Chapter Twenty-Seven
Beth
Beth runs her fingers over her engagement ring, spinning it on her finger, trying to let the hypnotic motion drown out the world around her. She sits across from her mother, watching her poke listlessly at her dry chicken while Lord Ashmond bloviates. They’re here for a consolation dinner one day before the wedding, one day after the MCA vote, which passed. And Lord Ashmond is still a livid purple.
Beth hasn’t had time to let it sink in—to know she does have an escape if she ever needs one. If she ever wants one, she can argue her case, can escape the Ashmonds, can go find Gwen, can disappear into the slums and live a happy life with her lover.
But then she looks across at her mother, jaw tight and back straight as Lord Ashmond continues to rail. She cannot leave her mother here with these people. They are either in misery together, or they leave together. And while Beth thinks she could live a life of poverty with Gwen, loved and cared for, even without a single luxury or comfort, she cannot doom her mother to a loveless poverty.
And so they’re here, listening to her father-in-law-to-be go on and on about the evils of women, while his wife and son nod absently along. Beth still doesn’t know if Lord Montson believes a single word his father says, but she knows he never fights him on it.
She knows, too, he’s as powerless as she is to defend the act. His whole inheritance depends on acquiescence to his father’s every opinion, as does hers by proxy. But still. Still, he could say something on her behalf.
“Any woman who would abandon a husband simply on the cause of . . . what did they say, Harry?”
“Emotional distress,” Lord Montson says around a mouthful of potatoes.
“Emotional distress,” Lord Ashmond sneers. “Women are in emotional distress at the drop of a hat, literally. Didn’t you weep the other day, dearest, when your hat fell in the mud?”
Lady Ashmond nods placidly, her eyes distant and a bit empty. Beth wonders if her mother isn’t the only one to have dipped into the laudanum.
“How could a woman differentiate between the average distress and something deeper then, if all it takes is a hat?” Lord Ashmond continues. “Preposterous. How a man behaves with his wife is no business of the courts’.”
“Unless he’s beating her,” Beth feels herself say, clamping her lips shut as the whole table turns to look at her.
She hears Mother sigh quietly, but has more pressing matters now, with Lord Ashmond glaring at her. Lord Montson looks on in surprise.
“I only, well, I only mean that, in some extreme cases, I suppose it is the business of law enforcement if a woman fears for her life. But, ah, that was covered before the MCA in extreme cases, wasn’t it? So I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . . anything by it,” she peters off, unable to stand tall in the face of the earl’s glower.
“I’m sure Beth understands the difference between petty words and assault,” Mother chimes in.
“Right,” Beth says quickly. “I only worry for those young ladies married to much older men, who might have different . . . customs, that’s all,” Beth defends meekly.
Lord Ashmond works his jaw, not wanting, it seems, to insult his son’s bride-to-be. He really might think it’s the right of the husband to beat a wife bloody if he wants. Barbaric.
“Beth knows her place,” Mother says.
“That she does,” Lord Montson agrees, glancing at his father before sending Beth a strikingly winning smile. “And that she never needs to worry about such things from me.”
“Yes, yes,” Lord Ashmond says, apparently mollified by his son’s promise not to beat Beth senseless.
Which seems like faint praise to her, the very least he can do. But she returns Lord Montson’s smile anyway, grateful at least to be out from his father’s scrutiny.
“Beth knows her place,” Lady Ashmond repeats. “And understands what it means to be in this family. Dirty laundry should never be aired, publicly or privately. Marriage is a sacred bond.”
The whole table turns to look at Lady Ashmond. That implies—
“Quite right,” Lord Ashmond agrees, patting his wife’s hand, a little too hard given the way the silverware rattles. “Disputes should be settled privately, and family business is just that—for the family. Don’t you agree, Lady Demeroven?”
Beth watches her mother take in the tableau of the Ashmonds—his heavy hand on Lady Ashmond’s frail one, his bravado, his insistence that all ills and disagreements are settled in-house—by him.
“Lady Demeroven, you don’t think young ladies should be going to the courts for matters they could resolve at home,” Lord Ashmond prompts when Mother has done nothing but stare.
Beth swallows, unease settling into her stomach. Silence doesn’t bode well when it comes to her mother.
“Of course she doesn’t,” Beth says softly, forcing a smile for the Ashmonds. “You—you know our position on the MCA.”
“The right one,” Lord Montson says quickly.
Beth presses her nails into her palms.
“Lady Demeroven?” Lord Ashmond prompts. “I know your late husband agreed. Stand-up man, he was.”
And that, somehow, seems to be the last straw.
“My husband was a lout who spouted the same abhorrent drivel and used to backhand me for every slight. If I could have taken him to court and gotten half of his estate, I would have, and I would tell Beth to do the same should your son ever, ever,” Mother says, turning a hard look on Lord Montson, “raise a hand to her. And I would support her use of the new law immediately.”
Beth gapes, as does Lady Ashmond, while Lord Montson just stares, wide-eyed. What—
“Think very carefully about your next words,” Lord Ashmond says, his voice deathly even and low.
“Or what?” Mother asks, leaning back in her chair.
Something has broken within her, Beth can see it. Stretched taut and snapped.
“And you?” Lord Ashmond asks, turning his glare on Beth, who fights to stay sitting straight. If her mother can do it, so can she. “Do you feel the same?”
Beth glances at Mother, who doesn’t acknowledge her, glaring right back at Lord Ashmond. Beth takes a breath and meets Lord Montson’s wide eyes.
“I would give my husband warning, that if he ever struck me again, that would be it. I won’t—I won’t stand to be beaten,” she says slowly. “Arguments don’t warrant divorce, but I won’t stand to be abused. I have value and deserve to be treated well. I believe your son agrees.”
Lord Montson stares at her and then nods quickly. But his face goes flat when his father turns his glower on him. Beth watches as he withstands the scrutiny, and suddenly that quick little nod isn’t as comforting. “He’ll be kind to Beth when his father isn’t around” isn’t quite the assurance she wants.
“Harry knows his place,” Lord Ashmond decides. “And I suggest you learn yours,” he adds, turning back to Mother. “Whatever you thought of your late husband, you will only speak of him kindly in this house. He was a good, strong man, who fought for his ideals. I imagine he’s rolling in his grave to hear you even contemplate using the act, or Beth.”
Mother clenches her jaw and stays silent.
“And you,” he adds, turning back to Beth. “You will be patient, and positive, and obey my son in all ways, and if you do, you should never have need to speak such progressive, hurtful things again. You will do as he says and defer to him in all ways.”
Beth stares at her father-in-law-to-be. “I—” She looks to Lord Montson, but he won’t meet her eyes. “I—” she starts again, her chest tight.
She won’t be beaten. She won’t be yelled at. She will not repeat what her mother endured.
“No, she won’t,” Mother says, and Beth feels her heart plummet. But then Mother stands up. “If those are your conditions, Lord Ashmond, that my daughter submit to anything your son wants, without question, be it verbal or physical, or simply his abhorrent taste in unseasoned food, then we will have a problem.”
“Lady Demeroven, you misunderstand,” Lady Ashmond says softly, before yelping as her husband’s grip on her hand tightens.
“You will sit down this instant, we will have another round of drinks, and we will speak of this no more, or there will be serious consequences,” Lord Ashmond says darkly, his voice ice-cold.
Mother and Lord Ashmond glare at each other for what feels like an eternal, awful minute. Their whole future teeters on this moment, and Beth can’t dare to believe—
“Then we have a problem,” Mother says, her voice even and devoid of emotion. “Beth, gather your things. We’ll be leaving now.”
Lord Ashmond stands abruptly, rocking the table. “Be very careful, Lady Demeroven.”
“Or what, you’ll hit me?”
Lady Ashmond squeaks. Lord Montson gapes. And Beth hastily folds her skirts, hope pounding violently against her chest.
“I will end this engagement and your name and your daughter’s will be dragged through the mud,” Lord Ashmond threatens.
Mother laughs. Laughs. “And? Your opposition failed. Parliament is about to be out of session. I don’t know what damage you imagine could be done to our reputations, with your own so low as it is. Couldn’t drum up the votes. Let yourself get beaten by Lord Havenfort.”
Lord Ashmond pushes back his seat and Lord Montson finally, finally stands up. “Father,” he cautions.
Beth slips out of her seat and scurries behind her chair.
“Get out,” Lord Ashmond booms. “Get out.”
“With pleasure,” Mother says, nodding to Beth. “Lady Ashmond, if you ever need help,” she adds.
Lord Ashmond takes a menacing step around the table toward Mother and Lord Montson bodily blocks him. Beth hurries around the table to grab her mother’s hand. Mother squeezes her palm and turns on her heel, marching for the hall.
“Beth,” Lord Montson calls as they reach the doorway.
“Good luck, Harry,” Beth says, offering Lord Montson a bland smile over her shoulder before Mother walks them out of the room. They stride quickly down the cavernous hallway, their shoes slapping against the marble floor.
They hit the foyer and the startled porter automatically opens the front door for them, allowing them to spill out onto the street. The doors slam closed behind them and they trip down the stairs to stand on the sidewalk, heaving in air in the cool summer evening. There’s no carriage waiting—of course there isn’t.
“What was that?” Beth asks, turning to Mother, who’s flushed and a bit disheveled, but standing taller than she’s seen her in months.
“I—I don’t know,” Mother admits, meeting Beth’s eyes. “God, I just—that man—”
“Is abhorrent,” Beth agrees.
“Yes,” Mother says, reaching out to brush a stray hair from Beth’s face. “Yes, you’re right. You’ve been right for a long time, and I thought—I thought I could do this, live this way again, but I can’t. You were right, Beth,” she repeats.
Beth smiles slowly, shocked and relieved. Laughter bubbles up from her chest. A high giggle escapes and Mother’s face blooms into a smile of its own, until they’re teetering there in front of the Ashmond house, gripping at each other to stay standing.
Mother gains enough control to turn them and begin the long walk home. Perhaps they can find a coach for hire closer to the park, but the streets are empty. It’s Thursday evening, and everyone is at home, or at the club, celebrating or mourning the MCA.
“I am sorry,” Mother says a few minutes later as the glee seems to leave them, exhaustion and shock in its wake.
“For what?” Beth wonders.
She’s a bit numb now, but she thinks she’ll be incandescently happy in a few hours. Even with no plan ahead of them, and the house about to be taken—they’re free. They’re free.
“I know he wasn’t your choice, but you at least liked Lord Montson, which wasn’t nothing,” Mother says.
Beth shakes her head, squeezing Mother’s arm. “Don’t worry about that.”
Mother stops, pulling Beth to a halt. “I do worry though,” she says and Beth turns to meet her eyes. “I just blew up your marriage, and now—they’ll be coming to take the house in two days, oh, Beth, what did I do?” she says, panic bubbling up all over her face. “What have I—”
“I don’t care,” Beth says quickly. “I never wanted to marry him. And I didn’t want to watch you acquiesce to Lord Ashmond, and now I don’t have to. We’ll figure it out.”
“But,” Mother says, her face pale under the lamplight.
“We’ll figure it out,” Beth promises, happy to take charge now, since Mother saved them both. “We can stay with Meredith, I’m sure, for a few days.”
“She’s about to get married,” Mother protests.
“All the more reason. Her mother will need a friend,” Beth says simply. Mother shakes her head. “It will be fine.”
“I just ended our one chance at security over a stupid argument,” Mother exclaims, her voice bouncing over the cobblestones. “It will not be fine.”
But Beth—Beth feels a surge of power, of promise, of hope.
“Not our only chance,” she says slowly. “Not at all. Come on.”
She takes Mother’s hand and begins pulling her down the street, toward the corner that will take them one of two ways.
“Beth, stop,” Mother says, but Beth can’t stop. They have somewhere to be. “Where are we going?”
“To get you your happy ending,” Beth says firmly, laughing as Mother splutters. She turns them down the street, away from their townhouse.
“Stop. Where are you taking us?” Mother demands, pulling them up short beneath a streetlight.
“I told you. Your happy ending. It’s still there,” Beth insists.
Mother stares at her for a moment, confused, until it clicks, and she blanches. “No, no, Beth, there’s no way—”
“You wanted me to have a husband who would be good to me. Who would have a title and the money to support both of us. Who would treat me well and love me, right?”
Mother frowns down at her.
“Right?”
“Yes,” Mother says tightly.
“Someone who was genuine, and had good morals, and fought for good things?”
“Beth—”
“Lord Havenfort is all of those things, but for you. You spent my whole life with a lout—you said so yourself. Now you should spend the rest of yours with a gentleman.”
Mother’s mouth falls open and Beth laughs, trying to tug her back along. But Mother holds tight to her hand, an anchor there beneath the streetlight.
“Beth, you’re not—I can’t—he won’t take me,” Mother says, her voice suddenly rough.
“Of course he will,” Beth counters, too filled with hope now to second-guess herself. “He loves you. He’s been a wreck since we parted ways, drinking and throwing himself into politics. But he loves you. He has for years.”
“I’ve broken his heart too many times,” Mother says. “I can’t—why would he take me now?”
“Because you’re ready now. And because you’re you,” Beth insists.
“I’m not—”
“What—beautiful, learned, witty, fun, and a match for absolutely anyone? Lord Havenfort may have cracked him one, but Lord Ashmond looked destroyed tonight and you didn’t lift a finger, barely even a brow!”
Mother snorts. Beth can’t remember the last time her mother looked at her like this—vulnerable and still so young, and open, and seeking Beth’s approval. Her opinion matters now. Has always mattered.
“Come on. He’s no scarier than Lord Ashmond, and infinitely more handsome.”
Mother laughs a little and lets Beth tug her up the street, moving more slowly, but following all the same. All they need to do is put them in the same room together, free of previous obligations, contracts, and responsibilities. She’s sure of it.
Doubting it now would only make her as pale and frightened as her mother, and Beth doesn’t have time to wonder and worry. There’s a fire in her stomach and a tingle in her limbs as she drags Mother the four avenues until they’re standing outside the massive Havenfort home. The last time she was here, Gwen—
No. This is her mother’s moment. There will be time for her own reunion after.
“Darling,” Mother whispers, wrapping her free hand around Beth’s arm and squeezing. She’s practically trembling.
“It’s right there. You just have to reach out and take it. Twenty-two years, Mother, and it’s just minutes away now.”
Mother turns and meets her eyes. Beth takes in the wide, wet sheen in her gaze, her shaking hands, her pale cheeks. She smiles reassuringly and squeezes her mother’s hand.
“Tonight, just think about what you want. Nothing else matters.”
“And if he says no?”
Beth takes a deep breath and keeps her smile. “Then you and I will live cozily in a hovel somewhere and we’ll be happy there too.”
“Beth, I can’t let you—”
“You and me. We’d be scandalous ladies about town. And we’d be fabulous,” she says firmly. “But that’s not your future. You’re going to be married to one of the wealthiest men around, and he’s going to treat you like a damn queen.”
Mother huffs and glances about, like the actual queen could be loitering somewhere nearby, eager to be insulted.
“Mother, you can do this,” Beth insists.
“I can?”
“What’s scarier? Telling a good man you love him, or spending your future alone?”
“But I wouldn’t be alone,” Mother says slowly. “I’d have you.”
Beth smiles and leans up to kiss her cheek. They left their bonnets at the Ashmonds’. Shame; they were good bonnets.
“You’ll have me either way. But you could have a lot more than just me, if we knock.”’
“I don’t need anything else,” Mother says, gripping at her hand. “Truly.”
Beth nods. “I know. But let’s have more anyway. What do you say?”
Mother pulls her close for a moment before the decision settles over her. Her shoulders roll back, her neck lengthens, her jaw sets and Beth watches it all, fascinated. Her mother, indomitable, confident, and sure, takes the steps two at a time, dragging Beth along, laughing behind her.
And suddenly her doubts are truly gone. Mother gets what she wants when she looks like that. And what she wants—it’s what they all want. A happily-ever-after, as soon as someone comes to the door.