Chapter Twenty-Five
Beth
Meredith, Bobby, and Albie are a force to be reckoned with. Beth watches in awe as they expertly maneuver their respective relatives. Meredith pairs off her mother with Albie’s aunt. Bobby and Albie drag their uncle away to discuss the order of the groomsmen. And then Meredith swoops back in to pull Beth and Gwen into conversation so artfully that Mother and Lord Havenfort are almost required to at least exchange pleasantries.
The Harringtons aren’t personae non gratae to Lord Ashmond, but the Masons surely are. These visits are a risk, but they’re chances Mother seems eager to take. Their “accidental” picnic at the botanical gardens with Meredith, Albie, Gwen, and Lord Havenfort last week was a thorough delight, and Mother readily agreed to come take tea today. Beth’s hopes are rising fast, as well as her chagrin.
“Does all this make you feel exceedingly unclever?” Gwen whispers as Meredith pours them tea, going on loudly about dress hems.
“Painfully,” Beth agrees.
She’s spent the last month and a half practically glued to Lord Montson’s side, and all this time, if they’d just asked Gwen’s cousins, they could have been having teas and listening to everyone laugh. It’s almost enough to make her vomit.
Her mother and Lord Havenfort are chatting by the open window today, a shade too close together. Lord Havenfort’s eye is still slightly purple, but Mother doesn’t seem to mind. She’s laughing, actually. It’s her genuine laugh too—a sound Beth’s barely heard in a month.
“Have you picked out a dress yet?” Meredith asks, bringing Beth’s gaze back to her.
“What?” she mumbles.
Meredith chuckles. “A dress. You must have one at least in process.”
“My mother’s wedding dress,” Beth says absently. “They’re taking it in around the bust and removing the sleeves.” She pauses, glancing at Gwen.
“I bet you look quite beautiful,” Gwen says, smiling softly at her.
They’ve allowed themselves more than one quiet minute of peace this afternoon, sitting close together, hands tangled in their skirts. Beth’s mind keeps wandering, visions of the two of them sneaking off into this cavernous townhouse to find somewhere—some dark corner—where they could slide beneath each other’s skirts and—
“Beth,” Gwen says, laughing a little.
“Oh, yes. Right. It does look nice,” Beth agrees. “Nothing like it looked on my mother. Father insisted she wear it for their portrait and she looks amazing. I look like a flat little frump.”
“You absolutely do not,” Mother says as she and Lord Havenfort appear around their side of the table.
Beth looks up at her mother—her always poised, always glamorous mother. “I don’t look half so beautiful as you did,” Beth says.
Mother rolls her eyes. But she looks so relaxed and happy. They have to make this work; Beth would try just for the look on her mother’s face.
“You are beautiful in entirely your own way,” Mother argues.
“I’m sure you look very lovely,” Lord Havenfort adds. “You’re having it done by Mistress Grinley, I assume?”
“Of course,” Mother says quickly. “Only the very best for Beth.”
Beth forces herself to maintain her smile. It’s costing them a fortune to use the most expensive modiste in London for the alterations, for a wedding she’s rather hoping she won’t be attending. They’re down to a phantom staff, poor Miss Wilson’s working herself bloody, and for what?
Gwen squeezes her hand and she blows out a breath, pretending not to worry. If they pull this off—and their parents do look rather cozy—the Havenforts have more than enough to reimburse Mother for the expense.
“Remind me of the wedding date?” Lord Havenfort prompts.
“Eight days from today,” Mother replies, tension returning to her posture as Beth slumps in her seat. “In fact, we probably should go, Beth. The Ashmonds are expecting us for dinner, and we’ll need to change.”
“Oh, but we’ve just poured tea,” Meredith says quickly. “Could we finish? Lord Havenfort, perhaps you could show Lady Demeroven the gardens? The roses there would make such a lovely bouquet for Beth.”
Beth holds her breath as both Mother and Lord Havenfort consider Meredith’s suggestion. It’s forward, but not glaringly so. And Mother does love flowers. It’s one of her greater regrets, that they haven’t spent enough time in London to cultivate a garden. The ones at the Demeroven estate up north are splendid. Mother sometimes even works them herself.
“I suppose,” Mother says slowly. “For another twenty minutes. If you don’t mind, Lord Havenfort.”
“Not at all,” Gwen’s father says, offering his arm. “I’m great with flowers.”
“I remember,” Mother says, quite without thinking given the way her eyes widen.
But Lord Havenfort just chuckles and leads her from the room. Beth blows out a breath and Gwen slouches in her seat.
“Well?” Meredith says.
“Well what?” Gwen asks as she strokes Beth’s palm.
“Go to the window. My goodness, you’re both dreadful at this.”
Gwen snorts and stands, pulling Beth up and then taking her arm to guide her toward the window. Beth fans herself as if she simply must get some air. Meredith immediately joins in on her mother’s conversation. Albie, Bobby, and their uncle are far too immersed in what sounds like racing bets to care what Beth and Gwen get up to.
Gwen tugs Beth up to the large picture window where their parents stood some minutes ago, and together they look down at the lovely back gardens. They’re even more resplendent from above. Though in fairness, the last time Beth saw them, she was too busy kissing Gwen’s brains out before breaking both of their hearts to care for the florals.
Beth spots their parents, chatting together on a stone bench beneath a leafy green tree. She can’t quite see their faces.
“Do you think it’s working?” Gwen wonders.
Beth forces herself to smile despite their dwindling timeline. “They’re not fighting.”
“They weren’t fighting before you dumped us either,” Gwen counters.
“We didn’t—” Beth looks up and finds Gwen smirking down at her. “Shut up. They were . . . more than friendly then, but I don’t know that that’s enough. Mother will be throwing away a sure status match.”
Gwen sighs. “And Father’s gun-shy.”
Beth watches as Gwen leans against the windowsill. She looks beautiful in the sunlight that angles through the window, whisps of her blond hair surrounding her like a halo.
“We’ll just have to push them,” Beth says, rallying her resolve.
“Right. Shove them, more like,” Gwen agrees.
“You think if we threw them both down the stairs, we could lock them up together to heal?” Beth wonders, smiling as Gwen snorts.
She glances back down at their parents. But Lord Havenfort is alone now.
“Beth, time to leave.”
Beth sighs and turns to find her mother in the doorway to the Harringtons’ library. Gwen quickly squeezes her arm before stepping around her to go join Meredith. They’ve done all they can. This is all she and Gwen get. A measly two hours and middling progress, if any, in their efforts.
“Come along, dear,” Mother prompts, and Beth nods, forcing herself across the room to curtsy politely to Lady Harrington before following Mother out.
“Did you and Lord Havenfort have a good chat?” she asks. They take their bonnets from the doorman and step into the late afternoon sun for their waiting carriage.
Everything’s so precise now. Carriages always waiting, schedule always full. She misses the emptiness of their life in the country. Hell, even the first few weeks of the season were more relaxing, when they attended every event in sight. There wasn’t this pressure.
There wasn’t this sadness, is more like it. She could handle the bowing and scraping and dresses and tulle if every single moment didn’t remind her of what she’d lost. And if Mother ever seemed even a tenth as cheerful when they’re with the Ashmonds as she did in the library today.
Mother looks back at her, eyebrow raised, before she lets herself be handed into the coach. Beth follows behind, casting one longing glance at the upstairs window before the footman shuts the coach door.
She watches the Harrington townhouse drift away, the carriage swaying beneath them as they begin the short drive home.
“Well?” Beth prompts.
“Well what?” Mother asks, pulling off her gloves to examine her nails.
“Did you and Lord Havenfort have a good chat in the gardens?” Beth repeats.
“It was fine,” Mother says, shrugging and refusing to meet Beth’s eyes.
“What did you talk about?”
“This and that.”
Beth huffs and adjusts her skirt so she can slouch against the carriage seat. “Expansive.”
“I don’t know, darling. We just . . . chatted. About you, about the wedding, about Lady Gwen. We’re . . . friendly.”
“Friendly,” Beth repeats. “That’s how you’d describe it? You’re smiling. You’ve barely smiled at all in the past month.”
Mother blinks and Beth bites at her lip. She’s meant to be going about this with more tact. But friendly? They are so much more than friendly, and Mother’s not an evasive woman. She calls a spade a spade. Why must they obfuscate and tiptoe around this?
“I haven’t seen you smile like this in weeks either,” Mother counters.
“Is that such a surprise?” Beth wonders. “Aren’t you miserable? I’m miserable.”
“Yes, you’ve made that rather plain,” Mother says dryly.
Beth frowns over at her, waiting for more. She needs Mother to admit that it’s terrible—this loveless, thankless match they’ve found. Advantageous, yes, but dreadful.
“I will admit it’s been trying. And I enjoyed these . . . clandestine opportunities to be around like-minded people. But you know this cannot be frequent. We’re dancing on the head of a pin simply seeing Lady Meredith.”
“Well, she did set up that cake tasting. We’ll have to come for that, since we haven’t sent for a cake yet, and we are, as you said, almost a week from the grand wedding,” Beth says quickly. Mother rolls her eyes. “Come on, you want to be at the Harrington cake tasting. It’s the only fun part of this horrible planning.”
“Yes, well, there you’re right,” Mother allows, smiling. “I do think this ruse can probably carry you and Lady Gwen through once you’re married. You’ll have to visit Lady Meredith, and she’ll have to visit Mr. Mason. You’ll find opportunities to see each other.”
“What, once yearly in the country and then at these group events during the season, if we’re even here?” Beth wonders, indignation rising at her mother’s casual tone, like it’s purely social.
“That’s how friendship works once you’re married, darling,” Mother says, her face carefully flat.
Beth clenches her jaw. “She’s not my friend,” she insists, staring Mother down.
But her expression doesn’t change—blank and serene, as if Beth’s words are sliding down a rainy window, impervious to everything without.
“You’ll get to see her. Isn’t that what matters?”
Beth seethes. “Yes, seeing the person I hold dearest in the world a few days a year makes everything better. Spending the rest of forever with the Ashmonds now feels thoroughly tolerable.”
“You will grow to like them more over time.”
Mother looks out the window and Beth balls her fists. She knows that deep down, somewhere Mother refuses to reach, she’s just as devastated as Beth is—wants out just as much as she does. She just has to get her to admit to it.
“They’re horrible,” Beth insists. “Concede that much to me. It may be the match of your dreams, but Lord Ashmond is a brute. An oaf.”
Mother turns back to her, biting at her lower lip for a moment. She opens her mouth, but then the carriage hits the curb outside of their townhouse.
“Come along, dear. We must dress for dinner.”
“You agree with me,” Beth insists, hurrying out after her. She keeps pace with her skirts hiked up, less graceful but just as fast as her mother.
“Let’s focus on getting ready. Miss Wilson will settle you first while I do my makeup.”
“We both look perfectly fine,” Beth protests as Mother unlocks the front door and they stomp inside, blinking in the dim, empty foyer.
“We cannot arrive at the Ashmonds’ in what we’ve worn to tea, and you need at least another two layers on your skirt.”
“Why?” Beth asks, standing still even as Mother continues toward the stairs. She feels her composure slipping. “Why must we continue this charade?”
“It is not a charade,” Mother dismisses, a hand on the railing.
“Mother,” Beth exclaims.
Mother turns slowly, the foyer between them. “If the lace bothers you so much, we’ll find another modiste.”
“It isn’t about the lace.”
“I know you would prefer to . . . see your friend more, but we’ve found a compromise. Why can’t you be satisfied with that?”
Rage slips up Beth’s throat, constricting her lungs. “Gwen is not—”
“That’s all she can be,” Mother says.
Beth feels the words like a blow to her stomach. It’s not that Mother won’t acknowledge it. It’s that she can’t even imagine a world where Beth and Gwen could be together.
“I know it isn’t fair, but we will find ways for you to see each other. And someday it will be more than enough. You’ll see. These feelings fade. You learn to live with compromise.”
Like it’s easy. Like living in a purgatory state of sadness is nothing.
Mother waits for some smart rejoinder, but Beth doesn’t have one. Of course Mother’s fine with compromise. It’s all she’s ever known. But Beth—Beth wants so much more than empty, ashen compromise, for both of them. This half life will never be enough.
“I can’t do this. I’m not you” falls out of her mouth before she can think to stop the words.
“Excuse me?” Mother says.
It feels like something has cracked inside her chest, all her hurt surging forward. “The bowing and scraping and bending ourselves to Lord Ashmond’s views on everything. Giving up our politics. Giving up Gwen and Lord Havenfort—” Her breath hitches. “We are giving up everything for them. And the way Lord Ashmond talks to you—the way you let him talk to you—it’s like—” She breaks off, swallowing her words as Mother narrows her eyes.
“It’s like what, Elizabeth?” Mother asks, her voice sharp now.
Beth straightens her back. This wasn’t part of the plan, but someone needs to say it. “It’s like he’s Father, all over again. You agree with everything he says, even when I know you don’t. You laugh like he’s funny. And you let him talk down to you all the time, like you’re unworthy of his consideration and should simply be grateful he looks on you at all.”
The silence that follows brims with every unkind thing that’s ever been said in this house, every slight, every fight and ugly moment. And all of the ways neither of them ever made a move to stop them, never stood up for themselves, never fought Father. They wouldn’t have won, Beth knows that. But they can now.
They don’t have to submit to repeating the future like it’s inevitable.
“I don’t want us to live like this. And I know you don’t want to either. You can’t possibly want to live like this again. Please, Mother, if you just spoke with Lord Havenfort, let him prove to you that—”
“Enough!” Mother yells. “You do not get to have everything you want in life.” Her voice is suddenly low and cold, not even allowing for the barest possibility of another way. “You’ll have a manor and a husband and a fortune for generations. That is more than anyone can hope for.”
“It’s not,” Beth insists.
“Beth.”
“I can hope for more,” Beth says, her voice rough as the tears finally fall, as anger gives way to desperation. “You should hope for more.”
They stand staring at each other, Beth begging for her mother to value her own life as much as she values Beth’s security. To take a chance on their happiness being worth something.
Mother just shakes her head. “I have all I’ve hoped for. I’m going to lie down. Miss Wilson will help you dress for dinner.”
She turns and heads up the stairs, shoulders curled inward, defeated, unwilling to hope or want or listen.
Beth’s heart clenches in her chest. “Mother,” she calls.
But Mother doesn’t respond. Beth stands in the completely empty foyer, her voice echoing through the house, all the hurt drifting through the air around her.