A Victorian Romance
by Steven Schechter
Chapter 2: His First Caress
part 2
After a time, Beatrice abruptly looked downcast again. “Well, the hour is late.”
“My Lady, I can see that you are troubled. Will you tell me the cause?” Beatrice shook her head slowly, and tears appeared. Digby encouraged her. “I may be able to help you.” But she only shook her head.
Beatrice produced the hankie again and dabbed at the tears. “I’m afraid no-one can help me,” she smiled through the tears. “But I’m glad we had this little tête-à-tête. Perhaps you will be my friend now.”
Digby did a more pronounced chair-bow. “My Lady, I would be honored.”
She stood. “I must go now. Good evening, Simon.” Digby stood. Beatrice did not get far before a little sob escaped, and she halted.
He was quickly to her side. “Oh. Here, sit a moment.” Digby guided her to a chair.
“It’s no use,” she said through her tears. “Oh, if only I were a man!”
“A man! Why a man?” A murderous man?
“Then—” she sobbed.
“You have a man in me, willing to be of service.”
She just shook her head.
“Perhaps if you explain,” Digby urged.
She shook her head more firmly. “No, you would think badly of me.”
“That is impossible.” He leaned forward. “Tell me what you need.”
“I am shipwrecked!” she cried, sobbing. “I don’t want to go on living!”
“But the world is at your feet.”
She shook her head vehemently.
“Understand me, my Lady. If the Lord Himself forbid me, I would help you still. Now, tell me what is wrong.”
“I am forced to marry a man I hate!” she sobbed loudly. “He knows, and still he goes on with it!”
I am blessed tonight. Digby rose and opened the door to check that the hallway was empty. He closed the door and returned to his seat. There was silence a few moments as Digby considered how to make the most of this opportunity.
Beatrice sat drying her eyes, then she stood. “I must go.”
Digby went to her and kneeled. “My Lady. I can bring your troubles to an end, I assure you. Allow me to show you the meaning of true friendship and service.”
Beatrice felt a thrill, and she was tempted to rush ahead, but she told herself to be careful. She stepped away from him. “Oh, it will do no good! Let it pass, Simon.” She was moving slowly toward the door. “Nothing can be done.”
Digby rose to his feet. “Stay, please.” She stopped and turned to him.
“Listen well, my Lady. You don’t know who I really am.” He gave the words weight. “The kind of things I have done.”
“How is that?” Excitement flowed through her.
“Your father would turn pale if he knew my past.” He came closer. “If you need something done, I’m the man who can do it.”
To the extent she understood him, it all seemed fitting. Was not every creature placed in the world for a purpose?
“You were not the protégé of Mr. Quinn?” she asked. Timothy Quinn was the longtime friend of Arthur’s who had referred Digby for the private secretary position. Quinn had received Arthur’s letter, asking for prospective candidates, just when Quinn was being squeezed by Digby for a large sum.
“I knew the man. You would not turn on me now, would you?”
“Oh, no... Lord, no!”
Beatrice’s heart was beating loudly. She took a seat. “Well...”
“There is no need to hesitate, my Lady.”
“I would reward you handsomely,” she said.
“Yes, I thought of that.”
Beatrice removed a small ring from her pinky. “Here,” she held it out to him. “Accept this small token of my gratitude for now. But your reward shall be far more precious.”
Digby rose and took the ring and bowed. He took a seat closer to her. “Do you want this man killed?”
“Oh, mercy, no!” she laughed. “I am no murderess! Nor you a murderer, I’m sure.”
Digby nodded ambiguously and waited for her.
“When I was very young,” she began, “there was a man, a dear friend of my father’s. Everyone respected him. One day it was revealed, that... in his past, he had done something quite awful. I don’t recall.” She paused. “In a moment, it was as if he did not exist. No-one would see him or speak to him. Not even Papa.”
Beatrice had stopped. Digby picked up the thread. “If something like that should befall Lord Beauton...?”
She nodded modestly, not wishing to betray her excitement.
“Your father would be forced to withdraw from the marriage...”
She nodded as Digby continued, “While no-one would have a word to say against you.”
“My honor...” said Beatrice.
“Your honor would be unsullied,” Digby said
She paused to allow the next question its proper weight. “Can you do this, Simon?”
“Like crushing a bug.”
“Ah. And you would be in no danger, I hope. Of being caught?”
“None,” he said easily.
“You are certain? You must be certain, Simon!”
“Utterly certain.” He summoned a fatherly tone. “Be assured, my Lady. This business will be done and will never come back to haunt you.” He bowed. “You have my sacred word.”
Beatrice rose and walked about the room. “Still, we must be careful.” Her tone had changed. “When this is done, I will give you everything you need to leave here. You could buy—”
“Yes, we can talk about that later,” said Digby.
She came back to him. “Then you will take care of this business?”
“I am hungry for it.”
From the pocket of her dress, she took out a packet of letters. “These are Charles Beauton’s letters.” She offered the packet. “I thought you might have use for them.”
Digby smiled and took the packet. “The man is no more.”
Beatrice smiled and summoned her courage; she was about to touch a poisonous snake. She stepped closer, and her expression softened. “Thank you, Simon. You have made me very happy.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
Oh, my blood! He bowed slightly. I can feel her in my arms already.
Stepping around him, she opened the door and stepped into the hallway, pulling the heavy door shut behind her. Goodbye to you as well, dogface.
Minutes later, Beatrice stood before the fireplace in her bedroom, holding the letter she had written to Richard. She cast it into the flames, watching the pages blacken and curl.
* * *
When Margaret returned on Sunday afternoon, a folded note sat on her pillow.
“Auntie — I was wrong!” was written in a large hand on the outside. Stunned, Margaret held the note a long moment before opening it. Did this mean that Beatrice had given it up? If so, they would all be spared a hurricane of pain and trouble.
The brief note stated that Beatrice had changed her mind. She was sorrowful, but she had come to “accept that it was not meant to be. If I am not to have the things I wish for, it must be because they are not good for me.” She agreed to give up Richard and go forward with her marriage to Charles.
Relief gave way to a restless discomfort. The note troubled her, and she tried to tell herself that it was pointless, not to say ungrateful, to be troubled. No, she had not expected this result — but hadn’t she harbored some small hope that Beatrice would reverse herself? No, the sentiments expressed in the letter were certainly not Beatrice’s real feelings. But to be fair, they were sentiments that many people might claim in such a situation, no matter their real reasons. She was not sure of Beatrice’s real reasons but what difference did it make? She forced herself to stop parsing these sentences; she tried to humble herself and to be grateful for this gift.
* * *
The next day, Beatrice sewed up her plans while horseback-riding with her father. They jumped stone fences and hedgerows and he was proud of her courage and horsemanship. Afterwards, they walked the horses side by side as steam rose from the horses’ backs.
“Papa, I had the most wonderful idea this morning!” Beatrice began. Arthur was all ears. “Let us travel together one last time! Just a father and his pretty unmarried daughter, as it once was!”
“When? Now?” Arthur felt under pressure. The Tatler had wondered the other day why so much time had elapsed since publication of the banns with no wedding date announced.
“Yes, Papa! We have only this short time left together. It would mean so much to me! We could spend a month in Spain and Italy, just as we did when I was thirteen. Do you remember? It was such a splendid time! We can picnic in the mountains... and every morning ride our favorite donkeys. Do you remember their names?”
“Jacques...?” offered Arthur.
“Jacques and Catherine!” recalled Beatrice, and they laughed together. “Oh, please, Papa! And then I shall come home well-rested and be married.” Beatrice had cleverly suggested a way that any criticism could be disarmed: Arthur would set a wedding date for directly upon their return. “Please, Papa! Auntie can handle the wedding details while we’re gone.”
Arthur thought he should consult Charles before giving Beatrice an answer; but then he also knew he could count on Charles to be amenable. “I think it would do you a world of good.”
“Oh, wonderful!”
“I may have to attend to some business in Italy...”
“Of course! A daughter needs time to herself, you know... Oh, Papa, I love you!”
Arthur declared they would go in two weeks’ time, and indeed, there was no trouble. Charles was glad to agree, he said, “if it would add to my future bride’s happiness.”
An itinerary was planned that would last five weeks and include Queen Isabella’s wedding. The Court Circular announced that on October 21, 1888, one week after father and daughter were expected home, Lady Beatrice Belham of Buckinghamshire would be wed to Lord Charles Beauton of Berkshire.
* * *
It was widely known of Charles Beauton that he was an opera buff, attending performances two or three times weekly. He visited the famous divas backstage and was seen with them socially, not in a romantic fashion but mingling in an opera-loving crowd.
Digby thought this was the most promising idea for a scandal: to tie Charles to one of these public darlings and turn it both sordid and tragic. But he was not happy with the prospect. The time seemed dangerously short to be starting from scratch. Choosing the right woman might take considerable time, and then there was groundwork to lay. In short, Digby had promised Beatrice something that was dangerous, at best. To be fair, this was not really Digby’s line; counterfeiting and defrauding were more his game.
On the other hand, there was plenty of time to plan and execute a simple murder, in relative safety. This was what Digby had anticipated Beatrice would want. Instead, she had made it clear that she did not think of herself as a “murderess.” Not that Digby relished the prospect of murder; he had killed only once, where he had little choice. But he did not have to ask himself if he would kill for this woman.
In any event, the clock was ticking, and Beatrice and Arthur would soon leave for the continent. Digby relocated himself up to the city so that he could shadow Charles and begin work on the plan. Digby had followed the man for barely a week when it became clear that Charles Beauton had a curious habit. On those three occasions that Charles attended opera that first week, he did not go immediately home afterwards. Instead, he spent an hour or so strolling the wealthy neighborhoods of the West End to no apparent purpose that Digby could see. He didn’t stop for a drink with a friend, or have a late dinner, or engage a lady of the evening. He simply walked, in the vicinity of Piccadilly and Leicester Square on the first two evenings and north from the Strand on the third. These were odd times and strange places to take one’s constitutional.
Digby assumed that the man had some purpose here other than long aimless strolls; Charles Beauton was not a man to spend his time idly. Digby favored the most obvious explanation; it was these hours after dark when the avenues of the West End featured some of the most beautiful prostitutes in London, leaning under theatre porticos or congregating around the high-end supper clubs. Although Charles did not speak to any of these women, it seemed to Digby that he was making an effort to observe them, albeit in a circumspect way. Digby wondered at first if this might be his imagination, but there it was, quite plain if you paid close attention.
Yet Digby also believed that it was not in Charles Beauton’s character to consort with prostitutes; it would be antithetical to everything Digby knew or sensed about the man. Then what was the man up to? When the answer came to Digby, accompanied in the next moment by a full-blown plan, he smiled. The man is walking into my arms. M’lady may yet have her scandal.
Digby suspected that these late-night strolls were part of a project. Men like Charles Beauton were always coming up with projects, but this time, Digby conjectured, the problem was personal. Charles’ wedding night was quickly approaching, when he would have on his hands a nervous, even terrified virgin, a young woman entirely innocent of sex.
It was conventional wisdom that young women of Beatrice’s ilk, from whom the subject of sex had been systematically hidden, would be shocked at the actual mechanics of the sex act. This was a common problem for young husbands of the upper caste who frequently had little experience themselves. One was constantly hearing of disastrous wedding nights, dreadful, embarrassing scenes of fear and confusion and copious tears, leading to cold strained relations, on occasion even to permanent estrangement.
What experience these young men had was generally with prostitutes. Charles may have had a poke or two along the way, or maybe not. But what he was looking for now, Digby told himself, was more than another poke or two. Faced with a confused and fearful young woman in his marriage bed, Charles Beauton would wish to comfort and ease her through the experience; this would require knowledge and experience he didn’t have.
It followed, Digby thought obvious, that not just any woman would do. Charles must find a woman who would understand what he was about, even sympathize. That was why he was still looking. Despite their beauty, the women of the West End had a hard edge, even the young ones. They were bold and vulgar, calling out to passersby or stepping into their path. Digby assumed that Charles did not know where else to go and did not want to ask anyone for advice.
As the second week of shadowing began, Beatrice and Arthur left for the continent. Digby knew that success was hardly assured, but he would take it as it came. If he had misunderstood what Beauton was about, or if the man gave up his search too soon, or if Digby’s own plan did not move along quickly enough, then his backup plan — murder, simple and direct — could be arranged in a few days’ time. He could not let Beatrice arrive home to face a wedding.
To be continued...
Copyright © 2023 by Steven Schechter
