Page 8 of The Wilful Widow
Katherine put her head on one side. “I think you’re telling lies, Beatrice. Of course your father must be dead.” Adopting a gentler tone, she added, “You mustn’t pretend he’s not dead when he is. It won’t bring him back, you know. He is dead because if he wasn’t, your mama couldn’t be marrying Lord Ashbrook?”
Beatrice, who was kneeling, looked resolutely down at her lap as a tide of shame burned her body. She squeezed shut her eyes. All that was important was that they know she truly did have a papa. “He’s not dead,” she insisted quietly. “I’ve seen him.”
“When?” They leaned toward her, their eyes piercing holes in her.
But they were interested. She had to tell them something.
Beatrice thought back to the last occasion she’d seen her papa. She hadn’t recognized the dark-haired stranger as he’d strolled along the gravel path with another lady clinging to his arm. Mama and Beatrice had been in the park feeding the ducks. Then her mother had suddenly clutched her breast and whispered in shocked tones, “It’s your papa.”
That had been a few years ago, now, and Mama had never said anything about the meeting since then. But Beatrice had never forgotten it.
In a small whisper, she said, “Mama and I saw him in the park. He was very tall, and I didn’t know it was my papa but Mama said he was. And Mama never lies.”
Katherine and George looked more interested now, which was no doubt because at last they knew she really did have a father. Her situation seemed more hopeful and she did so much want them to like her. “Papa had a mustache and a very fine coat and was very handsome…” She faltered. Shehadthought he was handsome until all pleasantness had disappeared from his face when he’d looked at Beatrice.
Beatrice turned her head away to look through the window, not wanting to say anything more.
“So, what did your papa say to you?”
She took a deep breath, looked down at her hands twisted in her lap, and shook her head. She couldn’t speak.
“He must have said something.” George prodded her in the side. “If he was your papa and you hadn’t seen him for a long time, he must have said something like, “Ahoy there, Beatrice, oh daughter of mine.”
Beatrice drew in a careful breath. Heat flooded her cheeks and made her vision swim, and she bit her lips so hard she tasted blood.
“He didn’t say that,” she whispered.
“Then what did he say?” Katherine leaned over her, her voice full of interest, pinching her shoulder as Beatrice burst into tears wailing, “He said I wasn’t his daughter, and he would say that to his dying day.”
***
With a crackle, Alexander flipped over the page of the newssheet he’d been reading then realized he’d not taken in a single word.
He ought to have been able to concentrate considering total silence reigned. Jessamine and Ladies Fenton and Quamby sat together on the sofa, murmuring quietly over some fashion plates, while their husbands, and Lord Ashbrook, were all involved in their own reading matter.
Charlotte occupied a blue-and-gold-striped sofa on her own, quietly working at her embroidery.
Only the fire, Alexander’s newssheet and Lord Quamby sucking on his gums, made any noise.
Alexander raised the newssheet a little higher so he could observe Charlotte covertly. Not that he was really interested in watching her. He once had been, of course. Her regal movements in public and her natural abandonment when it was just the two of them had been a delight and a fascination. He’d thought he’d never tire of observing the flash of her eyes after they first locked gazes with him on the dance floor at the Assembly Rooms in the small provincial town where they’d only just become acquainted. She’d accompanied her aunt and uncle on a sojourn there while her mother was confined after the birth of a child. Elderly and childless, the aunt and uncle had, perhaps, been a little more lax in their guardianship of Charlotte than her mama might have been, for Alexander and Charlotte had masterminded many opportunities for slipping away, unobserved, for a few minutes of handholding, which had led to the exchange of notes from their respective lodgings, then a meeting that had progressed to kisses; chaste and exploratory at first before becoming blindingly passionate.
And then—
“Bother.”
It was whispered so softly no one took any notice.
Except Alexander, for it was Charlotte who’d uttered the single word of irritation and who was now struggling to untangle a skein of wool.
“You’ll need to arrest the kitten first,” he said, indicating the bundle of white fur a few yards away. It was lying on its back, feet in the air, fast entangling itself in a length of Turkey-red yarn. “Stay, and I’ll get it.” With Charlotte’s work on her lap together with six carefully laid-out skeins of various colors, it clearly made sense for Alexander to rise and cross the room.
He picked up the kitten and carefully extricated the strands of wool from its claws, whereupon Jessamine held up her arms, cooing, “Give the darling little thing to me, Alexander.” With a glance between the two women, who appeared to be aware only of their immediate concerns—Jessamine with the kitten and Charlotte with her embroidery—Alexander duly handed Jessamine the squirming kitten upon which she proceeded to lavish great love and attention.
Rolling up the red yarn as he walked, he sank to his haunches at Charlotte’s side and began to work at untangling the knotted wool.
He sighed. “You have rather a problem on your hands.”
She looked up sharply, first at Alexander, then across the room at her intended who was now chatting amiably to Lord Fenton as they enjoyed a brandy.
