A Victorian Romance
by Steven Schechter
Chapter 1: A Woman’s Heart
part 2
At half-past 11:00 p.m., Arthur Belham arrived at the ball in company with his young friend and political ally, Charles Beauton, and Charles’s older brother, Thomas. Joined by Margaret, they settled into a sitting area by the stairs set aside for politicians and military brass. Arthur had made a point of asking Digby to stand by, so the errand to Beatrice was postponed. Digby tucked himself into a spot by the stairs and listened to the conversation.
“Beatrice did a superb job on the address,” Margaret reported. She could see that Charles was disappointed by Beatrice’s absence, his eyes searching for her on the ballroom floor. Margaret tried to distract him: “She has been a wonderful little hostess, although I’m afraid she hasn’t danced as much as she would have liked. Just now she is showing off the portrait gallery to one of our guests.” She gave a droll little laugh. “I suppose Beatrice would attend a ball every night if we allowed.”
“Indeed,” Arthur chuckled, and said to Charles, “I’m afraid you will spend more time dancing than in Parliament.”
“Perhaps I shall give up politics altogether,” Charles smiled.
“On no account!” Margaret exclaimed. “We have great plans for you!”
Beatrice’s fiancé, Charles, was a political Wunderkind. Barely 30 years old, he was already a rising star of the Liberal party. Together with Arthur, Charles was piloting a reform bill through the Commons to enlarge the voting franchise to almost universal male suffrage. They had beaten back another challenge to the bill earlier that evening, putting both men in an excellent frame of mind.
“Arthur and I have made up our minds,” Margaret announced to Charles. “We insist that you and Beatrice have Bolton House, and there will be no argument.” Bolton House was the Belham family home in London, a great mansion in the Mayfair neighborhood. The subject had been visited before, and once again, Charles graciously resisted. “You have been too good already.”
“Thomas,” Margaret turned to the brother, “you are ever so smart. Please talk some sense to your brother.” Thomas would only shrug. Seven years older, he was unlike his brother in both appearance and temperament. Short and thick where Charles was reedy, Thomas was prematurely gray and wore thick spectacles.
A fast polka had begun, couples whirling and racing up and down the ballroom. Digby admired the dancers a while and, turning back to the sitting area, he noticed that Thomas Beauton was staring intently at something at the top of the stairs. Following his gaze, Digby saw a couple on the second floor landing. It was Beatrice and Richard, her hand on his arm, looking up into his eyes. For several long moments, they seemed not to budge. What will become of this, I wonder? There is more than friendship and courtesy in her eyes.
For the very most part that evening, Beatrice had been careful not to appear outwardly affectionate to Richard. The world knew her business, and she did not want people talking. But in this moment, her judgment had slipped.
Minutes later, Beatrice and Richard started down the stairs toward the first floor. “I’m afraid I must leave early tonight,” Beatrice said. “Papa wants me to have more rest.” She had planned on leaving the ball before Arthur and Charles arrived, but she had lost track of time.
“Will your father be coming later?” Richard asked. Just then he spotted Arthur directly below in the sitting area. “There’s your father now! Isn’t this a good omen!”
Beatrice stopped. “Richard, I should really go to my father alone, for your sake. He will ask you for every detail!”
“Oh, bosh,” said Richard as he good-naturedly swept her forward.
When Arthur and company saw the couple approaching, they all stood. Arthur made the introductions, presenting Richard first to Thomas, then to Charles. At the first opportunity, Charles spoke to Beatrice, “You look beautiful tonight, darling.” She accepted the compliment smiling but without warmth, as she moved over to her father.
As Arthur completed the introductions, he put his hand on Charles’ shoulder. “I am proud to tell you that this extraordinary young man will shortly become my son-in-law.” Charles’ comment to Beatrice and something in the air had given Richard only the thinnest preparation for this punch in the gut. Yet his self-discipline was extraordinary, so that only Thomas and Digby noticed the sudden hollowness in his eyes.
Richard managed a smile as he nodded and looked from Charles to Beatrice and back to Charles again. “Ah. Then I must wish you both the greatest happiness.”
“Thank you,” replied Charles, “but tonight’s occasion is the return of the Queens’s Light. Your regiment is an honor to the Queen, sir.”
“Yes, welcome home, major,” Thomas chimed in. “How many days are you back in England?” Thomas was certain that what he had seen on the stairs was a young couple in love.
Richard was slow in answering, giving Beatrice the opportunity she needed. “If you will all excuse us,” she said, “I must borrow my father, if he is willing?” She put a hand on her father’s arm, lightly steering him away.
Watching them go off, Richard grappled with Thomas’ question. “A week,” he said finally. “Tomorrow, it will be a week.”
* * *
Escorting his daughter around the ballroom was a long-standing Belham tradition: chatting, greeting friends, showing her off. “You would have been so proud tonight, darling. Charles’ speech to the House was magnificent!” He smiled and nodded to an acquaintance. “Mark my words. You will be a Prime Minister’s wife before too long.”
Beatrice leaned her head on his shoulder for a few moments. “Papa, I simply can’t stand on my feet any longer. Be a good papa and send me home.”
“Charles is just here, and you’re going to leave?”
“I know, Papa.” She nestled in a bit. “But my head hurts so, I can’t think of a thing to say. I will see Charles on Friday.”
“I don’t want you to suffer if you are truly ill, but you have duties.”
Across the ballroom, Margaret had taken Richard off to introduce him to friends, leaving Charles and Thomas alone with their thoughts. Thomas broke the silence. “Brother, that was a rather cool reception. I mean Beatrice, of course.”
Charles had been hoping his brother would not raise this subject. “How is that?”
“What? You mean to say you didn’t notice?”
“Beatrice can be moody, I know.”
“Indeed, she seems quite moody.” Thomas had decided not to say anything about what he had seen, knowing his brother would dismiss it out of hand. “Perhaps you should find out if something is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“Charlie, the woman barely noticed you. I wonder you don’t take this more seriously.”
“That is absurd.”
Thomas looked away. “Let it go then. I’m a fool for bothering.”
Charles sighed and took a conciliatory tone. “You’re keeping a brother’s eye out for me, I know that. But don’t worry so.” He gave Thomas an affectionate shoulder squeeze. “Look here. Beatrice is about to take the greatest step in a girl’s life. No doubt she’s having butterflies: one moment terribly fond of me, and the next wondering why she ever accepted me.” He squeezed Thomas’ shoulder again. “It’s just nerves, Thomas. It will pass. I shouldn’t question her love at a time like this. I must be her rock, her foundation.”
“That’s a fine speech, Charlie. But if her heart is not in this marriage, you will buy a world of trouble.”
Charles felt a surge of anger but he held it away. This was his brother’s nature, he told himself, to imagine the worst of people. “I won’t have Beatrice spoken of in that way,” he said firmly. “Let that be the end of it, or we shall argue terribly.”
* * *
Beatrice and Arthur had completed their round and arrived back at the sitting area. Arthur signalled Digby over.
“The carriage,” he said, and Digby was off.
“You take such good care of me, Papa.” Beatrice leaned over to kiss her father on the cheek. “I love you. Don’t be very late.” Her eyes searched the ballroom in vain for one last look at Richard.
Beatrice emerged from the building carrying a cloak over one arm and stepped down onto the long, curved driveway to await the carriage. She felt eyes on her back, and she turned to see that Digby had posted himself against the building about ten yards behind her. She pulled a pair of long gloves from the cloak and began to draw them on. They were a tight fit and as she tugged on the first glove, the other one fell to the ground. Beatrice shifted the cloak in her hands and bent to retrieve it, but Digby came quicker, picking up the glove and offering it to her.
“What! Are you my lady’s maid!? Who asked you to stoop!?” She began to pull off the other glove. “Since you touched them, I surely won’t wear them again!” By this time the carriage had drawn up to them, and the footmen were having a grand time watching the spectacle, albeit silently. “Here.” She pulled the glove free and threw it to the ground. “Pull your skin off with them!”
A footman handed Beatrice up into the carriage, then winked at Digby. The carriage went off, leaving Digby behind to watch it draw away.
She would rather see me dead than living. But what is her reason? Well, fates do your worst. If I get nothing else, I’ll have my will. He stooped to pick up the gloves, casting a glance in the carriage’s wake before going inside.
* * *
In the morning, the Belham family departed by train for Ossbourne, their country estate in Buckinghamshire. Passing villages and fields, Beatrice decided against speaking directly to her father. A better plan, she told herself, would be to somehow convince Auntie to do it. Aunt Margaret would be angry at first, to be sure, but if she were convinced that change was inevitable, she would know how to present it to Papa in the best light. Since no wedding date had yet been announced, there was time to bring him along gradually as Beatrice had seen her do where it concerned politics. There was no need to tell him everything all at once.
The train leg of the journey ended in a tiny village eponymously named after the Ossbourne estate. From there, a little caravan of carriages — Arthur and Digby in one coach, Margaret and Beatrice in the other, and several wagons loaded down with luggage — made its way through the English countryside. The locals watched and deferred to the nobility, the women dropping low curtsies, the men touching their caps, the boys pulling on their forelocks. Beatrice rehearsed to herself: “I am sorry, Auntie. I was mistaken! Surely Papa can do something!”
* * *
Margaret dabbed at her tears, deeply shaken. “I have always had a dreadful feeling this would not go well with you,” she remarked bitterly. “If only you had a mother living.”
Beatrice waited before she spoke again. “May I speak?”
“You’re the spoiled child of the world, Beatrice.”
“I was mistaken.”
“Mistaken! We cannot simply change our minds about some things, Beatrice! Not once they are made up and declared in public!” Margaret blew her nose. “You have accepted a gentleman in marriage. Is that nothing to you? Have you no restraint? No regard for your own name?!”
Beatrice listened silently.
“You must have parted from your senses if you thought I would support you in this!” Margaret told herself that nothing would be accomplished going on in this way. She turned away from the girl, making an effort to calm herself. “The whole thing is astonishing,” she muttered.
“I am in love,” said Beatrice after a long moment. “For the first time in my life.”
“Hardly the first.”
“I could never marry anyone else.”
“Come, Beatrice,” Margaret turned back to the girl. “Everything you are telling me now of Major Griffith, you were telling me only the other day of Charles. How there was no-one like him in all of England. How you chose him above all others and all the rest of it.”
Beatrice knew this was the weak part of her case. “It is different, Auntie. I explained it all to you.” Against her better judgment, she added, “It was not the other day. It was nearly one month ago.”
“The time is not important. It is the character of the woman.” Margaret faced the window again, preferring not to look at her niece.
Beatrice leaned forward in her seat. “Auntie, I was just a foolish girl! I suppose I said many foolish things, but that was... I didn’t understand what love is! How can one know? Until...” She put her hand over her heart. “With Charles, it was all on the outside! This is in my heart! A woman’s heart!” She reached out to take her aunt’s hand. “Please—”
“Beatrice!” Margaret violently pulled her hand away. She stared fiercely at the girl, pinning her to the seat. “A woman’s heart, indeed!” she scoffed. “Whatever else this behavior is, Beatrice, it is unwomanly. Unnatural, I might say.”
“Unnatural!” This Beatrice did not expect.
“Indeed. To declare your love for Charles and then to turn around and declare your love for another man. Yes, it is unnatural.”
Angry tears filled the girl’s eyes. “That is not true! Take it back!”
Margaret turned away.
“Do take it back!” Beatrice cried.
After a few moments, Margaret faced her again. “I wonder. Had you told Major Griffith about Charles? Before your father let the cat out of the bag?”
There was no answer. “I had not thought so. The Major is a gentleman who, I am sure, places the highest value on honor and loyalty. And you are a woman betrothed.”
After some time had passed, Beatrice dried her tears and made an effort to collect herself, to shore up her resources. Her aunt was wrong about Richard, she told herself. She could be confident of Richard’s love and loyalty.
The small caravan was now on the Ossbourne estate proper, where landscaped parkland stretched as far as the eye could see. A bend in the road allowed a wide-open view of the distant hills, and crowning the highest hill was the Ossbourne manor. At this distance, the great stone building with towers and turrets appeared more a fairy-tale castle than a 19th-century home.
Margaret had begun to regret the cruelty in her words. “I am sorry if my words hurt you,” she began again. “They were only words.” Her voice sounded colder than she intended. “Listen to me, dear. Try to listen. When a girl like you speaks of love, the kind of love you mean, it is almost a whim. It can be conquered.”
“It can’t!” Beatrice cried. “He is everything to me!”
“A man you have met twice!” Margaret could not hide her contempt. “For shame! To say such a thing!”
“You can’t feel love! How would you understand!”
“Do not try me, Beatrice.”
“I don’t need your help!” the girl cried, tears returning. “Papa will not let me suffer my whole life! He won’t! He is not cruel like you!”
Beatrice cried a while until silence finally descended on the carriage. Before long, the caravan passed through a great stone arch and entered the central court of Ossbourne. Liveried servants lined the court, silently welcoming the family home.
Copyright © 2023 by Steven Schechter
