Chapter 21
Beatrice had always known who she was.
As a girl, she knew to keep out of trouble, which meant staying out of her father’s way. He was an angry man, and he always had been, which meant it was for the best that she did not bother him. Then again, it felt like her mere existence did that all on its own.
Her mother tried, however. She was the one person in the world on whom Beatrice could rely. She was invasive, and that only grew worse with time, but she was coming from a place of kindness.
And yet, Beatrice had always known that she was unwanted.
“I wish I were a boy,” she whispered as a maid braided her hair one morning. “Then I might be liked a little more.”
“That is nonsense,” the maid chirped. “We all like you very much.”
She was an older lady, older than either of her parents. Her grandmothers were to visit that day, which meant she had to be completely perfect and keep to herself until she was summoned. She did not like either grandmother, but the one on her father’s side was far more cruel.
“But my mother and father do not, nor do my grandmothers. They wanted a boy, I think, so that there was an heir.”
“Everybody wants an heir. It does not matter. If they wanted one so badly, they would have another child, and yet they have not, so they must be satisfied with you.”
Beatrice smiled, but she did not fully believe it.
When her relatives arrived, she hid in her room with some sweets she had made. They were simple, as she had one made them a few times, but they were good. She had left some for her family to try, though she knew it would have brought great shame upon her if they knew who had made them.
She pressed her ear to her door and listened, even though everytime she did it she felt unwell. They never had a good word to say, but she at least wanted to know what they disliked so greatly so that she could try to improve.
“When am I to look upon her?” her grandmother Elaine asked.
“Soon, Mother,” her father replied. “She is practicing the pianoforte, which you wanted her to do if you remember.”
“Of course, but not when you receive company. She should know better than that by now.”
“She is twelve,” her mother reminded her. “We do what we can with her, but you know how she is.”
Beatrice frowned. She was not supposed to be playing the pianoforte, nor was she supposed to join them yet. She had to wait until she was sent for, as had always been the case. She did not understand why her family was being dishonest, but of course she knew better than to question it.
“I was not addressing you,” her grandmother retorted. “I am more than capable of speaking to my son without some chit interrupting.”
“Mother, she is my wife.”
“Yes, and you never allow me to forget that.”
Beatrice backed away, not wanting to hear anything more.
It comforted her slightly to know that her mother was as brazenly disliked as she was, but it was not enough to make her feel any better about it.
Her mother, for all of her flaws, was everything a lady was expected to be.
If even she was not enough, then Beatrice would not stand a chance.
She read her book until she was summoned, and arrived with a smile on her face.
“Ah, there she is,” her grandmother said sternly. “And how was you etiquette lesson?”
“It was pianoforte this time, Grandmother,” she explained, pleased with herself for eavesdropping.
“Yes, well, see to it that you are with us all next time. It will not do to keep your guests waiting when you are a lady. Come, let me look at you.”
She stepped closer, greatly fearing what was to come as she knew it all too well. Her grandmother pulled out a measuring tape, and put it around her waist, tutting as she did so.
“I thought you said she was thinner,” she said sternly.
“We did,” her mother replied, only to fall silent.
“She ought to have a lady’s waist by now. All of the ladies in my family did.”
“Mother,” her father warned.
“I am simply looking after her. She needs someone to tell her the truth.”
Beatrice knew the truth as it was; she was too round, too quiet, and never ever enough. She let the measuring continue, pretending that the remarks made were for her benefit, rather than her humiliation. When it was done, she was marched to the pianoforte in the room, and made to play.
She was not bad at it, by any means, but that did not matter. She could have been Mozart for all her grandmother cared, and it still would not have been enough if it was her.
When she finished, there was soft applause from everyone but her. Even her grandmother Poppy was smiling at her, but not grandmother Elaine. She scowled, instead, dragging her back to the others.
“She is useless,” she snapped. “Utterly useless, and I cannot believe that you allow her to remain in your care. You have a sister, do you not?”
She pointed at her mother, and Beatrice thought of her kindly aunt. It sounded like a nice place to be, even if she knew she was not supposed to want to go there.
“She will stay here,” her father said firmly. “I cannot have her leave, for then questions will be asked.”
“Perhaps it is time that they are,” she sneered.
“Beatrice,” her mother said quickly, “you may return to your room now.”
“No, let her stay. Let her know what her mother really is.”
“Mother,” her father warned, rising to his feet. “I do not care what you think of her, she will not be listening to another word of this.”
“That is the easier way, is it not? Have your daughter never know how much better she could be, that her father refused to listen to my advice too, and now he is married to a–”
Beatrice was taken away, her ears covered, but of course she heard the word.
It was cruel and biting, even if she did not know the meaning of it.
When she arrived in her room once more, she collapsed onto her bed and sobbed.
She was left alone once more, and she wondered if every visit she had was going to worsen the way they did.
That night, she heard her parents arguing. They did it as often as she assumed any married couple did, but unlike her grandmothers visiting she did not need to listen in to hear what was said.
“They cannot visit anymore,” her mother said, voice trembling.
“They must. It is these visits that keep my mother from telling the truth.”
“It is not the truth.”
“You would be a lot happier if you admitted it, Winona,” he said, his voice rising. “We would all have the closure that we so desperately need if you did.”
“There is nothing to admit. She is yours, and I will always say that.”
“Then why does she look nothing like me?”
“Because she looks like me,” her mother snapped. “No, she is not a little boy that is the very picture of his father, but that is not to say that I ever did anything to hurt you. I would never have done that, and you know it.”
“She was only an eight-month baby,” he grumbled, “born eight months after our wedding day, no less.”
“I will not hear another word of this,” she thundered, leaving for the stairs.
Beatrice raced under her covers, planting her head firmly on her pillow and pretending to be asleep.
She did not know what being an eight-month baby meant, nor why her father so desperately wanted her to look like him, but she knew it had to be important, and all reasons why he would never accept her fully.
Once she was older, and she understood what it meant, the tiniest part of her was pleased about it.
She did not want to be his daughter, and she did not want to be anything like him at all.
In fact, she had grown so accustomed to disappointing him that she did not see any point in trying at all.
At worst, they would send her to the country, where she could live in peace.
And so, despite the dozens of gentlemen that wanted to be a suitor for her, she turned them all away.
She took pleasure in doing so, knowing that her father hated it.
She hoped that, eventually, he would have the nerve to say how he felt to her face, rather than hide it behind cruelty, but it never happened.
Time past, and he only became more and more unkind without a real explanation.
All of it ended, however, when she met her husband.
She told Owen everything, in excruciating detail, and he winced once or twice throughout the retelling.
She had not realized just how terrible it had been until she said it aloud; even her friends did not know how bad her life was, for she did not want to burden them, nor did she want them to take her in and bring shame upon themselves.
He remained silent for a moment, and Beatrice willed him to say something. Even if it was that he felt immense shame that she could be illegitimate, it would be something more than the dreadful silence in the air.
“For a start,” he said after a moment, “that man shall never enter this household. I forbid it.”
“But he is my… well, supposedly, he is my father.”
“And no father should ever treat his daughter that way. I do not care whether it is by blood or not, he chose to be your father and should have acted as such. You are not to blame for him being awful.”
“And my mother?”
“Do you blame her?”
“I– I do not know. I prefer to believe that he is not my father, but then that leaves me questioning my mother.”
“Do you want to see her?”
“I do. I have so many questions, and she is the only one who can answer them, as long as she does so truthfully.”
“Very well. She may come to see you, but your father will never, under any circumstances, darken our doorway. Do you understand?”
It should have destroyed her to know that her father was not welcome in her home, but it only made her feel better about everything.
Her husband had chosen where his loyalty lay, and they were with her.
When he wanted to speak with her, she had hoped that it was so that he could tell her he was feeling differently about her, so she could tell him that in spite of how hard she tried she was falling for him.
Instead, he had told her nothing of the sort, yet she was left wanting him even more.
“We ought to continue entertaining our guests,” she whispered. “They are enjoying drinks and cards now, but if we are away too long, they shall wonder where we are.”
“Let them think on it,” he smiled, standing and offering her his arm regardless. “Besides, Dorothy knows that I intended to speak to you about all of this.”
“I cannot imagine what they will think of me,” she sighed. “I can hardly believe that you are as unfazed by it as you are.”
“Why would I see you any differently? You remain Beatrice, my wife, and you are still a beautiful person, one who I am very fortunate to have as company for the rest of my life.”
It was not the confession she had been hoping for, but it was somehow even better than that.