Chapter Seven
Beth
Beth holds her mother’s arm as they shuffle beneath the white columns outside the Adelphi Theatre, trying to stay together despite the push of the crowd. Their skirts are buffeted this way and that and Beth hears Mother cursing under her breath. It’s only more crowded when they finally make it from the hazy street outside into the narrow entry of the theater.
The dark red velvet walls and golden tassels make the space seem even smaller, and amid all the hoops and top hats, Beth forgets about their plans, simply following Mother as she charges through the crowd and up to the first mezzanine. The ton is all atwitter, excited for the benefit performance, many of the men crowing about how much they’ve donated in honor of Céline Céleste. Mother and Beth were the surprised recipients of two tickets donated by the Harringtons. Meredith is at home with her mother, who’s taken ill.
Beth has no idea how Gwen managed that, or if chance really did just fall into their laps. But she promised she’d arrange it, and arrange it she has. Now it’s Beth’s job to situate them in the right seats, if they can ever squeeze their way through. For all its benefits, the hoopskirt is rather impractical in a press of bodies, and even without a load of petticoats, by the time they get to their section in the mezzanine, both of them are sweating and heaving for air.
“I don’t know why you talked me into this,” Mother mutters as Beth guides her down to their thankfully empty row.
“Yes, this was my plan,” Beth says, shooting her a look before coming to a stop. “This is us,” she announces, motioning Mother forward. They shuffle between the seats all the way across the row, leaving Mother beside the lone empty seat at the end.
“Thank God,” Mother says as they finally plop down, or at least try.
Two minutes of shifting and they’ve settled their skirts around their legs, twisted to provide as much room on either side as possible. It’s still too close for comfort, but Beth forces a smile, determined to make the most of this.
Her enthusiasm for the evening is mostly about her plans with Gwen, but there’s a small thrill at the thought of seeing live theater. Father used to take them once every long while, but such good seats at such a lavish premiere would have been unthinkable. Certainly if it had been their money on the line, they wouldn’t be here tonight. She’ll need to thank Lady Harrington for the honor.
“Does this say what the play is about?” Mother wonders aloud, flipping through her crinkled program.
Beth leans over to get a look, having lost hers in the shuffle, and then spots Gwen and Lord Havenfort across the seat block. She waves, noting Mother looking up in her periphery. That frown doesn’t bode well.
Gwen gamely begins scooting between the seats, her demure navy skirts curled expertly to allow her room to maneuver. Clearly Gwen and Lord Havenfort frequent the theater. Gwen’s grin is contagious, and Beth beams back. She laughs when Gwen plops dramatically down beside her.
“Horrid getting up here, isn’t it?” Gwen says, before glancing back at her father and rather obviously checking the seat number. “Oh dear, Beth, are you in Father’s seat?”
“She isn’t,” Mother says immediately before tightening her jaw. That came out rather hard and fast.
“We checked,” Beth says apologetically, glancing up as Lord Havenfort reaches Gwen’s side. “What’s your number, Lord Havenfort?”
“Ten,” he says, glancing at his ticket.
“Oh, that’s next to Mother,” Beth says sweetly, ignoring Gwen’s not-so-subtle nudge.
“We can just scoot down,” Mother says.
Beth bites her lips, glancing over at Mother, but she’s struggling already to move her skirts. The group waits a beat, and Beth holds her breath, fearing that Mother will manage to free herself and their plans will be dashed. But their lack of theater experience in the new hoopskirts seems to prevail and Mother huffs, entirely stuck.
“Why don’t you sit beside Lady Demeroven,” Gwen says innocently, looking back up at her father. “It’ll take all three of us ages to move our skirts.”
Lord Havenfort frowns, looking down at them, squished into their seats, hoops only just settled into place. “Yes, all right. Don’t bother, Lady Demeroven, really,” he adds, nodding to Mother before turning on his heel to exit the other end of the row.
“These preposterous skirts,” Mother hisses, shifting in her seat. “Ridiculous.”
“We’ll get better at them,” Beth placates.
“I suppose, but one can’t even move. Your father shouldn’t have to do acrobatics simply to take his seat,” Mother says, leaning around Beth to look at Gwen.
“He doesn’t mind,” Gwen says, smiling brightly back at her. “And he’ll be much better behaved with you. He heckles.”
“What, you don’t egg him on?” Beth returns, swatting her arm and laughing as Gwen blushes.
“She’s worse than I am.”
They all turn to find a slightly winded Lord Havenfort standing at the other end of the row.
“And whose fault is that?” Gwen says.
He rolls his eyes and sits down next to Mother. “Mrs. Gilpe’s,” Lord Havenfort says.
“An aunt?” Mother asks, and Beth has to clench her jaw to keep from laughing at the surprised look on Mother’s face, as if the question just popped out on its own.
“Housekeeper. You met her once,” Lord Havenfort says idly, flipping through his program.
“Yes, with your maid. Lovely women,” Mother agrees, staring straight ahead.
But Lord Havenfort doesn’t seem to notice. “Oh, blast, I didn’t realize this was a Webster role.”
“Really?” Gwen asks, slumping beside Beth.
“What . . . do you have against Benjamin Webster?” Beth asks, glancing between them. “Isn’t he the talk of the ton? They had a benefit for him earlier this year too.”
“He’s an absolute cad,” Lord Havenfort proclaims.
Beth looks down at her lap, lip between her teeth. The Havenforts certainly are more worldly than they are.
“You would know,” she hears Mother say under her breath.
Beth winces and Gwen huffs as the lights begin to dim.
“Would you like to hit him with a croquet mallet too, then, or was that just for me?” she hears Lord Havenfort whisper.
“This was a mistake,” Beth hisses to Gwen, slipping her arm through Gwen’s amid the coughing and rustling of program pages.
“Give it time,” Gwen says, her elbow squeezing Beth’s to her side a little jerkily before she shifts, slouching down beside her so their heads are at the same height.
“Intentionally hitting a man with a croquet mallet would be battery, wouldn’t it? I can’t abandon Beth to the season alone.”
Beth turns, staring at her mother with wide eyes. Gwen stifles a laugh. Lord Havenfort gapes at Mother, who simply flips a page in her program as if she’s commented on the weather. But Beth can see a little tilt to her mouth.
“That’s your only hesitation, Miss Demeroven’s season?”
“And prison, I suppose. Though they might let me off with a warning, don’t you think?” Mother wonders, glancing at Lord Havenfort. The scandalized look on his face cracks her and she laughs.
He frowns before shaking his head. “You’ve always been incorrigible.”
“One of my better charms,” Mother agrees.
“Despite Father’s opinion,” Beth mutters to Gwen.
Gwen nudges her. “My father clearly thinks it’s charming.”
“What are you girls whispering about?” Lord Havenfort asks while the final stragglers make their way into the hall, muttering excuses.
“Beth thinks it’ll be a morality play. I think it will be a murder,” Gwen says smoothly.
“Mmm, I vote both,” Lord Havenfort says. “Lady Demeroven?”
“Oh, I hope it’s not a morality play,” Mother says. “Dreadfully dull.”
“Sometimes they’re fun,” Beth argues. “If there’s enough that’s exciting before the moralizing kicks in.”
“Gwen, I think you’ve found a good friend,” Lord Havenfort says. Gwen grins.
“What did I say?” Beth wonders.
“Gwen is all for the blood sport and scandal, and then she’ll suffer a morality play. I find them interesting without.”
“Only because you like to deconstruct the story. You’ve no more room for morals than Benjamin Webster,” Mother says stiffly.
“Time has not dulled your edge, has it?” Lord Havenfort asks.
Mother shrugs and Beth settles back in her seat, dejected. It had seemed it was going rather well. Sportingly, but well. But Mother has her mind set on disliking the man, it’s clear. And once her mind is set it’s impossible to move her.
The lights go down to their lowest and the curtains open below them on the proscenium.
“I should not have shouted at you. The competition brought out the worst in me,” Lord Havenfort whispers.
“It did,” Mother agrees. “I didn’t intend to hit you with the mallet, for what it’s worth.”
Lord Havenfort chuckles. “That’s something.”
Mother sits up primly, the matter apparently settled. The two studiously avoid looking at each other and turn their attention to the production.
Gwen sighs and Beth shifts closer to her. “Not as bad as it could have been?” she whispers.
“I suppose,” Gwen agrees. “Toe to toe though.”
Beth nods, leaning into Gwen and forcing herself to focus on the stage rather than their quarrelsome parents.
It’s not a murder, and the morals are rather obvious, but Beth enjoys the characters and relationships of George Darville. Despite Lord Havenfort’s opinion of the man, Benjamin Webster gives an excellent portrayal of a man driven to despair by guilt. And Céline Céleste is radiant as Marion. Beth finds herself captivated by Céleste’s expressions—the way she turns from joy to grief, moves through anger and betrayal—it’s incredible.
“She’s beautiful,” Gwen whispers.
“Yes,” Beth agrees, a little awestruck. She’s never seen a woman embody a character so completely before. “It feels so real.”
“I’d like to clout him,” Gwen says.
“Trip him down the street.”
“A croquet mallet to the family jewels might be warranted,” Gwen returns.
Beth giggles, biting at her lip as Mother shushes them. Gwen snickers next to her.
“Incorrigible, you are,” Gwen whispers.
Beth swats at her knee and Gwen nudges back. Beth’s smile doesn’t leave her face for the rest of the performance, and they continue to whisper throughout. Gwen’s delight is infectious.
When the curtain goes down, the audience explodes in applause. Beth and Gwen struggle to their feet, tugging at each other’s skirts to stand with the rest of the assembled. They clap enthusiastically, beaming. Gwen even whoops.
Beth glances over at their parents only to find them in a heated debate already.
“Oh dear,” she says, reality crashing back in on her. She elbows Gwen, who leans around her in dismay.
“I just don’t see why she had to die,” Lord Havenfort exclaims.
“It’s not a tragedy without a death,” Mother replies.
“Why not make her a Lady M? A coconspirator. Wouldn’t that have been more entertaining?”
“At one of the premiere theaters, you expect a modern Lady M? It would be a scandal.”
“Better a scandal than a moralistic, heavy-handed, self-aggrandizing—”
“Does nothing please you?” Mother returns, her voice ringing around them even through the applause.
“Father, people are staring,” Gwen hisses.
Lord Havenfort puts up his hands. But he and Mother continue to glare at each other. They turn back toward the stage, grudgingly clapping along.
“Though he does have a point,” Gwen mutters to Beth as she leans back into place.
“She should have taken the money and run. Far too good for him,” Beth agrees, shifting away from Mother lest she hear.
She can’t imagine Mother approved of Céline Céleste’s character dying, just that she’s aware that making her complicit in the long-term con of using stolen money to improve her husband’s station wouldn’t sit well with the society set. Honestly, Lord Havenfort’s proposal sounds like a much more interesting play. Not that this was bad, by any means. But really, the woman dying of grief because her husband gave her a good life, even if through dubious means?
The curtains close on the bows, and Beth turns her attention to trying to squeeze her way through the seats. Gwen bends down and helps Beth twist her hoop. Beth smiles and takes her hand gratefully as they clear the seats and scurry up behind their parents. Gwen’s palm is sweaty in her own. They shuffle along, exchanging winces in the push of the crowd.
“Just say you agree with me.”
“I will not.”
Beth groans and Gwen squeezes her hand. Their parents continue to bicker all the way down the stairs and into the lobby. Even as Lord Havenfort gallantly takes Mother’s arm to lead her onto the street, he’s needling her, insisting she agree.
“Dogged, isn’t he?” Beth wonders. They follow through the open lobby doors and onto the street, traipsing down to join the line queuing for hired coaches.
“Decidedly,” Gwen agrees with a sigh. “But speaking is better than not. I think your mother enjoys it, really.”
“Possibly,” Beth says, scrutinizing the clench of her mother’s jaw—whether that’s all anger and indignation, or her trying to hide a bit of a smirk. She does like to argue.
Beth and Gwen spend a pleasant few minutes watching the crowd and exchanging thoughts on the play. It’s the freest Beth’s felt in days, and it’s glorious. Even if their parents aren’t quite getting along, this is far better than anything else they’ve done this week. And surely far better than any time spent with Lord Montson.
Gwen’s hand is warm in hers and their cheeks are both pink from laughing as they whisper about Céline Céleste. Beth thinks it’s possible Céline and Webster are having an affair; their passion was so real. But Gwen’s convinced Céline is far too good for him and would never stoop to sleeping with a cad. Beth nudges her and Gwen just grins, bright eyed and standing as close as she can against the wind.
“All right fine!” Mother exclaims.
“Hah!” Lord Havenfort grins. “You’re far too intelligent to enjoy something so patronizing.”
Mother rolls her eyes and pulls her arm from his. Beth’s not sure how they made it to the front of the queue so quickly. She’s been too distracted, giggling with Gwen and making up an increasingly exciting romantic life for Céline Céleste. She wants to stay in this peaceful, playful moment longer.
“You’re a horrible snob, you know,” Mother says as she reaches back for Beth.
Beth holds on to Gwen, not eager to be parted just yet. They’ve barely had any time together as it is. “Mother, couldn’t we—”
“You’ve an important promenade in the morning. Come along, we’ll leave your friend to her father’s boasting. My apologies, Lady Gwen.”
Gwen snorts and then covers her mouth. Lord Havenfort laughs and steps back to take Gwen’s arm. Gwen holds on to the tips of Beth’s fingers and squeezes, before letting go with a chagrined smile as the two of them are pulled apart by their parents.
“Good evening, Lady Demeroven, Miss Demeroven,” Lord Havenfort says, tipping his hat.
Mother simply rolls her eyes, but Beth smiles back and then lets Mother tug her to the front of the line. Mother steps up first, smiling demurely at the footman helping everyone into the carriages, as if she hasn’t just spent the last ten minutes sniping at one of the most titled men in the city.
Beth glances back at Gwen, who gives her a subtle thumbs-up, and then lets herself be handed into the carriage after Mother. They settle onto opposite seats and the carriage lurches forward.
“What a horrid, smug man,” Mother says, brushing at her slightly disheveled curls.
Beth nods absently, watching Mother look out the window. It may not have been a roaring success—no moony looks, no simpering or flirtation—but Beth thinks Mother doth protest a bit too much.
* * *
It’s hot again. The sun beats down on them and even her bonnet can’t quite keep the light from her eyes. Beth has to squint every time she looks up at Lord Montson. And since he won’t stop talking about his racing horses, she’s forced to stare into its brightness over and over.
Beth nods at the right moments, faking a smile, even as she’d like to interrupt to request they take a seat anywhere at all. The grass. On the riverbank. Even right here on the path would be nice. But Lord Montson doesn’t seem to notice. She glances over her shoulder at their mothers, following them at a discreet distance. But the two women look utterly unaffected by the blinding sun and the rising heat, avidly watching the pair of them.
Beth sighs quietly and hums as Lord Montson describes the last race his champion stallion won. She thinks maybe he said its name is Racepoint. Rather on the nose, really.
It’s not that promenading with Lord Montson is wholly unpleasant. Other than his obsession with racehorses, he’s polite and interesting enough. And he seems rather taken with her, all things considered. This is their second promenade this week. Her feet hurt.
Lord Montson chuckles at his own joke, something about divots, and smiles as he glances at her. She wishes she could talk to Gwen. Their evening at the theater seems months ago, even if it was only a few days. In the interim it’s been all trips to the modiste, and the florist, and morning calls to mothers in Lady Ashmond’s circle to get their approvals. No time for purely social calls or friendship or anything fun.
Beth just wants to sit down with Gwen and ask how on earth she’s supposed to survive more of this. Every single interaction Beth has is discussed with her mother ad nauseum. She must think about her laugh and her posture and the stories she can tell. Everything must be enticing and alluring, and God forbid she show any true human emotion or exhaustion. Ladies are nothing but grateful for male attention.
It doesn’t seem to bother Lord Montson either. He’s affable always—the picture of easy countenance and good disposition. Though Beth supposes it probably doesn’t matter much to him. He’ll be earl one day, whether he marries her or not. Beth, on the other hand, has just one shot at being his countess, as Mother has reminded her every single morning this week.
“My apologies, Miss Demeroven. I’ve gone on about my horses for quite a while, haven’t I?”
Beth looks up at Lord Montson, shaken from her broody thoughts. “It’s interesting,” she lies.
He smiles at her. He is a very handsome young man. She wishes it inspired more in her. But though Mother has teased her about her exhaustion, suggesting it’s because she’s up at night daydreaming about Lord Montson, she’s felt nothing but indifference about him since the ball.
Even Mother seems to feel more for Lord Havenfort when they argue than Beth does for Lord Montson on a lovely stroll.
Shouldn’t she be swooning? He’s swoon-worthy, she can tell. But there’s no swoon in her.
“Tell me, what could you discuss for hours?” he asks.
“I’m sure nothing of interest,” Beth says immediately.
“I highly doubt that,” Lord Montson says, giving her an encouraging look. “Young ladies are so accomplished—much more accomplished than I could ever hope to be. After all, I simply own the horses—the jockeys have all the skill. You must have something you enjoy. Please, it’s your turn to go on.”
Beth laughs a little at that. “I quite like chess, I suppose,” she admits.
“You do?”
He looks so surprised. Is that not something young ladies often enjoy? “Mother and I usually play at least one game a day, and duets as well. I’m decent at needlepoint.”
“I’ve never had the dexterity for needlework,” Lord Montson says seriously.
“It would hurt your back,” she says solemnly.
He snorts. “I suppose. What’s your favorite thing you’ve ever done in needlepoint?”
Beth looks across the lake, surprised by the question. The true answer—what she’d tell Gwen—is a profane limerick that had Mother shouting for almost thirty minutes. Of course, Mother then promptly hung it in her drawing room behind the chaise, so she could look at it and laugh without Father knowing.
“I’ve done a few of the view of our gardens,” Beth says instead. “And the forest. I don’t race horses, but I do quite like riding, and I’ve memorized more than one of the trails.”
“I love forests!”
Beth meets his eyes, trying not to laugh at the pink in his cheeks. “I do too.”
“They’re so peaceful,” he says, his voice lower and more serious even as that flush creeps up from his collar too.
“I always wanted a secret tree house,” Beth says, feeling like she owes him some admission as well.
“Really?” Lord Montson asks, his embarrassment fading in light of what seems like genuine interest. He’s a sweet boy.
Beth shrugs as she fiddles with her gloves. “There were a few spots on our lands that would have been perfect, but Father was never home long enough to see it commissioned. I’d still like to do it someday,” she continues, thinking of that dappled little clearing with the enormous oak tree. “Of course, they’re not my lands anymore.”
“We could do it on mine,” Lord Montson says.
Beth looks up at him, surprised. “Oh?”
“I can think of a few good spots. Would be nice for the children.”
That makes her chest tighten and Beth forces a smile. She’s not sure at all that she wants his children, nor that she wants her fabled tree house on his lands. Never her lands. She won’t have her own lands after this at all, even if they do marry. Even if he comes into a thousand acres, they won’t be hers.
Just then, Mother and Lady Ashmond catch up to them. Beth curtsies as Lady Ashmond makes their apologies. Lord Ashmond has a dinner for some of the sitting Lords, and they must get back.
“So much fuss about this silly Matrimonial Causes Act,” Lady Ashmond says to Mother. “As if we need to change the whole shape of marriage.”
“Mother,” Lord Montson admonishes.
Beth remembers Mother mentioning how in favor she is of the act. Yet another thing they’ll have to hide from the earl, along with the dire state of their fortune, and her own intense dislike of herring.
“I’d much rather walk another few miles with you,” Lord Montson tells Beth.
Beth smiles, and it almost doesn’t feel forced. She accepts his kiss to her hand and then watches as he takes his leave, bowing to her mother before escorting his own away.
“That went well,” Mother says as she steps up to take Beth’s arm.
Beth leans into her and they head in the opposite direction. “Did it?” she wonders.
“He looked genuinely regretful of leaving you,” Mother replies.
Beth shrugs. She thinks her company is certainly better than most of the Lords’, at least the ones who used to visit Father in the country. They weren’t in favor of the act either, if she remembers. None of them seemed to think a woman might have any reason to leave a marriage unless she was being beaten bloody, and therefore they saw no reason to remove arbitration from the church’s clutches.
“Do you think if the Matrimonial Act had been passed you might have—”
“The viscount seems a lovely young gentleman. Tell me, what did you discuss?”
Beth purses her lips as Mother stares straight ahead, walking just a bit faster than before. Heaven forbid they talk of anything but Lord Montson.
“He’s nice,” Beth allows.
“He seems far more than nice,” Mother says, prompting her with a little nudge.
“He’s fine,” Beth says, a little louder than she means to. A few older mothers look their way and Beth blushes. “There’s nothing bad about him.”
“A glowing review.”
“I don’t know, Mother,” Beth clips back, frustrated by her own disinterest.
There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Lord Montson. And yet there’s just . . . nothing there. She feels empty, like she’s observing herself be courted from afar.
They walk silently for a long while, crossing most of the park. She’s coming to hate this place, even with the pink flowers blooming on the shrubs and the thick green of the leaves that throw intricate patterns onto the manicured grass. She wishes she could ride through their forest paths instead.
“Should it feel like more?” she asks, thinking of Lord Montson’s kind offer to build her the tree house she’s always wanted. How hollow it left her.
“More?”
“He’s perfectly lovely,” Beth admits. “Just . . . it’s only pleasant. Should it feel like more than that?”
“Pleasant is more than many women ever get,” Mother says immediately, before turning pensive.
“So I should be happy with my lot,” Beth deduces, swallowing against a rush of disappointment.
Mother opens her mouth a few times, but doesn’t seem to come up with anything to say as they walk the few blocks back to their townhouse. Beth sags against her, a deep melancholy settling over her shoulders. She should be grateful, but she just feels cross and disappointed.
As they head inside and remove their bonnets, she considers her mother. Surely she wants more for Beth. Surely she wanted more for herself.
“Was it ever pleasant with Father?” Mother stills, her hand curling around her gloves, knuckles going white. “Were you satisfied with just pleasant? Should I be grateful he doesn’t yell, like Father did?”
“Beth,” Mother says, her voice taking on that edge that comes with exhaustion and exasperation.
“Gwen says Lord Havenfort’s never cross like Father was. That even when he’s mad, he’s kind about it. Could you tell that Father would be frightening? Was he pleasant before he turned into a brute?”
“Beth,” Mother snaps, her voice hard.
“Shouldn’t I at least make sure Lord Montson will be kind? Even if he’s a rake, Lord Havenfo—”
“Of course he isn’t,” Mother lets out, her voice ringing around the narrow foyer. “There isn’t a mean bone in Dashiell’s body. He’s affable, and kind, and frighteningly fair.”
Beth stares, lost for words. Mother runs a hand through her hair, tugging it down from its sweaty wrap so her hairpins fall and ping against the floor.
“And I’m sorry that I couldn’t model the ideal marriage for you, and that my choices continue to be a disappointment. But Lord Montson is a kind boy, whose father, while a blowhard, has no reputation for the kind of drinking yours did. You’d be lucky to marry into the Ashmond family. It’s more than I could ever have hoped for. Be grateful,” she insists, before turning on her heel and storming up the stairs, leaving Beth alone in the ringing silence left behind her.
Beth spends the next few hours on the precipice of tears, unsure whether they’re for herself or her mother. All she knows is a pervasive sadness has settled over the whole household. Even Miss Wilson can’t quite muster a smile or idle chatter as she helps Beth dress for dinner.
If her mother really did love Lord Havenfort, and was forced to marry her father instead, then she left love for psychological torture. She always says Beth was worth every cruel word her father uttered, but that can’t be true.
He was horrible. Vindictive. She never saw him hit her mother, and Mother’s never discussed it, but she knows there was occasional violence. He never struck Beth, though she thought he might more than once. What would he think, to see her so conflicted over such an advantageous match?
Beth shakes herself as she enters the lonely dining room. Mother’s already seated at the head of the table, frowning down into her fish. What her father would think doesn’t matter, but what her mother thinks still does. She suffered a lifetime for Beth. Beth can suffer the next few months, can’t she?
“I’m sorry,” Beth whispers as she sits down on Mother’s left.
Mother looks up and meets her eyes, her own slightly bloodshot. She made her mother cry.
“It’s all right, sunshine,” Mother says, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “This is hard.”
Beth nods, a lump in her throat. “I’m still sorry.”
“So am I,” Mother says softly. “Now, eat up. I don’t know about you, but I think I sweat my body weight on that walk. My goodness, can that woman blather on.”
Beth laughs despite herself and reaches up to wipe at her watery eyes. She takes a large swig of wine, and nearly chokes. She looks down into the glass and realizes it’s a full tumbler of brandy.
“I raided your father’s liquor cabinet. Thought we needed it,” Mother says with a shrug.
Beth coughs and then takes another sip, letting the burn of the alcohol wash away her melancholy. “Could have done with some on the walk,” she says, smiling as Mother snorts.
“I’m sure Lord Montson’s much more engaging than his mother.”
“He is,” Beth agrees. “And I—you’re right, I should be—I am grateful, that he’s interested. I’ll try my best.” She says it willingly, but the knot in her stomach twists tighter.
A boring life with Lord Montson wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. And perhaps she and Mother could still ride together daily. If Mother could stand seeing Lady Ashmond that often.
They sit quietly for a few minutes, focused on forcing down their fish. Beth fights against a gag. She wishes they hadn’t had to let their cook, Mrs. Mildred, go. Miss Wilson’s the best housekeeper in the world, but cooking isn’t her forte, especially when it comes to fish.
Beth glances over at her mother, struck suddenly with the vision of her eating alone in an even emptier house. If Beth does marry Lord Montson, surely they’ll see each other often, but Mother will end up somewhere else. They won’t dine together anymore. Beth will be dining with Lord Montson and the earl, and Mother will dine alone, in another house with the rooms draped in sheets, closed off and unused.
“Do you ever think about it?” Beth asks, the question popping out of her mouth before she can stop herself.
“Think about what?” Mother asks, glancing up at her and then straightening at whatever look has overtaken her face.
“Getting married again. After I’m settled. You’re eligible now.” Mother gapes at her. “I just—if you found someone wonderful—not just someone fine or kind. Would you marry again? If it was for love?”
Mother swallows and blinks at her, her gaze turning far away, truly considering her question. Beth buries her eyes back into her undersalted fish, unable to watch the emotions play across Mother’s face. Maybe it was cruel to ask, no matter what she and Gwen hope could happen—maybe she shouldn’t even dangle the thought into the world.
“I’ve already had my great love,” Mother says a few minutes later.
Beth looks up, startled, and finds Mother regarding her softly. Was it Lord Havenfort? Beth’s afraid to ask.
“You,” Mother says with a little smile.
Beth forces herself to return it, to thank Mother and squeeze her hand. But it breaks her heart, to think her mother can’t even imagine finding love again. Or is it perhaps that she can’t imagine finding it for the first time?
She and Gwen have to succeed. Forget whether Beth marries Lord Montson or not. Her mother deserves to have love at least once in her life. And Beth—Beth will be fine.