‘Are you quite all right, Mrs Bassingstoke?’ Lucinda Wellingham’s worried countenance came through the haze, bringing Bea back to this time, this place, the wheezing in her breath worse now than she had ever heard it.
Panicked, she tried to stand and could not, collapsing against the sofa, a sheen of sweat marking her face and her hands shaking.
Barren Beatrice.
Broken Beatrice.
Such a long, long way from Bea-utiful and Bea-witching Beatrice.
‘Should I call someone to help you?’
‘No…Please do not do that…I…shall be all right.’ Clearing her throat, she made herself sit up, made herself face the woman opposite, the curiosity imprinted in the watching light eyes persuading her against her better judgement to try and explain.
‘I could not have children, Lady Lucinda, and it was a great loss…’
‘I am so sorry; of course, with your husband now gone to his Maker a child might have been such a comfort. A memory, so to speak, of all the good times, a child formed in the mould of a man you had loved.’
Stifling a smile at such a sentiment, Bea began to feel immeasurably better. She had never met a woman who seemed so able at putting her foot in her mouth. A memory? Of love? My God, when all she wanted to do was to forget. Still, there was something appealing in such eager openness, some engaging exuberance that reality had not yet snuffed out, and so completely opposite from the careful and measured stance of her brother.
‘Thank you for your kind words, Lady Lucinda. It has been most…refreshing, and please do give my regards to your sister-in-law.’
‘Emerald? You know her?’
‘Not well.’
‘You remind me of her in some ways, not in looks of course…’
Again Bea smiled.
‘But in strength. You have the same sort of intensity that she does. But now, I really must be going for I see you have much work here to do.’ Her glance flicked to the pile of books and notes on the table. ‘Of course, I cannot even imagine speaking in front of a whole room of people and on subjects that you seem to want to delve into…’
‘And at your age I am certain I would have felt just the same.’
A practised giggle was the only reply as her young visitor stood and allowed the maid to show her out. Sitting back again on the sofa, Beatrice tried to collect her scattered thoughts. What had just happened? Had Lucinda Wellingham come to warn her or to help her?
She could not quite fathom which, for every Wellingham she met thus far was as impossible to understand as the last one and Taris Wellingham was the most difficult of them all to comprehend.
Pushing back her concerns, Bea ironed out the creases in her vibrant green-silk day dress with her fingers.
Outside she could hear the servants going about their day, cooking, cleaning, polishing. A house with only her in it. It all seemed so very wasteful and unnecessary to do such tasks each day when she was the only inhabitant, but the penny-pinching she had been forced into for so many years had led her to enjoy just a little bit of luxury.
Lord, why on earth had she told the girl of her barrenness when for ten years she had mentioned it to no one? The grief of loss turned slowly again in her chest, but with even such a small conversation the potency of such a secret was lessened. Perhaps therein lay the fortunes of the Catholic confessionals, the age-old adage of a trouble shared being a trouble halved suddenly making a sense that it never had before.
Because in all her life she had never really had friends. Not real ones until coming here to London.
Lucinda Wellingham’s concern had unwittingly laid bare all the strategies she had put in place for coping.
Barren.
No wife for any man. No fit and ripe companion. No heir.
Taris Wellingham’s fingers playing across her breasts, making her believe that she was beautiful and that impossible dreams could indeed come true. And between her legs the place that throbbed at the recollection of such an unexpected paradise.
‘She’s what?’
‘Barren. She told me she was barren. Told me right out loud when I tried to console her on the untimely and unfortunate loss of her very dear husband.’
Taris felt the anger in him rise and struggled to contain it. ‘I cannot even imagine what ill-thought-out plan would have taken you to the door of Mrs Bassingstoke’s town house in the first place, Lucinda.’
‘Curiosity.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You had asked her to dance at the Rutledge soiree and I wanted to see why you had.’
‘Lord. Any number of reasons could have had me up on the floor and certainly none of them requiring the sort of consequences that you are now mentioning.’
‘I did not wring it out of Mrs Bassingstoke, Taris. She seemed to want to tell me.’
‘And who else have you told?’
‘Just you.’
‘Well then, say nothing of her condition to any other person.’
‘I might have told Penny Whitford.’
‘Might have?’
‘Did. On my way back I happened to see her. She asked me where I had been.’
‘God!’
‘Mrs Bassingstoke did not petition my confidence on the matter, Taris.’
His sister sounded upset and he hoped that she would not burst into tears. Why the hell would Beatrice-Maude have spilled such a private thing to a mere acquaintance anyway?
Barren?
Would society be kind or cruel when the confidence she had so unwisely given became gossip?
Beatrice. He wanted to see her again, to feel her beside him, to spar with her wit and to laugh at her honesty. He would go to her discussion group on Wednesday evening and warn her of the dangers of too much candour.
Using a softer tone, he bade Lucinda to stop worrying and was pleased when she stood and took her leave.
Chapter Eight
Beatrice-Maude’s salon was crowded with people and Taris hung at the back of the room beside a bookshelf, his hand against the heavy wood of it to give him balance. He rarely came to anything like this, the inherent danger of tripping always close, but Jack had accompanied him tonight and had gone to help himself to drinks at a generously laid table his friend had used much detail in describing.
The shape of someone loomed in front of Taris though he had no way of knowing who it was, so he stopped and waited, pretending to take interest in the numerous titles he had felt on the shelf.
‘Good evening, Lord Wellingham.’
Bea’s voice. Taris could not quite believe his luck. He moved to face her.
‘Mrs Bassingstoke. I thought I should take you up on your offer to broaden my mind.’
‘And I am pleased that you have done so.’
‘My sister has told me that she made your acquaintance.’
Silence greeted the statement.
‘Lucinda can be a chatterbox.’
Again there was silence.
‘Put more bluntly it would probably be prudent not to relate any secrets into her safekeeping.’
‘Secrets such as my not being able to have children, you mean?’
Taris winced at her direct honesty. ‘Playing your cards close to your chest is sometimes a wiser option.’
‘As close as you play yours?’ The query made him wary and he jammed his hands into his pockets. No one had ever spoken to him as this woman did.
‘Sometimes secrets hold us back,’ she added, her husky lisp more evident today than he had ever heard it.
‘Twenty-eight and a sage!’ He could help neither the anger in his reply, nor the memories of her naked skin against his own.
‘A barren sage,’ she returned, challenge evident in the edge of her words. ‘And one who it seems has forgotten the golden rule.’
‘Which is?’
‘In society a lady does not ever question the intent of a gentleman with a better pedigree than her own.’
‘You sound scathing. I am certain such rules cannot have ever bothered you before, Mrs Bassingstoke.’
‘You would be surprised…’
‘But not enlightened?’
Her laugh was light and real, so different from the shallow false humour he heard in other drawing rooms of this city.
‘It seems perhaps I was remiss in scolding you, my lord. Do you have a drink?’
‘Jack Henshaw has gone to get me one.’
‘Do try the punch. I made it myself. A non-alcoholic concoction with more than a hint of fruitiness!’
‘Sounds delicious.’
She began to laugh again. ‘The discussion will begin in another five minutes or so. I do hope that you will be happy to contribute.’
‘I fear in this room, Mrs Bassingstoke, that my opinion will not be popular.’
‘Oh, you might be surprised. The tolerance is as remarkable here as the range of opinions. Indeed, sometimes I think Parliament might do well to mimic us.’
‘I will make sure to relate that to Lord Grey next time I see him.’
‘Little voices can hold as much sway as more important ones.’
‘A sentiment I would never question.’
‘Even with the weight of privilege full upon your shoulders?’
‘Such a bigot, Mrs Bassingstoke.’
Her giggles were like a fountain of joy ringing around the room and chasing away the darkness and her touch upon his arm was taken with the ease that it was given.
Not forced or obtrusive, but natural and easy.
The shadows of many people swirled around him, the timbre of voices attesting to a very large number. He did not recognise any of them. The occasional accent was of a member of the trades or a dweller from the parts of London that were considered undesirable by the ton, though Beatrice made no mention of occupation or their standing in society as she introduced him.