Beauty in Breeches(2)
Beatrice gaped at her. If she had not been so taken aback by her aunt’s pronouncement that made her want to shriek, she would have laughed aloud. She had given little thought to the matter of Astrid’s future. She never thought beyond her own life, what she wanted—of returning to Larkhill, which was so very dear to her.
‘Lord Chadwick—he has been abroad for several months on one of his ships and only recently returned—showed great interest in Astrid. Indeed, the attention he showed her was commented upon by several; I am hoping he will approach me to offer for her. He is of excellent family, of sound character, sharp wits, intelligence and his fortune is quite remarkable. Through his own endeavours there is a fleet of ships flying his flag and carrying his cargo. He has mines of gold and silver that bought those ships, and his ownership of land is so vast no one knows how much. Astrid will indeed be a fortunate young woman if she manages to secure him.’
‘He sounds an impressive figure, Aunt Moira, but a grand title, wealth and happiness don’t always come hand in glove,’ Beatrice retorted tersely.
Lady Standish gave her a sour, disapproving look. ‘Any woman would be a fool to turn away from it. Astrid is certainly willing to entertain Lord Chadwick. The wedding will be a truly grand affair, with one of those new-fangled wedding tours to France and Italy, before they settle down to married life at Highfield Manor in Kent. It is an estate of some significance.’
While her aunt twittered on, Beatrice kept her face lowered, feigning interest in a magazine so Lady Standish could not see her, would not see that her face was white. She blindly turned a page so that her aunt would not be able to tell she could not control a grimace of anger and the tears stinging hot. She felt murderous. She wanted to leap to her feet and remind her aunt of the harm Lord Chadwick had done her family, harm she seemed to have forgotten, or considered unimportant when it came to choosing a husband for her darling Astrid. But Beatrice had not forgotten.
Beatrice wanted Lord Chadwick to suffer all the torments of the damned and crawl to her for forgiveness for being the architect of all her misery. She simply could not bear the thought of Astrid being the Marchioness of Maitland, Lady Chadwick, living her life in grand style, while Aunt Moira would have Beatrice married off to the first suitor who chanced her way.
‘Of course, should Astrid marry Lord Chadwick it will be a perfect match. If he offers for her now, they can be betrothed before the little Season starts in the autumn.’
Astrid had come out the year before and had been the toast of the Season. She had received several offers of marriage, but Lady Standish had considered the young men who made them too low down the social ladder and not rich enough for her daughter and had declined their offers, hoping for better things, a brilliant match, and to that end she had in mind Lord Chadwick.
‘If he does indeed offer for Astrid, it will be a spring wedding.’
Beatrice was unable to keep quiet a moment longer. Blinking back angry tears, she looked at her aunt. ‘But, Aunt Moira, how can you let such a thing happen? He alone is responsible for all the misfortunes that have befallen me. I shall neither forget nor forgive what he did to Father. Would you not feel as I do?’
‘That is in the past and you would do well to put it behind you since nothing can be done about it now.’ She gave her niece a watery smile. ‘If you think of your scriptures, Beatrice, you will remember being taught that Jesus told us to love our enemies?’
‘Jesus hadn’t met Lord Chadwick,’ Beatrice retorted bitterly. She glanced at Astrid’s crestfallen face and dared to ask, ‘And is this what Astrid wants—marriage to a total stranger?’
‘He will not be a stranger to her by the time they are married. The marriage of my only daughter is of great importance.’ Her aunt’s face was stern, her eyes as hard as steel. ‘This is family business, not sentiment.’
‘But—Lord Chadwick has not offered for me and he might not,’ Astrid said quietly, hesitantly—the old habit of obedience and deference to her mother had a strong hold on her. ‘He has shown kindness towards me and nothing more. I—think you read too much into it, Mama.’
‘Nonsense.’ Lady Standish waved the objection aside. ‘It’s early days, I agree, but he did pay you a good deal of attention. It shows real promise. He saw what a gem you are. The party must be a success. It is a perfect opportunity to demonstrate to Lord Chadwick that you are, at county level, well qualified to be his bride. We must ensure that you spend as much time in each other’s company as possible at the party.’
‘But—Mama, he may not want to.’
Her mother shot her a dark look. ‘Don’t argue, Astrid. I do know what I am talking about. Marriage is not something you can settle for yourself. You are young, you can’t decide these things. You have to be guided. In the end it will be down to me. I will decide where you wed.’
‘But Lord Chadwick is hardly a suitable candidate,’ Beatrice dared to voice. In this instant she refused to sit with her head bowed as Astrid always did. She sat with her head high, one dark eyebrow slightly raised, and she met her aunt’s level gaze as if she were her equal. ‘Do you forget what that man did to my father—and that my mother was so ill and distressed by the whole sorry affair that she died of a broken heart? The man should have been horse-whipped for taking advantage of a man in a weakened state.’
Lady Standish looked at her coldly. ‘How dare you speak to me in that tone, Beatrice. Know your place. But since you are so eager to have your say, I will tell you that I do not forget and I do not like it that you feel you must remind me. But I do not hold it against Lord Chadwick. Your father—my own dear husband’s brother-in-law—was lamentably weak. His weakened state, as you put it, was brought about by an over-indulgence in alcoholic spirits. It was his fault that he lost Larkhill and shot himself. It cannot be blamed on anyone else.’
Her aunt’s cruel words cut Beatrice to the heart. ‘I blame Lord Chadwick absolutely,’ she persisted firmly. ‘I always will. Anyway, what is he like, this noble lord? Does he have any afflictions?’
‘Not unless one considers shocking arrogance an affliction,’ Lady Standish answered sharply. ‘Of course he has every right to be so, with friends constantly following in his wake. Why, if it were up to females to do the asking, Lord Chadwick would have had more offers of marriage than all the ladies in London combined.’
‘I can’t see why,’ Beatrice remarked in a low, cold voice. ‘He is absolutely loathsome to me.’
‘Oh, no, Beatrice,’ Astrid said breathlessly, rising quickly to his defence. ‘You do not know him. He is handsome and charming; I know you will think so too when you meet him.’
Only the prospect of another dressing down from her aunt prevented Beatrice from saying that she had already encountered the odious Lord Chadwick at Larkhill and was not hankering after an introduction.
From the open window of her bedroom, with her shoulder propped against the frame and her arms folded across her chest, Beatrice gazed dispassionately as the titled, wealthy and influential guests gathered on the extensive lawns of Standish House to celebrate Astrid’s nineteenth birthday, which was to go on into the night. The terraces all around were ablaze with blossoms, magnolias and sweet-scented azaleas.
Guests continued to roll up the drive in chaises and carriages, many open so the occupants could bask in the sun’s warmth. A full staff of footmen were on hand to assist them from their carriages and a full army of servants ready to dance attendance on them as they wined and dined. Trestle tables decorated with summer flowers had been set up in the shade of the terrace where only the finest food was served and bowls of punch and chilled lemonade. Tables and chairs were scattered about the lawns, and, for anyone overcome by the heat, ice-cold drinks had been laid out in the drawing room.
Standish House was no more than two hours’ drive from London. It was a fascinating, gorgeous paradise populated by beautiful, carefree people in all their sumptuous finery. Several of the gentlemen sported military uniforms, a reminder to everyone of the battle they had fought at Waterloo a year ago. To Beatrice, the scene held little interest and no beauty, but there was something morbidly compelling about observing from a distance how people interacted with each other. At eighteen years old, restrained and guarded, she did not believe in the inherent goodness in anyone.
George and Lady Standish received the guests— Lady Standish, in her element, looking as if she would burst with her own importance. She presented an imposing figure in a high-necked gown of lavender-grey shot silk, with a matching turban trimmed with large purple plumes. A picture of sweet perfection, Astrid, looking like an angel in her high-waisted cream gown and perfectly coiffed hair, a bunch of fat ringlets trailing over one shoulder, was surrounded by fawning fops. Against a fabulous colourful backdrop of banks of rhododendrons, azaleas and a small lake, she was seated beneath a white gazebo. Her face was pink and rosy and glowing with happiness, the very picture of a demure young lady on her birthday as she raised her head and laughed delightedly at something that was said.