not something to be undertaken lightly—and a man as rich as Lord Ravensden into the bargain!
“She says she has realised that she cannot be happy as his wife,” Beatrice said, frowning over her sister’s hurried scrawl. “And that she was cruelly deceived in his feelings for her.”
“What will she do now?”
“Lord Burton has told her she has one week to leave his house—so she asks if she may come here.”
“Come here?” Nan stared at her in dismay. “Does she realise how we go on here? She will find it very different to what she has been used to, Beatrice.”
“Yes, I fear she will,” Beatrice replied. “However, I shall speak to Papa at once, and then, if he agrees, I shall write and tell her she is welcome in this house.”
“My brother will agree to whatever you suggest,” Nan said a little wryly. “You must know that?”
Beatrice smiled, knowing that she always without fail managed to twist her father round her finger. He could refuse her nothing, for the simple reason that he was able to give her very little. Fortunately, Beatrice had a tiny allowance of her own, which came to her directly from a bequest left to her by her maternal grandmother, Lady Anne Smith.
Nan had given her a towel to dry herself, and Beatrice had used it to good effect. Her long hair was wild about her face, gleaming with reddish gold lights and giving her a natural beauty she had never noticed for herself. She handed the towel back to her aunt, and looked down at herself. Her gown was disgraceful, but her dear, forgetful papa would probably never notice.
“You realise Olivia will be an added burden on your father’s slender income?” Nan warned. “You have little enough for yourself as it is.”
“My sister will be destitute if we do not take her in,” Beatrice replied, frowning. “I do not know whether they have cast her off without a penny—but it sounds as if they may have done so. It would be cruel indeed of me if I were to refuse to let her shelter in her own home.”
“Yes, and something you could never do,” Nan said warmly. “I have no objections, my love. I only wish you to think before you leap—unlike my poor brother.”
“We shall manage,” Beatrice said, and left her aunt with a smile.
The smile was wiped out the instant she left the room. She had not mentioned anything to Nan, because it was still not clear to her exactly what her sister’s rather terse words had meant—but clearly Lord Ravensden was not a man Olivia could love or respect. Indeed, if Beatrice was not mistaken, he was a hard, ruthless man who cared for little else but wealth and duty.
He had had the cold-hearted effrontery to tell one of his friends that he was marrying to oblige Lord Burton. Since the Burtons had no children of their own, the title and fortune would pass by entail to a distant cousin of Lord Burton. They had felt this was a little unfair on the daughter they had adopted, and so made their wishes known to Lord Burton’s heir: it would please them if he were to marry the girl they had lavished with affection since she came to them.
Apparently, Lord Ravensden had proposed to Olivia, giving her the impression that he cared for her—and it was only by accident that she had learned the truth. It must have distressed her deeply!
No wonder she had declared herself unable to love him. If Beatrice were not much mistaken, it would push any woman to the limits to find a place in her heart for such an uncaring man.
She wished that she might have him at her mercy for five minutes! It would give her the greatest pleasure to tell him exactly what she thought of him.
Chapter Two
Beatrice fought her rising temper. She was slow to anger, but when something offended her strong sense of justice—as it did now—she could be awesome in her fury.
“If I could but get my hands on him!” she muttered furiously. “He should see how it feels to be treated so harshly. I should make him suffer as he makes my poor sister.”
No, no, this would not do! She must appear calm and cheerful when speaking to Papa. He had so many worries, the poor darling. This burden must not be allowed to fall on his shoulders. As for the added strain on his slender income…well, it made the idea of her becoming a teacher at Mrs Guarding’s school even more necessary. If she could support herself, her father would be able to spare a few guineas a year for Olivia to dress herself decently—though not, her sister feared, in the manner to which she had become accustomed.
Beatrice paused outside the door to her father’s study, then knocked and walked in without waiting for an answer. It would have done her little good to wait. Mr Roade was engrossed in the sets of charts and figures on his desk, and would not have heard her.
Like many men of the time, he was fascinated with the sciences and the invention of all kinds of ingenious devices. Mr Roade was a great admirer of James Watt, who had invented the miraculous steam engine, which had begun to be used in so many different ways. And, of course, Mr Robert Fulton, the American, who had first shown his splendid steam boat on the Seine in France in 1803. Bertram Roade was certain that his own designs would one day make him a great deal of money.
“Papa…” Beatrice said, walking up to glance over his shoulder. He was working on an ingenious design for a fireplace that would heat a water tank fitted behind it and provide a constant supply of hot water for the household. It was a splendid idea, if only it would work. Unfortunately, the last time her father had persuaded someone to manufacture the device for him, it had overheated and blown apart, causing a great deal of damage and costing more than a hundred pounds, both to repair the hole in the kitchen wall and to repay the money invested by an outraged partner. Money they could ill afford.
“May I speak with you a moment?”
“I’ve nearly got the puzzle solved,” Mr Roade replied, not having heard her. “I’m sure I know why it exploded last time…you see the air became too hot and there was nowhere for it to escape. Now, if I had a valve which let out the steam before it built up…”
“Yes, Papa, I’m sure you are right.”
Mr Roade looked up. Beatrice was usually ready to argue his theories with him; he was none too sure that his most recent was correct, and had hoped to discuss it with her.
“You wanted to talk to me, my dear?” His mild eyes blinked at her from behind the gold-rimmed spectacles that were forever in danger of falling off his nose. “It isn’t time for dinner—is it?”
“No, Papa, not quite. I came to see you about another matter.” She took a deep breath. “Olivia wishes to come and stay with us. I would like your permission to write and tell her she will be welcome here for as long as she wishes.”
“Olivia…your sister?” He wrinkled his brow, as if searching for something he knew he must have forgotten. A smile broke through as he remembered. “Ah yes, she is to be married. No doubt she wishes for a chance to have a little talk with her sister before her wedding.”
“No, Papa. It isn’t quite like that. For reasons Olivia will make clear to us, she has decided not to marry Lord Ravensden. She wants to come and live here.”
“Are you sure you have that right, m’dear?” Mr Roade looked bewildered. “I thought it
