Chapter Twenty-One
Beth
Beth shifts uncomfortably, wiggling in her damp corset to try and coax a bead of sweat away from the itching on her back. The air is staid and humid, and the smell of horse manure doesn’t help. They can heap all the flowers they like along the railings of the royal enclosure behind them; it doesn’t do a damn thing.
“Stop twitching,” Mother mutters.
Beth looks over at her and then jerks back as their lacey broad-brimmed bonnets knock together. The third day of the Ascot races is no laughing matter. Beth feels like she’s weighted down by petticoats again with how many layers of lace and silk they’ve piled onto her hoop. Never mind the itching at her ankles from what she thinks might be ants. No hope of checking, the way they’re all packed in, hoops bumping awkwardly as they continue to wait for the opening shot. There was a lot of laughter and shrieking at the start. Now they’re all too tired and trying desperately to keep up the ruse that anyone wants to be under the hot sun waiting to watch a horse race they’ll only be able to see for moments each lap.
Lord Montson’s consumed with talk of betting beside her. She tried to join in, at the start, but one look from her mother and another from Lord Ashmond quelled any interest in inserting herself into Lord Montson’s conversations. She’s here to look like a trussed-up, melting dessert, nothing more. She glances to her right and left, but she’s trapped where she is, no friendly faces.
She’s long since finished the drink Lord Montson braved the crowds to get for her. She can’t bring herself to ask him to go again, not when he tripped and almost ruined his new pressed white trousers. He nearly lost his top hat too.
“Do you think they plan to start the races, or is there some sort of hat competition of which I wasn’t made aware,” Beth wonders, glancing at Mother.
Mother goes to scold her, but the woman on her other side steps closer, bumping Mother’s hoop into Beth’s. Beth watches in dismay as some of Mother’s last sip of champagne sloshes from her glass and onto the packed dirt ground.
“I dearly hope so,” Mother says, wiping her dripping glove onto her lavender skirts. No one will notice, just as they all politely ignore the sweat stains marring everyone’s clothing. “This is dismal.”
“It really is,” Beth agrees.
She glances across the track and starts, bumping her mother again. Mother doesn’t even huff, just grabs her arm to steady them both and then knocks back the last of her champagne.
“I’m going to get us something to drink, damn the skirts,” Mother says.
Beth’s too distracted looking over at the inner track lawn to care, even as Mother’s effort to turn around jostles her, creating a domino effect around them as hoops bump and clash.
Beth stares across the track at the crowd of onlookers making raucous merry on the other side. They’ve space, and ample drink and food from their personal picnics. And in the center of the crowd, right against the railing, she sees Gwen, Meredith, Lord Havenfort, and Gwen’s cousins having a wonderfully good time.
Gwen looks enchanting in her bonnet, which only has a demure lace lip, nothing like the heavy monstrosity on Beth’s head. Gold ringlets cascade out of it, and Beth can see her green dress has a much more practical hoop below it, allowing Gwen movement, and air, and the freedom to enjoy a glass of champagne and the sandwich Meredith hands her.
Beth watches as Gwen carries on two conversations, chatting with Meredith while clearly placing bets with her father and cousins, turning at intervals to bark numbers at them without missing a step with Meredith. No one seems to care that they all look a bit undone. No one seems to care that they’re being loud and rowdy. There across the track, Ascot is fun, social, and exciting.
And instead of being there with them, as they planned, picnicking and getting their parents to fall in love, Beth is stuck here in the royal lawn enclosure, listening to Lord Montson blather on and on about the horses and the odds.
That feeling of hopelessness that’s been sitting on her chest for a week constricts further and Beth sighs, trying to breathe through it. So Ascot won’t be fun; they won’t have to attend every year. And at the least the inn Lord Ashmond has put them all up in is lovely. The meat pies in the pub are good, and she and Mother have been taking advantage, eating to their heart’s content. Her stomach’s full, which is something. And once they’re no longer trapped like livestock for this race, she might even get to wander the grounds a bit, see the gardens they’re cultivating on the other side of the grandstand.
It won’t all be a total loss.
“Be grateful, I nearly took down a countess, I think,” Mother says, bumping Beth’s hoop as she shuffles back to her side and extends a flute of champagne.
“At least that would have been some excitement,” Beth mutters, smiling a little as Mother snickers quietly.
“It’s distasteful,” says a voice to Beth’s right.
Beth turns, glancing at the couple standing just beyond Lord Montson and his schoolmates, who have taken up a post behind Beth and Mother.
“It’s supposed to be an event. Really, it’s not that untoward.”
“He’s got that girl as drunk as he is. And as loud. I can hear her from here.”
Beth glances across the track as a cackle splits the rowdy atmosphere. She’d know that laugh anywhere. It’s Gwen, gloating at Mr. Mason for something while Lord Havenfort eggs her on. Incorrigible, the two of them.
“I’m sure there’s a young lad here who would find her charming. A man could do with a wife who enjoys a good sport.”
Beth glances at the couple and finds the woman glaring down into her wine. Her husband tips back his beer. She hears Gwen laugh again and looks over to find her waving something under Mr. Mason’s nose as Meredith tries to snatch it back.
They are making rather a spectacle of themselves, though she supposes the man beside her isn’t wrong. Today isn’t a day for staid conversation and appearance, unless you’re on her side of the track, here to see and be seen. The inner lawn is for fun and cheering and betting with abandon. And though the ton might look down their noses at anyone who didn’t manage an invitation to the royal lawn enclosure, Beth thinks those on the other side made the better choice.
“Of course the act shouldn’t go to the floor,” Mother says, dragging Beth’s gaze from Gwen’s bright face.
She turns and finds Lord Ashmond standing on Mother’s other side, his wife crammed between them, her skirt and Mother’s knocking enough to set Beth tilting. She grabs the railing in front of her and takes a too-large sip of her champagne. But of course no one’s paying her any attention.
“The very idea that it’s gotten this far is abhorrent,” Lady Ashmond says.
“We’ll find a way to reverse it if Havenfort and his ilk manage to pass it through,” Lord Ashmond says, his boom of a voice grating even amongst all the others.
“I thought Lord Havenfort all but had it locked down,” Mother says, and Beth can tell by the hold of her jaw that she’s trying not to let her true colors show.
This must be about the Matrimonial Causes Act, again. It’s all anyone talks of these days. Even Lord Montson’s friends were lamenting its imminent passage, like the act isn’t there to protect women from monsters and marital brutes. How must they treat their fiancées behind closed doors if they’re so worried they’ll be able to convince a court of abuse?
“There’s still a few weeks until the vote, more than enough time to find the right palms and make the right exchanges,” Lord Ashmond says firmly, as if all Lord Havenfort’s machinations and work might be waved away with enough money.
Beth hopes not. If Mother could have petitioned a civil court—left her father—
“That’s something then,” Mother says tightly.
“I’ll be bringing Harry into the final rounds as well, train him up. We’ve got to keep the party going, and our children are the future, aren’t they?”
“Of course,” Mother says.
“Your Elizabeth would never—” Lady Ashmond begins.
“My Beth will be an excellent wife and your son an excellent husband, so the matter need never be discussed,” Mother says firmly.
Lady Ashmond nods and Lord Ashmond turns to a gentleman on his left to continue the conversation, leaving Beth and Mother alone, pushed up against the railing.
“Are they all afraid their wives will divorce them given the chance? Doesn’t say much for their marriages,” Beth mutters as Mother sidles as close as she can.
“Change makes most people nervous,” Mother says, taking her own overlarge gulp of champagne. “And this isn’t polite talk.”
“But it is when the earl does it?”
“Hush,” Mother says, shaking her head and looking across the track.
They’re starting to line up the horses. At least there will be some excitement soon. There ought to be, after two hours in this infernal heat and press of bodies.
“Does it bother you?” Beth asks, tracking Mother’s gaze across to Lord Havenfort, who looks not at all concerned that his plans may come crashing down.
“Does what bother me?” Mother asks, sounding lofty. It falls a bit flat, with the clear exhaustion at the edge of her voice.
“Pretending.”
“Not now,” Mother mutters.
“Does it?” Beth presses. “You can’t really support that infernal position.”
“You know I don’t,” Mother hisses, leaning close under the guise of fixing a lock of Beth’s sweaty hair. “But this is neither the time nor the place. We’re here to drink, smile, and be seen. You can seethe and rail later.”
Beth purses her lips. She’s tired of being cosseted and patronized, like her discomfort is an aberration when she knows Mother is equally uncomfortable, in this box, in this life, with these people.
“You could try making other friends. Brooding is only going to give you wrinkles.”
“I don’t need other friends,” Beth returns, scowling as Mother rolls her eyes.
Gwen isn’t her friend. She’s so much more than that, and to hear Mother dismiss her pain like it’s something as mundane as a season alliance—
“How did you do this?” Beth asks, frustration pouring out of her.
“Do what?” Mother asks.
“Live like it wasn’t crushing you to death.”
“It is rather pressed in here, isn’t it?”
Beth jumps, turning to face Lord Montson as he grins down at her. “Oh, well, I—”
“Here,” he says gamely, stepping a scooch in front of her, so his leg presses lightly into the bell of her skirt. It pushes her skirt back, shifting the front close to her legs and forcing the back out behind her, creating just a modicum of space.
Lord Montson winks. Mother smiles at him, but Beth catches the warning in her eyes. They’ll continue their argument later, when the doors are closed.
In the meantime, she’ll smile and curtsy and encourage the misunderstanding. It does feel less congested now, which is . . . something.
“Thank you,” she says honestly.
“See, partnership comes in many forms,” Mother says, smiling at Lord Montson even though Beth hears the bite in her words. “How have your bets been taken, dear?”
“Oh, well, well,” he says easily. “We’re rooting for Skirmisher,” he tells Beth, as if she couldn’t possibly have an opinion.
She doesn’t, but it still raises her hackles. Mother narrows her eyes as Lord Montson leans around them to look at the starting line, and Beth nods. She won’t take that one out on Lord Montson; it would be beyond petty. Still.
Biting her tongue, Beth turns back to the track. The horses and jockeys are finally lined up. She watches as the starting gun is loaded, and with a great bang, they’re off. Cacophonous screams and cheers fill the air, and Beth’s too preoccupied with trying to keep herself from being crushed against the railing to care much about which horse is winning. It’s absurd, especially given that even though they’re the best racehorses in the country, it still takes close to a minute for them to reappear around the track for any meaningful view.
She would try and squint across the inner lawn to the opposite side of the track, but every time she does she gets distracted, watching the way Gwen is clutching at Meredith. Absurd possessive jealousy rises in her chest, even knowing full well that Meredith is happily promised to Mr. Mason. But she’s felt those hands on her, inside her, and the thought of Gwen’s fingers on another woman’s arm . . .
It’s like she’s doing it to spite Beth. Pretending all day she hasn’t noticed they’re right across from each other, waving her free, merry life in Beth’s face. Like Beth wanted this and deserves to be tortured for the choices she’s had to make. Like seeing Gwen so happy and carefree isn’t ripping Beth apart inside minute by minute.
Like it’s Beth’s fault and Gwen alone has the right to be angry.
And maybe she does. This isn’t Gwen’s fault; the rage in Beth’s heart, the fire in her lungs, the desperate twist in her gut have nowhere to go. If she could talk herself into hating Gwen, she would. But she can’t.
And much as it’s tearing into her heart, it gives her a sick satisfaction that at least if Gwen is punishing her this way, it means she’s still thinking about Beth.
Lord Montson whoops and Beth realizes she’s spent the whole race staring at Gwen. Skirmisher’s the winner. They won.
How utterly meaningless.
Hands wrap around her waist and she squeals in surprise as Lord Montson lifts her up. He takes her shock for joy and then all of a sudden, he’s kissing her, right there in the royal lawn enclosure.
It’s rough, and hard, and he releases her just as quickly, leaving her breathless with shock and the coarse press of his shadowed beard against her cheeks. His lips are chapped. He puts her down and turns without a word to cavort with his friends. She’s been kissed in broad daylight, and no one here seems to care.
All the talk of appearances, of decorum, and it doesn’t matter. She’s no more than something to kiss when things go well. Not good enough even for conversation.
“Well, he’ll have the funds for an extravagant honeymoon,” Mother says, and Beth slowly turns to find her bracing herself on the railing, her knuckles white.
“Perhaps we should have placed our own bet, doubled my dowry,” Beth says dryly.
Mother laughs, glancing at Beth for a brief moment like they’re home alone in the parlor. “Next year.”
“And then what?” Beth wonders.
“You and I can have a grand adventure while your husband is here for the winter, maybe,” Mother says with a shrug. “Go to the Continent.”
Beth stares at her mother, the slight slump of her shoulders, the lines by her eyes. Exhausted, just like she is.
“We could go now,” Beth says softly. “Run away.”
Mother stands up tall again, that brief open expression gone from her face and eyes and smile. “I should make some rounds,” she says, barely even looking at Beth before she begins the arduous process of fighting her way through the cluster of bodies and hoops.
Beth stands there, bereft. So much has been lost, none of it tangible. She glances across the track and finds herself at last under Gwen’s gaze. They stare at each other for a long moment before Gwen takes a slug of something and turns away, back to her father and friends and family, while Beth stands alone, surrounded by people.