Chapter 4 #2
Her breath hitched. “But it never does. And now…” She gestured helplessly to the empty fireplace, as if the words might flicker there for her.
“And now, I’ve ruined you,” Margaret said, flat as cold iron.
“You haven’t…” Beatrice started, but the protest wilted. Her hands dropped, helpless. “You make it so hard to defend you sometimes, Margaret. Can’t you just… stay quiet? Stay invisible?”
Margaret barked a laugh that cracked on the tail end. “Invisible? I’ve tried. But this face, this hair, these stupid eyes. Most people see what they want. They always have.”
“Don’t you dare blame yourself,” Cecily cut in sharply, stepping away from the window. “If you were any other lady, they’d be praising you for catching a duke’s eye. But because it’s you—”
“Cecily!” Aunt Agnes hissed, but Cecily barreled on.
“Because it’s Margaret, it’s a scandal, it’s ruin, it’s every terrible thing at once. It’s never enough that she does nothing wrong.” Cecily’s hands trembled at her sides. “I wish… God, I wish you’d just let her breathe for once.”
“We’re not the enemy here, Cecily,” Beatrice snapped, voice cracking like dry wood.
She turned back to Margaret, but there was no softness this time, only brittle frustration holding her shoulders straight.
“I just… I wanted one Season. One clean chance to be more than… this. More than whispers in drawing rooms. More than someone’s pity. ”
Margaret’s voice slipped through like a needle. “Ashamed.”
Beatrice’s jaw tensed. She didn’t deny it, but her chin lifted higher.
“I’m not ashamed of you; I’m ashamed of how you pull us down.
All of us. You think people won’t wonder if I’m the same?
Tainted? Touched by whatever madness they say you have?
Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep my name clean? ”
“Beatrice!” Cecily cut in, but Beatrice barreled on, her words tumbling out too fast now, desperate to be heard.
“I did everything right. I smiled, I danced with the old men, I laughed at their jokes. I kept my skirts spotless and my mouth shut. But none of it matters when they look at me and see you in the corner of their eyes. Do you understand that?”
Margaret flinched, but only for a heartbeat. “If it makes you feel safer, I’ll leave.”
Beatrice’s lips parted, and something like regret flickered there, but it drowned quickly under the weight on her shoulders. “Don’t be ridiculous. Where would you even go?”
“Anywhere you’re not,” Margaret said, a brittle smile cracking through. “If it helps you sleep.”
“It wouldn’t,” Cecily said sharply. She stood so fast the settee creaked under her shift.
“If it would make things easier… I’ll go,” Margaret said, too even, too calm. “I’ll vanish somewhere. Take my ruin with me. A monastery or… a convent in France. Somewhere the walls are thick enough I can’t break through.”
Cecily’s hands flew up. “No. Absolutely not. If she leaves, we all lose. Don’t you see that? You think they’d stop talking? They’d talk more about where she went, what she did. You can’t hide her like some mad cousin in the attic.”
Beatrice’s eyes glistened then, something like fear under the sheen. She opened her mouth, shut it, and looked away.
“None of this is Margaret’s fault.” Cecily trembled. “If people weren’t so eager for gossip, they’d see it—”
“Enough!” Aunt Agnes barked, pushing to her feet. Her voice cracked through the air like a whip. “You think your outrage will fix this? The ton feeds on ruin. They’ll remember this long after you marry, long after Beatrice… if anyone will have her now.”
Beatrice’s shoulders stiffened at that, too. She stared at the fire like it might explain how to stand straighter under so much weight.
“I’m sorry, Bea,” Margaret said, quieter now. She hated how it cracked in her throat. “I never wanted this for you. Any of it.”
“Then why does it keep happening?” Beatrice’s whisper was so small, it barely reached the rug between them.
Margaret opened her mouth, but Cecily stepped in, voice hot enough to scald the silence.
“Because people are cruel, and you’re letting them be cruel to her. If it were you in that library, I’d have torn the door off myself to drag you out before they stared. I’d have broken the gossip before it broke you.”
Beatrice looked at her cousin, eyes bright with something brittle. It had everything—anger, apology, shame—but her mouth stayed shut.
She turned back to the fire, letting the crackle speak for her.
Margaret’s fingers dug into her skirt hem. Her throat felt tight enough to choke her. “I’ll… I’ll go up. If you want me out of sight.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Aunt Agnes barked. “We must… we must fix this, somehow. If the Duke… if he refuses…”
“If he refuses to help fix it,” Margaret murmured, “then you’ll know, I truly do bring ruin.”
“Margaret.” Cecily tried to catch her hand, but she stepped back just as the door creaked open.
The butler hovered in the doorway, pale and sweating under his neat wig, a silver tray clutched to his chest like a shield.
“What is it?” Aunt Agnes snapped, voice slicing the hush. “Speak up, man. This is no time for dithering.”
The butler swallowed. His eyes flicked from Beatrice’s stiff back to Margaret’s pale face, then dropped to the carpet.
“Pardon, my lady… but… His Grace, the Duke of Ravenscourt, is here. In the front hall. He requests…” He cleared his throat. “He requests an audience. Immediately.”