Chapter Nineteen
Beth
Beth stares at her reflection as Miss Wilson finishes pulling the last of her laces. She steps blindly into her hoop cage and barely feels Miss Wilson raising it and securing it about her waist. Cares little for the petticoat she layers over it, nor the embroidered bodice and skirts that go over that in their pale pink loveliness. None of it matters. She looks as beautiful as she probably ever has, but it’s utterly hollow.
She thinks there’s no way Lord Montson won’t see it. That he’ll know, by looking into her empty eyes, that this isn’t what she wants. She’s desperate for him to see it—the aching sadness that she thinks permeates every inch of her face—she wants him to see it, to acknowledge it, to take back his promises.
But she knows he won’t. She’s getting engaged in a matter of hours; she should be a mess of anticipatory nerves. What woman wouldn’t be a bit nervous? And what woman would refuse such an offer?
She has to smile, and pretend to weep, and gush, and celebrate this joyous day.
Instead it feels like her stomach might fly out of her mouth at any moment, with her heart following after.
“You look wonderful,” Miss Wilson says as she settles the last of Beth’s skirts and tucks everything into place.
“Thank you,” Beth manages, her voice a whisper around her tightened throat.
“Do you want the earrings?”
Beth follows Miss Wilson’s pointed finger, feeling like she’s moving through water. Mother’s left her bridal earrings on the vanity in what Beth assumes is a peace offering.
“No,” she says, forcing a smile for Miss Wilson. “I wouldn’t want to overgild the lily.”
“More of a rose, don’t you think?” Miss Wilson asks, working so hard to stay cheerful. She goes on, filling the silence with a prattle of floral comparisons. Beth hums vaguely in her direction.
She and Mother didn’t speak at all in the carriage home from the Harrington tea. Mother didn’t mention Beth’s smudged lips or frayed hair. She doesn’t know if Mother even noticed; she’d clearly been crying herself. She should care about her mother’s happiness—be sickly grateful she’s given up yet another chance at love for Beth’s security and marriage.
She should care. She should be grateful. She should be kind and wear the earrings. But all she wants to do is scream, at Mother, at Lord Montson, at Lord Havenfort, at the prime minister and the queen.
“It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think? Memorable. Not a cloud in the sky,” Miss Wilson continues, fluffing at her skirts for something to do with her hands.
Beth clenches her jaw against a retort that she’d rather it were raining, since she doesn’t want to remember this day anyway. But Miss Wilson doesn’t deserve her nerves, so she just shrugs.
This is the mess her father left for them: no provisions for their well-being, no savings for another home. His two women destitute and at the mercy of her callous uncle, followed by a cousin she’s never met.
She should scream at her father, that’s what she should do. Make Mother stop the carriage on the way there to go and hurl insults at his grave.
“It’s time.”
Miss Wilson’s chatter dies away. Mother stands in the doorway to Beth’s room, severe in dark mauve with black accents—the perfect widow.
“You’ll be great,” Miss Wilson says, squeezing Beth’s shoulder.
Beth watches as she hurries out around Mother, taking the last dregs of normalcy with her.
Mother stares at Beth in her pale pink dress, the model of an expectant bride-to-be, and utterly miserable. She opens her mouth, but doesn’t seem to find the words.
Beth doesn’t need them. She knows what she has to do. Knows who she has to be, today.
“We should go,” Beth says, her voice a rasp against the unnatural quiet.
“Yes,” Mother agrees, stepping back to lead Beth down the hall.
There’s so much they could say, but their ride in the carriage is quiet. The words stick in her throat, too many and too much to fit into the thirty-minute journey. Instead, she clenches her hands and breathes steadily, counting the houses as they pass.
* * *
By the time they’re being led through the Ashmond mansion, her stoicism has left her. Her stomach is all knots, that anxiety rising heavy and fast. Her pulse is hammering and she can feel sweat dripping down her back and into her drawers. She’s never longed for the barrage of petticoats before. What if she sweats so much it pools beneath her?
They reach the large glass doors that lead from the solarium and out onto the patio that sits at the base of the expansive gardens. The porter steps through, and Mother goes to follow, but Beth stands rooted to the spot, clutching at her arm.
She can’t do this. She can’t walk out there and—
“You’ll be fine,” Mother says softly, leaning into her. “Breathe, smile, and if you can work up to it, which I bet you can, give a good cry.”
Beth shudders. She shouldn’t need coaching on how to properly react to a proposal, but given that her instinct is to turn tail and sprint away, she’ll take it. She squeezes Mother’s arm, dragging in a few rapid breaths.
“Go on.”
There’s a beat where it feels the world stands still, all the air sucked out of the sky. A moment where she teeters, the life she wants with Gwen behind her, this life she hates ahead. A brief hesitation, as if to say goodbye.
And then the world starts turning again.
She forces herself to step through the doorway, toward her new, empty life.