to Wives
Scotland—April 1822
The Day of Judgement had arrived, bringing Preston Worth with it. There was only one reason he was here. He had come for her. At last. Beatrice had known it the moment she’d seen him ride into the yard of the Maddox farmhouse. After months of anticipation and planning, the dreaded reckoning was here.
Beatrice closed her eyes, trying to find her calm centre, trying to fight the rising terror at the core of her, but to little effect. Months of knowing and planning were not the bulwarks of support she’d hoped they’d be. She fisted clammy hands in the folds of her skirt, desperate to find balance, desperate to hold back the swamping panic that swept her in stomach-clenching nausea, in the race of her heartbeat and the whir of her mind. From the window, she saw Preston swing off the horse and approach the house in purposeful strides. All coherent thought splintered into useless shards of what had once been whole logic.
She knew only two things in the precious seconds of freedom that remained. The first: she had to act now! Every panicked instinct she possessed screamed the same conclusion: grab the baby and run! Her freedom would end the moment he entered the farmhouse. The second was that her parents had outdone themselves this time. They’d sent her friend to be the horseman of her apocalypse. Therein lay the conundrum: she needn’t fear her friend, the one-time hero of her youth, the saviour of her Seasons when no one else would sign her dance card. She need only fear his message. How did one fight someone who wasn’t the enemy? But fight Preston she must. This was Armageddon, the end of her world as she preferred it, if she lost the battle that was to come.
She would not lose. She was Beatrice Penrose. She didn’t know how to lose, even in the face of great adversity. She’d born a child out of wedlock and survived. What greater adversity for a young woman was there than that? There were low murmurs of voices at the door, Mistress Maddox and Preston exchanging greetings and introductions. Beatrice unclenched her fists and smoothed her skirts where her hands had wrinkled them. She drew a deep breath, giving panic one last shove. She could allow herself to tremble all she liked on the inside. She just couldn’t show it, couldn’t let Preston see how much his visit terrified her.
At the sound of boots at the parlour door, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin with a final admonition: she was Beatrice Penrose, she would survive this, too. She had time for one last breath before the axe fell, his words chopping short her freedom. ‘Hello, Beatrice. I’ve come to fetch you home.’
She turned from the window to meet her fate—no, not her fate, her future. Fate was something you accepted. The future was something you carved for yourself, something you alone decided. That meant taking charge of this conversation right now. The future was here, standing before her; tall and dark-haired with a sharp hazel gaze, Preston, the friend of her youth as she’d always known him and yet there was a difference about him today that transcended the dusty boots and windblown hair, something she couldn’t put her finger on, not yet. Her mind was still too scattered. She desperately wished she could get her nerves under control.
Beatrice
