bit down on the poignant memory of her own parents’ deaths and the aloneness felt since. No one had ever looked out for her. If they had, then perhaps…? Shaking away memories, she concentrated on the moment.
A large group of servants were waiting as they pulled up into the circular drive, white pebbles clattering beneath the wheels of the carriage. She saw how Taris clasped his ebony cane and placed his fist against the handle, a habit she supposed of realising the exact moment when they stopped and when the door might open.
Always in control. Always cognisant of the slightest change in circumstance so that he would not be surprised.
The old man who opened the carriage door looked delighted by Taris Wellingham’s arrival.
‘Master Taris.’
‘Thompson.’ Instant recognition and his hand thrust forward. ‘I trust you are faring well up here.’
‘Better than in the city, my lord.’
‘And your wife, Margaret. Is she keeping well?’
‘Indeed, my lord. I will tell her that you asked after her.’
Another man strode up to join them and the same sort of conversation ensued. Taris Wellingham was a lord who would take the time to know old retainers on a familiar basis. Frankwell had never made an effort to learn the name of even one servant and consequently there was a never-ending stream of them through the house. Another thought occurred to her. Perhaps the ploy had been deliberate on his part to keep her isolated from any friendships? Loyal servants might have bolstered her revolt and led her to believe the fault did not lie entirely within her.
How naïve and stupid she once had been. That was the worst of it. The knowledge that a man had kept her so trapped and down-trodden made her feel diminished and guilty. A woman with a secret of shame.
Following Taris down the line of servants, she was surprised when he stopped and brought her to his side to make introductions to the housekeeper and the head butler. This was what a husband might do when first bringing a wife to his family domain, and she was hardly that. The strangeness of it all was confusing and she was glad when they walked up the front steps and came inside.
The entrance hall was beautiful. A wide staircase wound its way from the ground to the first and second floors, the banisters of old polished oak. Off the hall to all sides were numerous doors.
When one opened suddenly she saw an old woman sitting in a wheelchair, a blanket across her knees and a very fine gold-and-ruby necklace resting in the folds of her heavy woollen gown.
‘The Dowager Duchess is waiting in the blue salon, my lord.’ Bates’s voice was quiet and as he walked away Bea was surprised that Taris turned her aside with a whispered confidence.
‘My mother can be a little overpowering sometimes, but as she is old I usually humour her views.’
‘ You sound worried that I might not.’
He laughed. ‘It is not her I am trying to protect with such a warning, Bea, but you.’
‘I am not a green girl…’
‘She has some knowledge of your past.’
‘Oh.’ The wind was quite taken from her sails and where interest had been before, there now lingered dread. How much did she know and who had told her?
‘Mama.’ Taris leant down to kiss her forehead. Here in Falder Beatrice noticed his new ease of movement. He had even placed the cane at the front door with his cloak and hat.
His mother’s hands came across his and she held them close, the look on her face one of love and then considerable interest as her gaze fell behind him.
‘And you have brought a visitor…?’
‘Mama, may I present Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke. Beatrice, this is my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Carisbrook. I have asked Beatrice down for a few weeks in the hope of showing her Falder.’
‘I see.’ The woman’s eyes slid across her face, missing nothing. ‘I was sorry to hear of the recent loss of your husband, Mrs Bassingstoke.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My own husband was incapacitated for his last few years and I know how very difficult it can be.’
Beatrice nodded.
‘Did you have much help with him?’ Inside the question Beatrice sensed knowledge.
‘I did not, Duchess.’
‘No mother or father? No sisters or cousins?’
She waited as Bea shook her head.
‘No one?’
The silence stretched out until the old woman gestured her forwards. ‘Then you are in need of a good holiday, my dear. A long overdue holiday, I should imagine. Do you play whist?’
‘Badly.’
Taris’s mother began to laugh. ‘Emerald told me just the same. Do you like the sea too?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The sea. Emerald enjoys the ocean. I was wondering if that was some other thing you had in common?’
‘I have not had much experience of water, Duchess.’
‘Horses, then? Do you ride?’
‘I used to ride well once, but—’ She stopped.
‘Then you must do so again. Taris has a number of his steeds standing at Falder. He will help you choose an appropriate mount. What of dancing? Are you a woman who enjoys a whirl on the floor?’
Before she could stop herself Bea reddened rather dramatically, thinking of the one and only waltz she had danced in her entire life. And then she took in a breath. My God, this woman would think she was a dolt should she keep up with this tack. ‘I read extensively, Duchess, and write too.’
‘Novels?’
‘No. Tracts for The London Home, a new broadsheet for women exploring various options that they may wish to take in their lives.’
‘Making up for lost time, then?’
Taris interrupted her. ‘It is getting late, Mama, and we need to refresh ourselves before dinner.’
‘Which room has the housekeeper placed her in?’
‘The green salon at the top of the stairs.’
‘No, that will not do at all. Put her in the gold
room, for it is far more restful. She will like that room better.’
Taris’s smile broadened. ‘You are sure?’
‘I am,’ she said curtly before turning away, the first surprising beginnings of tears on her lashes.
