Regency Society

Her clothes were nothing at all like the ones she would have worn three months ago either, those shabby country garments that spoke of a life tempered by ill health and routine long gone, and the highly coloured velvets she had replaced them with as unusual as they were practical.

Unconventional.

Original.

Incomparable.

Words that were increasingly being used to describe her in the local papers and broadsheets.

She liked the sound of them, the very choice such description engendered. No expectation or cloying pragmatic sensibleness that had been the hallmark of her years with Frankwell.

She did not think of him now as the man who had hurt her, the image of an angry bully replaced by the child who had lingered longer. Hopeful and dependent.

When he had died she had laid him in his coffin with an armful of Michaelmas daisies because they had been his favourite and the church had rung with the sounds of children’s songs, the same tunes that he himself had sung in his final moments of life on this earth.

Sorrow had been leached though here in London, her life filling with new friends and new experiences. How fortunate she had been to have the Hardy sisters as neighbours, for within a week of arriving here their wide group of acquaintances had become her friends as well, their social standing making her own acceptance into society seamless. When they had taken her under their wing and encouraged her dream of having such a forum in her own salon she could barely believe the speed with which the whole idea had taken shape. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror and saw the way she smiled she could not remember the sombre woman who had fled Ipswich in a snowstorm.

Breathing out, she tried to stop the name that would come to her mind next. No, she would not think of him, of that night, of the way that he had left without even once glancing back; when her friend Elspeth Hardy came into the room with another pile of papers in her hands, Bea was glad of the interruption.

‘We have nowhere at all to put those, Elspeth. Perhaps if you could take them back upstairs we may discuss the contents next week.’

‘But they talk of the habit of wife selling, a topic that has been raised before—I wondered if they might add to the discussion?’

Bea screwed up her nose. ‘I have read many accounts of such a practice, and have become increasingly of the view that the intention of these bargains is a way in which a woman can move on with her life, both parties having agreed to the proceedings.’

‘ You are not against them? I cannot believe it of you!’

Beatrice laughed. ‘Often the purchaser is a lover. Would you not countenance such a path, given the impossibly difficult and expensive alternative of filing for a separation through church or court?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps you might be right…’

‘We will think about it later, for tonight I have prepared a talk on the ills of piracy and the human cost to such a vocation.’

‘Piracy! A topic that should appeal to the growing number of men now attending! Have you not noticed that, Bea? Over the last month we have had an almost equal composition of the sexes, which is…encouraging to say the least.’

Beatrice nodded and sought out the trays to set. The new financial independence that she had inherited on the death of her husband was sometimes bemusing and she still liked to do as much around the home as she had when her situation had been less flush.

Tonight, though, she felt nervous for some reason, her heartbeat heightened and her hands clumsy. When she dropped a cup it shattered on the parquet floor and as she bent to pick up the shards of china one cut deep into her forefinger.

The blood welled immediately, running down her palm and threatening the sleeve of her gown. Snatching at the muslin cover used for the cakes, she was thrown back into that darkened carriage outside Maldon when Taris Wellingham had offered her the square of material wrapped around the fruitcake as a scarf. At the time she had barely thought about it…but now? Other things began to pile into recollection. The way he used his hands and the scar that marred his forehead. No small accident that. An injury collected when he was a soldier, perhaps, or a little later…

‘Shall I find a bandage, Bea, or is that stopping?’ Elspeth’s sister Molly had come to join them.

‘No, it is all right, thank you.’ She gingerly took the fabric away and was relieved when the skin looked knitted and clean. The fear in her very bones did not diminish, however, and when the clock in the hallway struck seven o’clock she jumped visibly. Two days ago, as she had walked along the street to the bank, a man had jostled her quite forcibly, the pile of papers she held in her hands scattering around her. He had stayed long enough to peruse the contents and then had disappeared, neither helping her nor apologising.

He had seemed angry, though she could not truly catch sight of his face to determine if she had met him before. Perhaps the outwardly Bohemian nature of her lifestyle had galvanised him into a reaction that was rooted in fear. Fear that, should women start to think, they might displace men who were less astute in the work-force and in society. Her roots in business probably added to the equation, as the Bassingstoke fortune had been wrought from the hard sweat of rolling iron for the ever-burgeoning railway.

The whole thing was probably harmless, but added to the accident in the coach she was beginning to feel…watched.

Beatrice shook her head hard. It was half an hour before the first men and women would be arriving and she still had much to do. All this ruminating on a perceived menace would neither get the room organised nor help her ridiculous case of the jitters. Smiling at Elspeth and Molly, she resolved to put her worries aside, and, plumping the cushions in the room, she dusted off the seats of the chairs and sofas.

The downstairs salon was full to bursting and the discussions were under way when a new arrival made Beatrice stop in mid-sentence, for the woman who had run into the open arms of Taris Wellingham in the barn was here.

Emerald Wellingham?

A wave of embarrassment washed away any sense of the argument she was trying to forward. Why would she come? What possible reason would bring her here, for surely she had understood her brother-in-law’s wish for distance as he had left the barn so quickly after the carriage accident? The Duchess of Carisbrook was a beautiful woman, her countenance in this room even more arresting, if that was at all possible, than it had been in a snow-filled night.

‘As I was saying…’ Bea could barely remember the thread of her prose. Would the woman tell others here of her escapade, bringing up the scandal of her night alone in the company of an unmarried man for all to judge? Lord, if any of it should be known, her presence would hardly be countenanced in polite company, an ageing widow who had crossed a boundary that brooked no return.

Ruin!

And that was only with the knowledge of half of it. Taris Wellingham’s hands in places no one had ever touched before, the waves of pure delight that had run across her body, melding it into rapture.

Tearing herself back to the topic under discussion, she finished off her speech. ‘…and so I reiterate again that many of these so-called pirates were refugees from the gaols of the world or deserters from the rigours of harsh naval discipline.’

‘So you do not think some were just natural-born leaders who chose a life of crime by instinct, piracy being an attractive proposition when measured against what might have otherwise been available to them at home?’

Emerald Wellingham asked the question of her and there was a burst of discussion around the room as Bea tried to answer it.

‘There are some who would agree with you. Some who might even say that piracy was an honourable, if not a noble, profession.’

A man interjected. ‘These people were murderers who committed untold acts of barbarity on the open seas. They are not to be excused.’

‘Priests and magistrates and merchants in the West Indies excused them all the time, sir. Money sometimes has a louder voice than morality.’

Emerald Wellingham again! Beatrice felt swayed by her argument.

‘Indeed.’ She sought for the words that might not alienate a group of folk who were by and large titled and wealthy. ‘If one was from the West Indies, the availability of goods sacked by the pirates might have been considered a godsend.’

‘You speak of heresy.’ The same man as before spoke and his face had reddened.

‘And of conjecture,’ Beatrice added with a smile. ‘For such stories are often that of fable and myth and it could take one a lifetime to truly know the extent in which they were entangled.’

She hoped such a platitude might console the man’s anger and was relieved when it seemed to, and Elspeth’s announcement of a light supper was timed well.

As all those present moved through into the dining room, Beatrice tidied her notes and when she looked up Emerald Wellington stood beside her.

‘For a woman of strong views you are remarkably diplomatic.’

‘Perhaps because a heart attack of a patron at one of my soirees may not be conducive to their continuation.’

‘And it is important to you that they do…continue?’ Emerald’s green eyes slanted bright against the lamplight. Was this a threat? Had she come for a reason? Laughter surprised Bea.

‘You remind me of myself, Mrs Bassingstoke. Myself a few years ago when the past held me immobile.’

‘I do not know what it is you speak of. Now if you will excuse me…’

‘My brother-in-law mentions you often. I think it was your bravery that impressed him the most.’

Anger made Bea feel slightly faint. Certainly his inspiration was not gained from her beauty or her easy giving of love.

‘I wondered if you would perhaps come and take tea with me. Tomorrow at half past two.’ Emerald Wellingham placed her card on the top of the papers and waited.

‘Thank you.’ Beatrice had no possible reason to be rude and she had always prided herself on her good manners.

‘Then you will come?’

For a moment the hard edges in her green eyes slipped and supplication was paramount. Still Bea could not quite say yes.

‘It would just be the two of us…?’ she began, for if it should be the whole of the Wellingham family she would not chance it.

‘It would.’ Quickly answered as though the Duchess had thought such a question might be voiced.

‘Then I would like that.’

The other bowed her head. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

‘You will not stay for supper?’

‘I think not. My opinions on piracy could never meld with those of the others here and I would not wish to make a…nuisance of myself. However, I look forward to some privacy together.’

A small nod of her head and she was gone, the gown she wore bright against the more sombre shades of the others present and her gilded curls catching corn and gold and red.

A beautiful woman and a puzzle! Yet as Beatrice stacked the papers beneath her arms she had the strangest of feelings that they could one day be the very best of friends.

‘I saw Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke today, Ashe. She runs weekly discussions on current topics with the Hardy sisters and is not a woman inclined to just parrot the opinions of the day.’

‘What sort of a woman is she, then?’ Her husband’s fingers traced a line down her arm, as he pulled off his clothes and joined her in bed.

‘An interesting one. I can well see why Taris was rather taken by her. She is unexpectedly…fascinating.’

‘High praise coming from a woman who seldom enjoys “society”.’

Laughing, Emerald wound her fingers through his. ‘Has your brother said anything else about that night to you? It’s just that I do not think it was quite as innocent as he might insist it was.’

‘I doubt Taris would be pleased to have you question him, Emmie. Certainly he has shied well away from the topic with me.’

‘Mrs Bassingstoke blushed bright red when I mentioned your brother and this from a woman who had just stood in front of a roomful of strangers espousing theories that excused those guilty of piracy as needy and forgotten members of the communities they had been hounded out of.’

‘A fairly radical point of view, then.’

‘Exactly!’

‘Every woman Taris meets finds him attractive. Perhaps your answer lies in that.’

‘And they last but a moment when he realises that beauty is so…transient and he is too clever to be long amused with a siren who has little to say.’

‘You speak as though the combination of beauty and brains is impossible, yet I have achieved it in you.’

She threw the pillow behind her at him and he caught it, a look in his eyes that told her discussing anything would soon come to an end.

‘Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke has a quiet comeliness that is apparent when you talk to her. She is possibly the cleverest woman I have ever had the pleasure to encounter, but there is also something hidden about her…’

‘Which you should well recognize, given all the secrets you kept buried from me.’

‘I invited her here tomorrow, for afternoon tea.’

‘God!’ He sat up. ‘Taris will be back from Beaconsmeade about then!’

Emerald merely smiled.

‘If this backfires on you, I won’t be pulled into being the cavalry…’ Tweaking a long golden curl, he pulled her down across him. ‘But enough of subterfuge. Show me lust and passion, my beautiful pirate.’

When she started to laugh he simply removed the sheet and placed his hand in a place that took away mirth.

‘Love me, Emerald,’ he whispered.

‘I do.’ Two little words that fell into the heart of everything!

Chapter Five

Taris arrived back in London in the early afternoon and he was worried. A report on the carriage accident had come to him a few weeks back and it was not as simple as he may have thought it.

The axle had been cut, sawed through to within an inch of the circumference, the shearing off of the wheel a deliberate and callous action from someone who wanted to create mayhem. Well, he had. One man was dead and the driver’s fingers would never be right again, banishing the man and his family to penury for the rest of his life.

Well, not quite, his thoughts so akin to high drama that they made him smile. He had offered the man both a job and a cottage at Beaconsmeade, the substantial property he had inherited from his uncle three years ago.

Who the hell did the person responsible want to harm? Was it him? He sifted through memory. In his life there had been many things he had done that might invite such an action. Yet why now and why there in the middle of a county he seldom visited? Who else, then, could have been the target? Not the innocuous and timid mother and son, he decided, or the sensible and level-headed Mrs Bassingstoke. Perhaps the perpetrator had achieved his goal, then, with the demise of the snoring gentleman? He ran his fingers across his eyes and felt the beginning of an ache that was familiar around his left temple.

He tried not to remember that night in the snow, tried not to wonder what had happened to Beatrice-Maude. It was better she slipped into the delight of memory, a favoured recollection when everything else had faded.

Lord. He had not had a woman apart from her in over two years, the sheer difficulty of arranging it all and appearing ‘sighted’ too impossible to contemplate. Easier to lie in bed and just remember, he decided, for the number of people who actually knew his vision to be so poor could still be counted upon one hand.

Asher. Emerald. Lucy, Jack and Bates. A profound sense of shame and inadequacy rubbed up against anger. Five people were all that he wanted knowing of it too. Just them. He did not wish to walk into a room and feel that others judged him on what he could not see. He had always been a physical person, a fine shot, a good horseman, a man who had used his world from one wide edge of it to the other.

To be reduced to dependence and vulnerability would be…He could not even find a word for what he thought, could not dredge from the sheer and utter terror of his situation a phrase to encapsulate the horror.

He tried to keep his forays into society at a minimum and he hated the busy rush of cities. Tomorrow, however, he had an appointment with his lawyer and needed to be there early. He preferred Beaconsmeade and the rolling greenness of the Kentish countryside, places he could walk and work and where the air smelt clean and breathable and infinitely less defiled.

Listening to the horses’ hooves on the first paved stones of the town, he counted the corners.

Fifteen.

The Carisbrook town house should almost be in sight now. Securing his cane, he prepared for the carriage to stop. Bates at his side was doing the same.

‘You have no plans at all for this evening, sir. I did not accept the Claridges’ invite as you instructed me to, though your brother wrote to inquire whether you would be there.’

‘He is almost as reclusive as I am and he only wants to know of my absence to make sure of his own.’

‘There is, however, a ball at the Rutledge mansion tomorrow evening at which you are expected to appear.’

Taris frowned, trying to understand why his presence should be in any way necessary.

‘The Earl of Rutledge is a supporter of the Old Soldiers’ Fund, a charity of which you are the principal patron, sir. I did remind you last week of the affair.’

‘I see. Could I not just pledge a great deal of money—?’

‘The Duke of Carisbrook put your name forward to speak, sir.’

Damn, Taris thought. Asher and his efforts to get him out and about! Sometimes he could happily strangle his brother for his meddling, born out of guilt.

‘Very well, then.’ Acquiescence was easier than the alternative of making a fuss and he made himself dwell on other things. It would be good to see Ruby, Ashton and Ianthe, for it had been all of a month since he had seen his nieces and nephew. He hoped Emerald’s man Azziz would also be down from Falder, for he enjoyed a game of chess.

Family. How it wound around isolation with determination and resilience, the irritations of prying a small price to pay for all that was offered.

As the horses prepared to stop he readied himself to alight. There were many things he could still do and the familiarity of the town house made it possible for him to enter it without assistance.

Morton, the family butler, was the first to greet him, taking his hat and cloak at the door.

‘Welcome back, my lord. We heard that the weather in the south has been kind the past month.’

‘Indeed it has, Morton. Perhaps I might persuade you to have a sojourn at Beaconsmeade…’

The servant laughed. This discussion was one they had had for years, the head butler not a man with any love for country air.

The sound of voices from the downstairs salon stopped him in his tracks, and as he made his way from the lobby he tilted his head. Not just any voice! He felt the tension in him fist, hard-stroked against disbelief.

Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke was here! Here. Ten yards away, her honeyed husky voice with the slight soft lisp, speaking with his sister-in-law. His fingers tightened across his cane and he wished he had not left his hat with Morton. Concentrate, he admonished himself, as he counted the steps into the room.

Beatrice lifted the cup of tea to her lips and sipped, refusing the offer of sweet cakes from the maid as she did so.

Emerald Wellingham opposite her was charming, but there was an undercurrent of something she could not quite understand. A slight anxiety, if she had to name it, and a decided watchfulness.

‘Your soirees are gaining the favour of all of society here in London. It seems that we have been bereft of fine debate in our town for far too long.’

‘Debate or controversy, your Grace? There are some who might say such opinions serve to alienate reason.’

‘But I am not one of them, Mrs Bassingstoke. And please do call me Emerald.’

Beatrice nodded. ‘You have a beautiful name. My first name merely makes people grimace. Beatrice-Maude. The names of my two grandmothers lumped together, I am afraid, and hardly charming like your own.’

‘Can they be shortened?’

This was the second Wellingham to ask her such a thing! She felt the sheer weight of it as an ache.

As in Bea-yond. As in Bea-utiful or Bea-witching! She had never said her name since without remembering…

‘Bea?’

The voice from behind made her start. His voice. Here? The tea that she had been holding spilt down the front of her dark burgundy gown as she turned, feeling the Duchess’s gaze on her own.

Taris Wellingham came forward with the movement of a man who had had too much to drink, catching the edge of the partly opened door with his shoulder and jerking back and around to lose his footing and fall heavily against the solid mahogany side cabinet. As he flailed to find a true direction his head tilted as if listening and his eyes looked strangely disorientated.

Swearing, he began to search the floor with his hands and Bea was instantly taken back to the days before her husband’s turn. The days when Frankwell had imbibed too much whisky and had come home in exactly the same fashion.

Hollowness consumed her, and the impact of everything made her shake. The way he held himself against the line of the door to steady his balance, all expression on his face devoid of warmth even as he hoisted himself up, the beginning of a bruise that would show full dark upon his cheek on the morrow matching the tendrils of his hair loosened from the queue at his nape.

Years of living with a difficult man tumbled down on Beatrice-Maude in that one small isolated moment. Long years of anguish and guilt, her unpredictable sham of a marriage wrung into one dreadful feeling.

Panic!

To get away. To run from one who had caught at fancy and hope and imagination, yet was blighted with the same curse her husband had been dammed with.

She needed to escape, to be back again in the world of freedom and ideas that had just opened up to her, her autonomy and lack of restraint so far from the endless dread of hurt inflicted by a brandy-loosened temper.

‘I must go.’ Setting down her cup with a rattle, she hated the sound of alarm so easily heard in her voice.

‘Perhaps you do not remember my brother-in-law…’

‘Of course I do.’

Pushing past them both, Beatrice-Maude did not stop even to retrieve her cloak from the astonished servant at the front door. Outside she took a breath of cold air and simply ran, for the corner, for her home, for the safety of her rooms away from anyone, the hat in her hands unfastened and the gloves in her pocket unworn.

‘Well,’ Taris said as the silence inside the town house lengthened, ‘I presume that means she does not favour the nickname Bea.’

Emerald laughed, though there were tears in her voice when she replied, ‘I thought she was a sensible woman. I thought that she had impeccable manners and for the life of me I cannot understand what just happened.’

‘At a guess I would say she saw I lacked sight.’

Silence confirmed his suspicions. Emerald might be able to see what he could not, but he could hear what others never did.

Fear. Abhorrence. And the need for flight.

He made himself smile, made his face carefully bland, the anger that was building hidden behind indifference even as his left cheek throbbed.

‘Mrs Bassingstoke did not know before?’

‘It was night,’ he returned.

‘And you are good in the darkness!’

‘Precisely.’

‘So good that she could spend the whole time with you and never guess?’

‘It seems that is true.’

‘I think I hate her for this.’ Her voice was small, the anger in it formidable. ‘And everything that happened today is my fault. Ashe told me to leave it alone.’