Chapter Five
Beth
The sun beats down on the park and Beth feels a trickle of sweat making its way along the back of her neck. She’s glad they’ll at least have the evening to themselves tonight. She doesn’t think her hair will have survived being under her bonnet all afternoon.
Mother wipes daintily at her face with a lace handkerchief and sighs. Beth glances up at her and then looks back out at the park, barely listening as Mother returns to her endless list of eligible young men and the family fortunes that come with them.
They didn’t speak for the rest of the day after the croquet fiasco. And the next morning her mother came down to breakfast with an intensity toward Beth’s courting that was frankly frightening.
Gone are their easy morning chats over the daily papers. Gone are the chess matches and even the duets.
Breakfast teas, midmorning teas, luncheons, morning calls, picnics, and dinners have filled every available speck of time so far this week. And all of them conspicuously missing Gwen’s presence.
As if at the mere thought of her name, Beth spots Gwen across the green, stuck in a conversation with a few mothers. A chaperone, who must be her housekeeper, stands a few paces off to the side. Beth wants to walk across the park and steal Gwen away. Talk about anything other than teas and balls and courting. Ask her to finish her story about the time she and her father got stranded while boating on their lake until her housekeeper had to come get them. She got interrupted at the Gentry tea just at the part where her father had fallen into the lake, and Beth wants to know what happened. Wants to hear Gwen tell her, all the delight and mischievousness in her voice. Beth’s pretty sure Gwen pushed him in, but won’t know until she gets to talk to Gwen again.
But Mother won’t see any time spent just with Gwen as valuable. Nothing Beth does can have just one purpose anymore. It all has to be for the cause, and Beth sighs, coming back to her mother’s long tirade about—dear Lord, lace hems? Gwen catches her eye, looking woefully over at them, unable to get away and just as miserable, listening to what must be an equally boring conversation.
They can’t let their plan peter out like this.
“Could we rest, Mother?” Beth asks softly, interrupting her explanation of the various intricacies of the Halyard fortune.
Mother looks down at her and takes in the flush that must be on her cheeks and her sweating forehead. The hoop beneath her petticoats and pale purple skirts lets in some air, but even that relief isn’t enough today. The sun directly on her shoulders is starting to smart. She likely looks just as miserable as she feels. Surely a rest to recover her poise can be allowed.
“Here, darling, let’s watch the boats,” Mother agrees, guiding Beth over to the side of the lake, where they can stare out at the numerous couples out for a pleasant boat ride.
They all look about as hot and uncomfortable as she feels, but at least they’re all wanted. She watches a blond girl throw her head back, laughing. The boy across from her looks delighted. And here Beth is, standing on the shore with her mother, invisible and happy that way. The boy’s gaze looks pleasant, but she’d rather just be home reading inside away from the heat.
“What’s the matter?” Mother asks, her voice soft.
Beth looks up and finds her mother’s face cleared of its frenzied mission for the first time all week. Beth shrugs, looking back at the boats, not wanting to disappoint her, but desperate to be honest. Desperate for how it was at their manor up in the country, just the two of them and Miss Wilson, wreaking havoc and living in peace.
“I feel like livestock being measured up for sale,” Beth admits, glancing behind them, noting the gentlemen who pass, giving them appraising looks.
Mother snorts quietly and Beth meets her gaze, surprised by the amusement and understanding on her face. “It is a lot, isn’t it?” she agrees. Beth fights against gaping. “I don’t remember doing quite this much with my mother. It seemed . . . easier when I was your age.”
Beth considers her, thinks about the precision with which she’s attacked this whole affair. The work and effort her mother is putting in, the nights spent calculating expenses and planning daily itineraries. There’s makeup hiding her exhaustion too, and the effort to be cheerful and charming is wearing on her just as much as it is on Beth.
“I doubt that,” Beth decides.
Mother laughs and pulls her closer, her arm squeezing Beth’s. And though it’s hot, she doesn’t quite mind the proximity.
“It’s dreadful,” Mother admits, shrugging as Beth stares at her. “I only did one season and I can’t tell you the relief when I finally married your father. I’ve had twenty-two years without this,” she says almost fondly.
But she had twenty of those with Beth’s father.
“Did you—” Beth starts, before biting her lip and looking out at the boats.
“What?” Mother asks gently.
Beth hesitates. She doesn’t want to ask, but she wants to know. Has always wanted to know. “Did you marry Father just to escape this?”
She can’t look at her mother. Can’t stand to see the hurt she’s caused with her curiosity, but she needs to know. Her horrible, dismissive, cruel father. Was twenty years beneath his thumb worth it just to escape the uncertainty of the season?
Her mother’s hand curls over her elbow, gentle pressure. Beth sneaks a glance up at her and finds Mother watching her not with anger, but with understanding.
“I want to tell you it was love that forced my hand, but I can’t,” she admits, ghost regret on her face, but no pain. “I made a choice for security—so my parents wouldn’t worry about me—so I could provide for the children I desperately wanted,” she continues, reaching out with her free hand to brush a wayward hair from Beth’s forehead.
“But he was so—”
Mother nods. “But I got you,” she insists. “And this is not what I wanted for you. I want you to know that,” she adds seriously.
Beth nods quickly. She won’t complain about why they’re here today, just that here is . . . unpleasant.
“And I’m sorry this is how it is for you too,” Mother continues.
Beth breaks her gaze, turning back to the boats before sadness overtakes them too much. “Was any of it fun, at all?” she asks, going for wry and falling a bit flat.
But Mother rallies. “Some of it,” she says, nudging Beth as she narrows her eyes skeptically.
“Like what?”
“The boats. I had . . . a gentleman friend before I met your father, and he was a wondrous dancer,” Mother tells her.
“But only a friend?” Beth wonders.
She’s often thought that there was no way her mother didn’t have other suitors in her season. With her beauty, wit, and charm, she must have been the belle of every ball she entered. Beth is a pale imitation of how lively her mother was when she was younger. In truth, she’s still a pale imitation of her now.
“He wasn’t in line to inherit and didn’t have the security of a title that Father wanted for my future,” Mother says, staring off at the boats herself. “But we had fun for a while.”
Beth watches the happy couple in the nearest boat, the girl bright and flushed, the boy beaming and bashful. She can’t remember her mother ever looking at her father that way. Can’t remember her father ever looking anything other than indifferent.
Did Mother blush like that when her first beau looked her way? Was she ever so happy and carefree? Was she ever in love, even once?
“My hope for you is that you meet someone who makes you laugh, and makes the endless formalities feel a little fun and silly,” Mother says, turning her gaze back to Beth. “You’ve every chance of it this season, and I know it’s onerous, but if you open yourself up to it, I’m sure you’ll find a wonderful man.”
Beth forces herself to nod, to appear as if she believes Mother’s words. But if her mother, with all her various assets, couldn’t fall in love with the right man, what chance does Beth have? The only company she’s enjoyed so far is Gwen’s.
“Shall we walk back toward home?” Mother asks, her false smile firmly back in place, all memory and melancholy locked away.
“Yes,” Beth agrees, allowing her to lead them from the bank and back onto the walking path. “And you promise, no events tonight?”
“None,” Mother assures her. “I thought we might play some duets after dinner?”
Beth smiles and leans into her. “I’d like that.”
They walk on for a few minutes, and Beth manages to ignore the appraising looks from the men and mothers around them, bolstered by her mother’s return, however brief, to normality. She’s missed her, wild as it seems, when they’ve done nothing but spend time together for the past week. But she hasn’t been Mother.
There’s more than enough pretending outside of their house. They shouldn’t have to keep pretenses up when it’s just the two of them.
Beth’s about to push her luck and ask if maybe they could play chess after duets when something thumps hard into her back. She stumbles, letting out a surprised yelp. Mother clutches at her to keep her from falling. They turn together to spot a rugby ball on the ground and a young man hurtling toward them, already shouting apologies.
Beth tries to reach around to rub at her back. Whoever threw that thing has quite the arm.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” the young man exclaims as he sprints up to them, coming to a halt just before he topples into them and sends them sprawling all over again.
“It’s all right,” Beth says automatically. She’d rather not have been hit with a wayward projectile, but he looks terribly upset.
It’s only when he stands up tall and gives a little bow that she has a moment to truly take him in. Statuesque with a chiseled jawline and well-coifed but slightly askew chestnut brown hair—he’s very pretty, for a boy.
“My sincerest apologies. I’m a terrible shot,” the man says, looking at her askance. “And I, well, Viscount Montson, I am horrified to have caused you pain and ask your forgiveness, and your attendance to at least one dinner at my home, and a tea, and do you like pastries?”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Montson,” Mother steps in, saving the poor boy. Beth’s just dizzied by how many social engagements she’s now required to attend for getting hit in the back. “Your father is the Earl of Ashmond?”
“Yes,” Lord Montson says. “And he’ll be thoroughly upset to hear what I’ve done. I believe you are Lady Demeroven?”
“Yes,” Mother says, giving him a winning smile. “And my daughter, Miss Demeroven, is just fine, aren’t you, dearest?”
“I am,” Beth says honestly, though she doesn’t at all like the gleam in Mother’s eye. “You needn’t go to any trouble over it. It really wasn’t that painful.”
“I am glad in this moment to be such a terrible shot with a poor throw,” Lord Montson says with a grin.
Beth feels herself flush. “I’m sure you’ve a very powerful throw,” she says quickly, wincing as Mother fakes a cough to cover a laugh.
“Well, I’ve certainly a powerful interest in your first dance tomorrow night at the Smith Ball,” he says, and even Beth is impressed by how smooth that was.
“She’ll be delighted to dance with you, won’t you, darling?” Mother asks.
Beth winces. How embarrassing. “Yes, I would,” she says, meeting Lord Montson’s eyes. “Thank you, I look forward to it.”
“As do I,” Lord Montson says, holding out his hand to Beth.
She takes it after a moment of surprise, and then sucks in a breath as he raises her gloved hand to kiss the back of it. He has to bend quite a lot to manage. He’s very tall.
“Until tomorrow night then, Miss Demeroven. And I give you much leave to step on all of my toes in retribution.”
“She’s quite an accomplished dancer,” Mother says quickly.
“I’ll do my best to cause us no further mutual pain,” Beth says, smiling at him as he stands up. He still looks so concerned.
“Montson!” calls one of the other gents from his group.
Lord Montson looks over at them and nods before turning back to Beth and her mother, giving them a sweeping bow. “Farewell,” he says, and then stoops to pick up his ball and jogs off.
They stand there watching him go. What just happened?
“We need to go home immediately, get your dress, and get to the modiste,” Mother says after a stunned beat.
“What?” Beth exclaims, jerking into motion as Mother takes her arm again and practically drags her from the park. “But I thought we were playing duets and—”
“We’ve a future earl and his family to impress, and you’ve far too little lace on tomorrow night’s gown,” Mother says, ignoring Beth entirely. “We’ll need to cancel that order of beef. Miss Wilson can make something else for the weekend roast. Squash, perhaps? And we’ll need to visit the cobbler for new shoes—yours are so drab,” Mother mutters, rattling on and on as they hurry down the path.
Beth feels her shoulders come up as they stride out of the park, and it’s not just due to the dull ache from being smacked in the back by Lord Montson’s effusive throw.