Chapter 9
The moment Beatrice opened her eyes the next morning, beams of butter-gold sunlight slanting in between gaps in the heavy curtain, something felt off. The room felt too quiet, the space too empty.
She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She should have been able to hear Mr. Grenville’s gentle breathing, or at least sensed his presence in the room, the way you could always tell when you were not alone somewhere.
But she could not sense him. She could not hear him. And as she turned to stare at the bed, her heart dropped.
It was empty.
The sheets had been thrown aside, as if someone had hurried from them, not bothering to re-make them. This, more even than his absence, filled her with dread. If Mr. Grenville had simply woken early and gotten up to break his fast, she had a feeling he would have made the bed.
But the sheets thrown awry made her think that he had left quickly and with as little fuss as possible, as if he did not want to wake her.
She stood up and looked around. His clothes were also gone, but of course they were.
You do not know he is gone for good, she told herself. It is perfectly possible that he is simply in another part of the house.
And then she spied the poem.
It was sitting on the table next to her armchair, not exactly where she had left it.
The ink bottle and quill had also moved, and as she leaned closer, she saw that someone had added several lines beneath the poem she had written the night before, when Mr. Grenville had been passed out, and her mind had been filled with the fear and closeness of death.
Thank you, Ellie, for everything. Do not stop writing. You have a gift.
Her heart fluttered. There was no doubt about it. Mr. Grenville had written those words. And he had read her poem. More than that, he had liked it! He thought she had a gift!
She picked up the note and pressed it against her heart, letting the words wash through her. Her whole body felt warm, and her stomach fluttered in a way she did not fully understand.
She would probably never see Mr. Grenville again, but she could already tell that their encounter had changed her.
I have a gift…
She had never dared to hope before that she might actually be a good poet. She loved to read poetry, and she was always writing her own poems, but she had never shown them to anyone before. It was possible that he was simply being kind, but then, he didn’t have to say anything.
The fact he had made her believe he meant what he’d said. Beatrice folded up the paper and tucked it into her reticule, then left the room and headed downstairs, in search of Vivienne. She found her in the breakfast room, drinking a cup of tea and eating a scone with marmalade and thick cream.
As Beatrice came into the room, Vivienne set down her cup.
“There you are,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you would sleep the whole day away.”
“Is it very late?” Beatrice asked, glancing out the window. The sun did seem high in the sky, the light bright as it poured over the garden, with its neat hedges surrounding several rose bushes and apple trees.
“Almost eleven,” Vivienne said. “I suppose you needed your sleep, after the excitement of yesterday. Your companion has departed, by the way. Although I suppose you already knew that.”
“Yes,” Beatrice said, her throat surprisingly dry. “He left a note.”
“The groom noticed his horse was missing when he came in at seven this morning,” Vivienne said. “He must have departed very early in the morning indeed.”
“It is strange,” Beatrice said, as she moved to the breakfast spread and began to serve herself eggs, toast, and a scone of her own. “I had thought that he would say goodbye.”
“You sound regretful,” Vivienne said.
“I am,” Beatrice admitted. “I do not know if I will ever see him again, and he was…” She kept her face turned away from her friend, so that she could not see the blush on her cheeks. “He was very kind.”
“It really is better he is gone,” Vivienne said after a long moment. “If my brother returned and saw how enamored you were with a tradesman, that would not end well for any of us.”
“I am not enamored,” Beatrice said, turning back around and seating herself across from her friend. “He was simply a friend to me.”
Vivienne rolled her eyes. “I may not have seen you in many years, Bea, but I can still tell when you are enamored. And how could you not be? A handsome stranger you met on the road? A brush with death? A daring rescue? I would be enamored as well!”
“Well, it does not matter,” Beatrice said, trying hard to keep the bitterness from her voice. “My brother has picked someone out in London for me to marry, and it will be difficult to convince him to let me choose my own husband.”
“Especially if you choose one who is not a gentleman,” Vivienne said.
Beatrice shook her head. “I am not foolish enough to believe I could ever marry a man like Mr. Grenville,” she said. “I would simply like to marry someone who…” Who makes me feel as he does. “Who treats me well, and who is of my own choosing.”
“That is what we all hope for,” Vivienne said gently. “And your brother is reasonable; I am sure he will allow you to show a preference.”
Before Beatrice could answer, hoofbeats sounded, the clatter of a carriage sounded from outside, and both girls looked at one another.
“Is that your brother?” Beatrice asked.
“He is not due for a while yet,” Vivienne said. “Perhaps your Mr. Grenville did come back to thank you, with a whole carriage this time!”
But several minutes later, when the guest was ushered into the parlor where the girls had gone to greet them, it was not Mr. Grenville. It was, to Beatrice’s chagrin, Mrs. Hughes.
“Did you really think I would not follow you here?!” Her guardian shouted, the moment she strode angrily into the parlor and saw Beatrice standing next to Vivienne, her hands folded in front of her.
Mrs. Hughes looked highly worse for wear.
Her face was pale, there were dark circles under her eyes, and even her bonnet was askew.
“I have been worried sick, Beatrice! Absolutely out of my mind with worry!”
Vivienne turned to Beatrice. “Did you really not let your guardian know where you were going?”
Beatrice folded her arms. “I did not want her to find me so quickly.”
“It was not hard to deduce!” Mrs. Hughes snapped. Her cheeks were turning blotchy as her anger built, and her eyes were bright. “But I had to get the carriage fixed, and only then could I come after my wayward charge!”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Hughes…” Beatrice began, and she did mean it. Seeing her guardian so distressed filled her with guilt, but Mrs. Hughes was not having it.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you on the road?” she demanded. “You could have gotten lost! You could have encountered dangerous men of all kinds! You could have been robbed by brigands!”
Beatrice was careful not to look at Vivienne, in case her face betrayed some of the irony she was feeling.
“I know,” she said carefully. “I realize now how foolish it was for me to come here on my own. Traveling on the roads by myself was more treacherous than I realized it would be.”
“Why?” Mrs. Hughes asked, her eyes narrowing. “Did something happen?”
“No,” Beatrice lied quickly. “I only realized how vulnerable I was, and it made me hurry to get here as quickly as possible.” She took a step forward, so that her guardian could see the earnestness on her face.
“I truly mean that, Mrs. Hughes. I will not run off again, I promise. I have had my adventure, and I am sincerely sorry for any distress that I may have caused you.”
Mrs. Hughes remained staring at her for a long moment, her eyes still narrowed, then, at last, her shoulders relaxed, and she allowed herself to fall onto the nearest sofa.
“Oh, I have been so worried,” she cried. “I was sure something would have happened to you. And then what would I have told your brother?”
“I am sorry,” Beatrice said again. Guilt was burning through her. Mrs. Hughes had been right to worry: she had nearly lost her life. Several times. It was hard to imagine what might have happened had Mr. Grenville not come along and saved her from the river.
“And to leave me there like that on my own!” Mrs. Hughes scowled at her. “Do you not have any compassion for an old woman? I did not want to travel on my own, either! The brigands could have robbed me as well!”
Beatrice might have rolled her eyes at the idea of brigands in the past, but now, she was not so sure.
Who were those men who had shot at her and Mr. Grenville?
She had thought they were thieves at the time, but now she was not so sure.
They had not actually tried to steal any money from them, they simply rode off.
Was it possible that they had been after Mr. Grenville for some other nefarious reason? Was he hiding some part of his real identity?
Then again, she had been hiding hers, as well.
“I think it is time that we return to London,” Mrs. Hughes said, looking up at Beatrice. “You have had your little last adventure, and now we must do our duty and return to your brother.”
Beatrice knew she was right. She hung her head and nodded, only brightening when Vivienne took her hand and said, “And I shall accompany you! I have been meaning to go to London in the next few days, and it would be good to see the Viscount.”
The prospect of Vivienne being with her in London significantly improved Beatrice’s mood, and when they set off for London several hours later, the carriage packed full of Vivienne’s trunks as well as their own, she felt a little more optimistic about what the Season might bring.
Still, it was hard not to think about Mr. Grenville and what might have happened to him.
Had he made it home safely? Had his stitches come undone? Was he in danger of infection from the bullet?
It was strange to think that she might never know what became of him. That they had shared such an intimate experience, brushed so close to the border between life and death, and now he was gone forever.