Chapter 5
The moment was tense. Beatrice had never felt anything like what she was experiencing now, as if whatever simmered between them was tangible, not air but something she could actually reach out and touch.
She had heard others speak of this tension before, young ladies who whispered about their interactions with gentlemen, but she had never felt it before.
And certainly not for a man who was so far beneath her. A merchant! If her brother knew that she was feeling such things for a man who could never even begin to make an offer for her, he would certainly disown her. Or at least lock her back up at home and never let her out again.
Or else marry her to the first man who asked.
She swallowed, anxiety making her throat and mouth dry.
And yet, she was sitting here, breaking bread with him, discussing poetry and acting as if she were not a highborn lady who was strictly prohibited from interacting with men alone.
And yet, it was liberating, to be someone else for a while. To not be Beatrice, but Ellie. Not a highborn woman who must remain, as Mrs. Hughes said, pure, but a working woman who was not unfamiliar with the attention and company of men.
Still, it was a fantasy, and she knew that she could not live in it forever. Lowering her eyes, she let the tension dissipate, until she looked up again and it was gone.
“Thank you very much for the food,” she murmured, brushing off the cloak and pushing herself back to her feet. “But I really must be getting on my way.”
“But of course,” Mr. Grenville said. He stood out of politeness, as she walked back behind the tree where her dress was still lying in the sun. Bending down, she was glad to find that it had mostly dried.
She checked again to make sure that she was not visible from behind the tree, then removed the cloak. Underneath, she was wearing nothing but her petticoats.
It had been difficult to keep the cloak so tightly around her while she had been eating with Mr. Grenville, but she could not risk him glimpsing even a little bit. Throughout the whole meal, her heart had been racing, and she felt relieved now to pull the dress back on.
However, it was more difficult than she thought to get the dress on. She wasn’t used to dressing herself. And when she finally came back around the tree, fully clothed, she felt strangely restricted, as if she had done up the buttons the wrong way.
Maybe she had. She could not see behind her, and it had been hard to try and get every single one of the little buttons correct.
“Everything better?” Mr. Grenville asked. He had cleared away their picnic and was re-packing the saddle bag. The blanket had been fitted over the horse’s back, and as she watched, he lifted the saddle and fixed it back in place.
“Yes,” she said. “The dress is dry now. I do not think I will catch a chill.”
“Very good. I was worried that your employers would have me jailed for delivering their new employee to them on the brink of death.”
He grinned, and she laughed.
“I do not think I was in any danger of that.”
There was an awkward moment as they looked at one another, then she shifted.
“I suppose we should get going,” she said at last. “We do not know exactly where the next village is, and it could be hours still. I do not wish to walk in the dark.”
“But of course.” Mr. Grenville offered his hand to help her onto the horse, and she took it. He had removed his gloves to eat, and for the first time, their fingers touched.
Immediately, Beatrice felt something warm move through her. It seemed to spread through her body, making her feel loose and dreamy. Her mouth went dry, and her heart beat wildly against her chest.
She looked up into his eyes. He was gazing down at her softly.
“Your buttons,” he murmured.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “Your buttons,” he repeated. “They are only half done-up.”
“Oh…” she tried to glance over her shoulder, but it was impossible to see them. “Yes, it was difficult to do them myself.”
He frowned slightly, and for a moment, her heart hitched. Had she just given away her lie? What kind of serving woman would have trouble doing up her own gown?
But Mr. Grenville said nothing, and she prayed he didn’t know enough about ladies to know how much this marked her as one of them.
“Here,” he murmured, and he released her hand and took her by her shoulders, turning her around. “Allow me.”
Beatrice’s heart was in her throat. Her knees wobbled, and she felt sweat begin to prickle on the back of her knees.
But for some reason, she did not stop him. Did not tell him that he need not to do it, that it was not proper.
Instead, she stood very still as his hands came to the back of her dress and he began to button up her gown.
He moved slowly, deliberately. Although she could not see how he was working, she could feel it, the care he took with each button to make sure that it fit into the tiny eyelet.
The buttons were delicate and fell off easily, and he seemed to sense this, or at least wanted to take his time to make sure that he did not miss one.
At last, his hand came to the top of the buttons, and his knuckles brushed against her upper back. Goosebumps rustled down her arms, and she wondered if he could see them; if he could tell that he was the one who was making her shiver like this.
“There you go,” he murmured, his voice wafting over her, warm and low.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered, and she did not wait for him this time to help her up onto the horse.
She was not sure that she would be able to survive their fingers brushing again.
Something was happening inside of her that she did not understand, and it was making her feel hot and sweaty all over, making her heart pulse in her throat, making her feel as if she could have lifted up into the air and flown away.
She had never experienced anything like it, and she had little doubt what it meant.
This was dangerous.
She could not allow herself to feel this way.
This was no longer just about someone seeing them on the road and her reputation being ruined.
This was about not allowing herself to live in the fantasy world that she always retreated into when things got hard, that made it difficult for her to accept the reality of the world around her, including the very cold, stark reality of her brother having picked out a man for her to marry.
Mr. Grenville took the reins, and then he led the horse back onto the road.
He moved slowly, and although she knew she ought to ask him to allow her to ride ahead, that the sooner she got away from him the better, she did not.
She was secretly glad of having more time to spend with him. Her white knight, her savior…
Stop it, she told herself, grinding her teeth together. Do not romanticize this. He is just a merchant who saved you from drowning. Anyone would have saved you like he did.
But it was impossible not to feel a little bit like she was a character in a fairytale, having been saved by her Prince Charming. Especially when her rescuer was as handsome as Mr. Grenville was.
“So, you are a reader,” Mr. Grenville said, after they had been walking down the road for ten minutes. “What else do you enjoy reading? Or is it just poetry?”
“I like many things,” Beatrice said. “I am a governess, after all,” she added, smiling to herself. “It is my duty to know many works of literature.”
“That is very true,” he said, chuckling. “I should have remembered to whom I am speaking.”
“It seems more unusual to me that a merchant would be a great reader,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “In my experience, merchants are usually more concerned with ledgers and shipments, rather than poetry.”
Mr. Grenville laughed again. The sound was warm and easy, and it made her feel relaxed and carefree, despite the danger the situation presented.
“Ledgers and shipments are what keep us alive, yes,” he said, “they are what put coin in our pockets and food in our bellies. But what we live for, well… That is the stuff of poetry.”
His words were so beautiful that her breath caught in her throat.
“That is very well said,” she murmured.
He shot her a mischievous grin, and her stomach squirmed. She quickly looked away.
“So, what else do you read?” he asked again. “Let us compare notes and see if we are in agreement in our tastes in other works than the poetry of Walter Scott.”
“Well…” she hesitated for a moment. “I have been finding myself drawn, of late, to philosophy. Particularly to the works of Aristotle.”
Mr. Grenville turned fully around to look at her, both his eyebrows disappearing into his forehead. “Aristotle? Truly? That is a very difficult read for a woman.”
“What ever do you mean?” she asked, frowning down at him.
“Well, only that women have such gentle minds that it can prove taxing to them to read such heavy literature.”
“I must wholeheartedly disagree,” she said indignantly.
“I do not believe that women have tender minds. Women are very astute, especially those who read widely! Perhaps in your circles women must work or keep their husband’s homes, so they do not have as much time to tend to the sharpening of their minds, but I assure you, many women of my acquaintance are as intelligent as men. ”
Mr. Grenville looked taken aback by the vehemence of her speech, but then his face relaxed into a smile, and he gazed up at her thoughtfully.
“That is a most interesting argument,” he murmured.
“Perhaps I am mistaken in my beliefs. The women of my acquaintance are often brought up to be… demure. I am not used to women who state their opinions so decidedly and with so much candor. I shall think upon what you have said and reevaluate my argument.”
“Good,” she said, giving him a sly, triumphant smile. “I do like to be right about things.”
“I can see that,” he said, and he laughed again before growing more sober. He turned forward again and continued to lead the horse, speaking without turning to look at her.
“And I am sorry if I have given offence,” he said. “I will admit that perhaps I have not been fair in my judgments. I do not often get the chance to socialize with ladies, or to spend time with them one-on-one.”
A sudden thought occurred to her, and she felt her mouth grow dry.
“You are not… married… are you, Mr. Grenville?”
He glanced back up at her over his shoulder. “No, I am not married,” he said. “Although my mother is eager for me to do so.”
She thought she heard a wisp of bitterness in his voice, and she nodded. “Yes, I myself have felt the same pressure from my brother.”
“Marriage could be a good course for a woman of your profession,” Mr. Grenville said. “It would allow you to stop working and instead care for a home.”
Beatrice did not know exactly what to say to this. Mr. Grenville, after all, truly thought she was a governess, and she found suddenly that she did not want to keep lying to him. She could have spun a fiction about how she loved her job and caring for her young charges.
But the more she got to know him, the more she wanted him to know the real her.
“My life will become more restrictive when I am married,” she settled on at last. “Not less. But it is a duty that I will probably have to fulfill at some point. If anyone will have me.”
“I am sure that someone will have you,” Mr. Grenville said, so quickly that she got the impression he had spoken without really thinking. There was a pause, and she wondered, although she could not see his face, if he was blushing. She got the impression that he was.
“I only mean,” he said after a moment, “that you are a charming and intelligent young woman.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, not daring herself to look down at him again, in case he looked back at her and saw the flush of her cheeks.
They continued on in silence for another few minutes, and then, at last, they rounded a corner and a small village came into view ahead of them.
Beatrice immediately felt relief flood her. At last! They had reached somewhere that she might find a horse for herself, food, and a change of clothes. But next to the relief was another emotion, one she had not expected.
Disappointment.
She would have to say goodbye to Mr. Grenville. And it was unlikely that she would ever meet him again. They moved in far too different of circles.
She cleared her throat, and Mr. Grenville let go of the reins. They looked at one another. Was it possible that she saw disappointment flash across his face as well?
“Well, I suppose this is where we must part,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he said, and she thought she heard a quaver in his voice. “You should ride ahead, so that no one sees us together. And keep the horse. I have many more.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Keep it?” she murmured.
He nodded. “I will feel better knowing that you are safe and have a sturdy, reliable mount to get you to your destination. Do not worry about me. The merchant life has treated me well. I will purchase a new horse in the village.”
“But--”
“Just promise me one thing.” His eyes sharpened on her. “Just stay away from any rivers.”
She laughed, then nodded, her hands tightening on the reins. “Thank you, Mr. Grenville,” she murmured. “You have been a true gentleman. I am forever in your debt.”
And then she urged the horse forward, leaving him behind her, willing herself not to look back.