, when is the right time for such an awful thing?”
“Dorothy, if there is something about my wife that is a source for gossip, I would like to know. Then, we can find a way to inform her of it.”
She nodded, eyes darting around as she tried to find the words.
“Her father has left the family estate,” she explained. “He has not said why, but there is a rumor that he and Lady Jennings were unhappy for a very long time, since the birth of their daughter, in fact.”
“I can imagine. It was clear to me that he wanted an heir, so it is no surprise to me that he was disappointed when he had a daughter instead. Granted, I never would have assumed it enough to ruin his marriage.”
“That is, assuming that Beatrice is his daughter.”
Owen faltered, and he almost tripped over his own feet.
He had met both parents, and while her mother had seemed different each time they met, there was no denying the cruelty in her father’s eyes.
It was more than disappointment, even if Owen had refused to see it.
Lord Jennings had very little love in his heart for Beatrice.
And Beatrice had already sensed it.
“Who else could it have been?” he asked incredulously.
He remembered how, not too long ago, Beatrice had mentioned some of the same inklings, but then, she had not fully expounded upon her thoughts.
He had left her to consider her words and not pressed.
But Owen saw no reason to stay quiet now—especially since it seemed the whole of London was discussing Beatrice’s parentage behind her back.
“They were a love match, were they not?”
“Of course not. It was arranged, and they always told Beatrice that she would have the same, and she would find things about her husband to like. She never had the highest of hopes for her marriage, which is precisely why we were so pleased to see that she–”
Dorothy stopped, and Owen wanted her to continue, but then he saw where she was looking.
Beatrice was making her way into the forest alone, her dress dragging through the damp overgrown grass.
“I shall only be a moment,” he mumbled quickly, chasing after her.
He would not let it happen a second time.
“Beatrice,” he called. “Beatrice, what are you doing?”
“I am fine,” she laughed. “I shall only be a moment.”
“Beatrice, no,” he said sharply, reaching her and taking her wrist.
She turned to him in shock, almost dropping her mallet. The sensible part of Owen knew that he was overreacting, and that she would not go near the water’s edge, but it was greatly outweighed by his terrible imagination, which could only see the absolute worst.
“I have come to retrieve my ball,” she explained. “Those gentlemen tried to catch me off guard, and they succeeded. It is as I told you, I shall only be a moment.”
“Even so, might I accompany you?”
“I can see my ball from here. I am more than capable of–”
“There might be snakes,” he said, trying not to cringe at himself. “The grass has not been cut in some time, and that might lead to snakes, or rats perhaps.”
“I will survive if that happens,” she chuckled, before turning and continuing toward the tall grass.
Even so, he joined her. She was clearly not upset by the intrusion, which he was grateful for, but he knew he would follow her regardless. Letting her go off alone was too great of a risk.
“I shall not win now,” she huffed. “I thought I truly would, especially after I played so well in the beginning.”
“If it helps at all, I am very much impressed. You continue to surprise me, Beatrice. Had I known you enjoyed this, I might have offered to play it with you before.”
“And I would have liked it, but I only know that now I have tried. It might be best that we both try something new more often, for you never would have known about your passion for baking either.”
“Did the ladies like them…the biscuits I made?” he asked, suddenly very enthusiastic. “I hope they were tricked, at least.”
“They were very happy that I have found a husband who is willing to try things that I enjoy. I had never expected to find a husband that was interested in letting me continue my passions at all, let alone join me in them. I am most grateful to you for that, I hope you know.”
“I do. Your friends would never let me forget it, either. They are good to you.”
“Too good. I know that they mean well, but they tend to push for things that I am not certain that I am prepared for. Do you know what I mean?”
“As someone with a father who wanted me to be prepared for my title when I was all but seven, yes. I will say, though, that there is a difference between pushing for something, and simply wanting the best for someone you hold dear.”
Beatrice lined up her shot and hit her ball out of the woods. They made their way out once more, and he could see the smile playing on her lips.
“No snakes,” she quipped as they left. “Though I thank you for accompanying me all the same.”
“You are most welcome,” he replied, before adding. “Might I ask what your friends think is best for you?”
She backed away slightly, clearly not wanting to hurt him.
“You are happy with our marriage, are you not?” she asked. “You would not want it to change.”
He did, of course. He wanted to tell her the truth, for one, and to allow himself to give her the affection that she deserved. He wanted to be a better husband, for even though he provided a better life than her family did, he knew that there could be more between them.
“I am very happy with you,” he assured her. “But I will say, we need to discuss something when we are alone.”
He saw her light up, and his guilt was immeasurable. He wondered if she was expecting something romantic, which was the worst possible thing, but he knew her better than that. She knew what their marriage was every bit as much as he did.
Beatrice won the game, in the end. Levi and Leonard let their competitive natures get the best of them, which led to a brawl between them as they continually knocked each other out of the way, meaning Beatrice could steal the win for herself.
Owen could not believe the joy in her face as they applauded her again, and he vowed to find other ways to make her feel as successful as she did at that moment.
That evening, however, they met in his study. He could not allow the party to continue with her not knowing what was being said of her. Her friend had done the right thing by confiding the truth in him, and he now had to do the same and explain the situation to his wife.
He passed no judgment over her, of course. He had spent much of his own life wishing that he was not his father’s son, and so in spite of what society thought he did not care very much.
“You seem rather serious,” she mused as she sat across from him, teacup in hand. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Not at all, and you should know that I am not blaming you for anything. What happened, or at least might have happened, is not your fault at all.”
She raised an eyebrow, then placed her teacup in front of her. He hated that he would have to be the one to tell her, but he was also the best person to do it. He could not let her go even a moment thinking that he was passing judgment over her.
“Your friend told me something today,” he began. “Dorothy. She told me that there is a rumor about you back in London.”
“Ah. Is it about me disrupting your first wedding?”
“Not this time. It is something else, and you may see it as either better or worse than that.”
She turned pale and her eyes widened.
“But I have not done anything!” she spluttered in a frantic tone. “I do not understand. Until that day, I had never done a thing wrong, and suddenly it is as though I cannot do anything right.”
“Beatrice, I already told you that you are not at fault.”
“That does not mean that the ton will care about that,” she sighed, leaning back. “Very well, what have I supposedly done?”
“It is not something that you have done. Tell me, did your parents always like one another?”
“As well as any parents do, I suppose. They had their arguments, but they had a strong marriage.”
He took a sharp inhale. He was not expecting them to have kept it from her, not when she was an adult.
“And your father, was he always a miserable man?”
“As miserable as any other man,” she nodded, laughing softly. “I never knew quite how to make him happy, though I assume that now I have left he certainly is. Why do you ask?”
“Because, according to gossip, he has left your family home.”
She quietened, looking at her hands, which she had folded neatly in front of her.
“You know the truth, then,” she mumbled.
“I am not too certain of that, which is why I wanted to speak with you. Dorothy told me that the ton thinks you are not his daughter.”
“And that is where the ton and I differ. They only believe they know the truth, where I am certain.”
She sat straight, looking him in the eye. The warmth in her face from her victory had abandoned her, and she could only have been described as stoic.
“They believe I am not my father’s daughter, whereas I know it for a fact.”