certain,” he drawled.
“You must tell me,” she implored as she leaned over and placed
her hand upon his arm. “I’m on pins and needles.”
“Me mum sewed this fine coat and the shirt too,” he said in
hushed tones.
“But that’s wonderful,” Bea cried. She was no expert on
men’s clothing, to be sure, but she would have said his coat was tailor-made.
“She sews my shirts and cravats and an occasional coat. I go
down to Surrey to visit as often as I’m able and never come away empty-handed.”
“Perhaps I could travel with you when next you visit her,”
she said. “I shall soon be in need of some new dresses, simple ones to wear in
the country.”
Beatrice thought about Gerald and his mother as they made
their way home shortly thereafter.
“There is a whole wide world out there that lives beyond
the strictures of Society. A world populated by scholars and artists and
tradesmen, and tradeswomen for that matter, merchants, farmers, clerics …”
And groomsmen, she thought now, and their mothers. She often
remembered her mother’s words from so long ago. Since leaving the sheltered
embrace of Idyllwild and moving about in the world, she had come to believe
that those who dwelt outside of Society, whether by choice, or by birth, or by
happenstance, were happier for it.
“And they live happy or sad lives, fulfilling or lonely
lives, married or unmarried, not worrying at all what those ladies and
gentlemen of Society are doing or saying.”
Her thoughts turned to yesterday’s conversation about love
and marriage.
“What has love to do with marriage?” Olivia had
asked.
It had been on the tip of Beatrice’s tongue to explain to her,
to Henry and Simon as well, that love within marriage did in fact exist. That
she had seen an old sheepherder and his wife embracing in the fields. She had
listened to the despair in a wife’s cries at the funeral of her husband killed
in a factory accident. She had watched young courting couples walk hand in hand
and dance together with abandon. She had painted more than one portrait to
remind a loved one that they were missed.
She had held her tongue, suspecting they would neither
understand nor care. She had found that aristocrats, be they English, French or
Greek, paid no mind whatsoever to what went on among the lower orders,
preferring to live in ignorance.
“Your mother and father, did they love each other
passionately?”
Olivia had certainly startled her, both with her words and
the intent look in her beautiful gray eyes. Beatrice had been so taken aback,
she doubted she could have spoken even if she could have found the words. Could
she have shared some portion of the truth? No, she decided now. One portion of
the truth would have led to more questions.
The truth was that for all she’d seen of the world, for all
that she’d witnessed of that rarest of emotions, she could not begin to
comprehend love. She knew without question that her mother had loved her
father, had lived for his rare visits, had cried with every leave-taking. And
Papa? She had to believe that he had loved her mother. To believe differently
was to cast her entire life into dark shadows, into a pit of shame and
bitterness. Beatrice refused, she simply refused to allow for the possibility
that her childhood was anything less than the bright splendor she remembered.
With blind faith she believed that true love could be found
both within and without marriage. She did not believe, however, that it was
likely to be found within the marriages created in the world to which her
London friends had been born, and in which they would live their entire lives.
She could not imagine Olivia straying from her vows to Lord
Palmerton, whether or not that gentleman kept a mistress or visited the
brothels, as was rumored.
It seemed Henry would marry the shallow Miss Fairchild and
in all likelihood follow in his father’s footsteps to find love outside the
union.
And Simon? Would he be like his
“You must tell me,” she implored as she leaned over and placed
her hand upon his arm. “I’m on pins and needles.”
“Me mum sewed this fine coat and the shirt too,” he said in
hushed tones.
“But that’s wonderful,” Bea cried. She was no expert on
men’s clothing, to be sure, but she would have said his coat was tailor-made.
“She sews my shirts and cravats and an occasional coat. I go
down to Surrey to visit as often as I’m able and never come away empty-handed.”
“Perhaps I could travel with you when next you visit her,”
she said. “I shall soon be in need of some new dresses, simple ones to wear in
the country.”
Beatrice thought about Gerald and his mother as they made
their way home shortly thereafter.
“There is a whole wide world out there that lives beyond
the strictures of Society. A world populated by scholars and artists and
tradesmen, and tradeswomen for that matter, merchants, farmers, clerics …”
And groomsmen, she thought now, and their mothers. She often
remembered her mother’s words from so long ago. Since leaving the sheltered
embrace of Idyllwild and moving about in the world, she had come to believe
that those who dwelt outside of Society, whether by choice, or by birth, or by
happenstance, were happier for it.
“And they live happy or sad lives, fulfilling or lonely
lives, married or unmarried, not worrying at all what those ladies and
gentlemen of Society are doing or saying.”
Her thoughts turned to yesterday’s conversation about love
and marriage.
“What has love to do with marriage?” Olivia had
asked.
It had been on the tip of Beatrice’s tongue to explain to her,
to Henry and Simon as well, that love within marriage did in fact exist. That
she had seen an old sheepherder and his wife embracing in the fields. She had
listened to the despair in a wife’s cries at the funeral of her husband killed
in a factory accident. She had watched young courting couples walk hand in hand
and dance together with abandon. She had painted more than one portrait to
remind a loved one that they were missed.
She had held her tongue, suspecting they would neither
understand nor care. She had found that aristocrats, be they English, French or
Greek, paid no mind whatsoever to what went on among the lower orders,
preferring to live in ignorance.
“Your mother and father, did they love each other
passionately?”
Olivia had certainly startled her, both with her words and
the intent look in her beautiful gray eyes. Beatrice had been so taken aback,
she doubted she could have spoken even if she could have found the words. Could
she have shared some portion of the truth? No, she decided now. One portion of
the truth would have led to more questions.
The truth was that for all she’d seen of the world, for all
that she’d witnessed of that rarest of emotions, she could not begin to
comprehend love. She knew without question that her mother had loved her
father, had lived for his rare visits, had cried with every leave-taking. And
Papa? She had to believe that he had loved her mother. To believe differently
was to cast her entire life into dark shadows, into a pit of shame and
bitterness. Beatrice refused, she simply refused to allow for the possibility
that her childhood was anything less than the bright splendor she remembered.
With blind faith she believed that true love could be found
both within and without marriage. She did not believe, however, that it was
likely to be found within the marriages created in the world to which her
London friends had been born, and in which they would live their entire lives.
She could not imagine Olivia straying from her vows to Lord
Palmerton, whether or not that gentleman kept a mistress or visited the
brothels, as was rumored.
It seemed Henry would marry the shallow Miss Fairchild and
in all likelihood follow in his father’s footsteps to find love outside the
union.
And Simon? Would he be like his
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