A Victorian Romance
by Steven Schechter
Chapter 4: Two Letters
part 2
A new bride in Beatrice’s world would normally be eager to create her own household as a social hub and take her place in Society. It seemed to Margaret, however, that Beatrice had little enthusiasm for moving into the future. She was moody and irritable, which Margaret attributed to worry over Richard. Violence had broken out in Dublin between street gangs and British troops, and Beatrice had not heard from him in a week.
Margaret had taken the initiative to have Bolton House, formerly the Belham home in London, redecorated and painted. She had hired a staff that presently was sitting on their hands.
“Darling, you really must make your own home now,” she said to Beatrice as they sat at breakfast on a Sunday morning. “For Richard’s sake, too, it is so important.” Beatrice had little appetite, pushing the food around her plate with her fork.
“My dear,” said Arthur, “you always enjoyed stewed kidneys.” The girl shrugged. “Look here, darling.” Arthur had opened the newspaper to a Society column, and read aloud:
“‘We are all awaiting the first dinner party by Lady Richard Griffith, the wife of Undersecretary of State for Ireland. Men will flock to Bolton House to see the prettiest married woman in all England.’”
Beatrice barely smiled. “Richard will be gone for another month at least,” she said. “Anyway, he is perfectly glad to stay here. He told me so before he left.”
William had come to the table bearing the mail. Arthur sorted through it and handed several letters to Margaret. “Good news, darling,” he said to Beatrice. “You have not one letter from Richard, but two.”
Beatrice jumped up from her seat and took the letters. “Papa, may I go now?”
Arthur nodded, and she was gone. “Bring us the news,” Margaret called after her.
Beatrice took the stairs quickly and the hallway, shutting the bedroom door behind her. She tore open one of the letters and began reading, pacing as she read.
“8 February... My Dearest Beatrice, Your kind letter arrived this morning, a most pleasant addition to the breakfast table...”
She skimmed the rest of the page, turned it over, then dropped the letter to the floor. She opened the second letter and began to read:
“8 February” — the same date?! — “My Dearest Beatrice... I write to assure you that I cannot bear your absence... It is you and you alone who could inspire me with such deep passion.”
She skimmed forward and found it: “About that problem, rest easy, my sweet! The matter is in the past now and can no longer trouble you. Our future happiness is assured.”
Safety coursed through her like a drug. She realized she was tired, a pleasant, peaceful ache of fatigue and nerves suddenly calmed.
She sat on the side of the bed, then lay her head on the pillow as she read the end of the letter:
“By the way, darling — our new home at Bolton House needs your attention. Go to our home now. And if perchance I am lucky, I will get leave to come see you. Affectionately, your husband, Richard.”
* * *
After Beatrice left the table, Arthur read the paper and Margaret read the mail as they talked. “You had better make sure William sees to the painting at Bolton House,” Margaret said. “He is so slow nowadays.”
“Digby saw to it before he left.” Arthur spoke without lowering the newspaper.
“Digby? Why?”
“He said William is too slow,” Arthur put the paper down to smile amiably. “At any rate, it is done.”
“Excellent.”
Arthur nodded. “A good man on all occasions.”
He went back to his paper and did not notice, several minutes later, that Margaret was quietly stuck. She had opened another letter and almost immediately she had stopped. In the top left, it had read: “6 February 1888, Donton House, Berkshire.” Donton House was the home of Thomas Beauton.
Only days earlier, Margaret had wondered aloud to Arthur if she had been too harsh in her judgment of Thomas Beauton’s behavior at the engagement celebration. Arthur had thought it best then to tell her about Thomas’ first letter to her, the essence of it, anyway. Although she knew that any accusation of Beatrice was absurd on its face, it was nonetheless a shock to hear her niece’s name used in that context. Now here was another letter, and Margaret thought of discarding it unread. It was an odd-looking letter; there was no salutation, and it was comprised of individual sentences set off by themselves, as in a poem. She read the first sentence:
“A young lady traveled to Europe not too long ago with her father.”
A line was skipped, and then another sentence:
“There she lost a necklace worth £20,000.”
A crawling sensation began on Margaret’s neck and shoulders, she felt oppressively hot. How absurd, she told herself, to be afraid of reading this letter!
“Except the necklace never went with her to Europe. It remained hidden at home.”
“Margaret,” said Arthur, “You are white as a ghost. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, waving her hand before her face. Just a bit dizzy for some reason.”
“Do you need some air?”/
“Don’t make a fuss now.” She heard a loud pounding.
“What was the reason for this ruse? Was it because the necklace was to be given as payment? To whom? And for what service?”
There the letter ended.
Thomas had received help in conjuring this scenario from a third party who had intimate knowledge of Beatrice’s behavior: her lady’s maid, Abby. Thomas had followed through on his idea to secretly approach the servant girl, and it had paid off spectacularly. When asked about any unusual behavior by her mistress, Abby had a story to tell about the diamond necklace, the whereabouts of which she followed closely. In tears, she admitted trying on the necklace many times.
Before Beatrice’s trip to Spain and Italy with her father, Abby had noticed that the necklace hadn’t been packed. Her curiosity had been aroused because Beatrice had taken the unusual step of packing the jewelry herself. Abby couldn’t find the necklace in its usual place or anywhere else she looked. The servant said that she was shocked when Beatrice declared the necklace lost during the trip, but she had kept her thoughts to herself.
This second letter from Thomas was intended to continue the process of working upon Margaret’s mind. Lady Margaret Belham, he believed, was not like most others in his caste, who would do anything to keep the family name free of scandal. “Anything” might well include hiding a murder in the family; he had no doubts that this had happened in other families. Lady Margaret, on the other hand, were she ever to seriously question Beatrice’s innocence, would be incapable of looking the other way.
When Margaret had finished the letter, she told herself that it was simply fiction. She knew that Arthur had testified to seeing the necklace around Beatrice’s neck the night before it went missing. To the larger point, she told herself that Thomas Beauton was further gone than she could have imagined. In his grief, he was focusing on Beatrice as the source of all his brother’s troubles.
Margaret had just tucked away her thoughts on Thomas Beauton when another terrible thought arose. It had passed fleetingly through her mind before as a bizarre proposition, but now it took hold and would not be dismissed. She ignored it but it grew like an ugly purple tumor in her brain, as deadly a thought as she had ever had. It couldn’t be true.
She closed the letter. “Arthur, do you recall, when Digby was first here, last summer... Beatrice seemed to detest the man.”
Arthur chuckled, “I do indeed. I thought I was going to lose him.”
“Lose him? How so?”
He put the paper down. “I didn’t tell you, did I? You can be a bit hard on the servants.” He cleared his throat. “Well, there was a day when Beatrice came to me — she was furious — and she demanded I dismiss Digby immediately.”
“Dismiss him?! What had he done?”
“Oh,” Arthur shrugged, not quite remembering, “he doesn’t mind his place, he’s impudent—”
“I hope you spoke to him.”
“Before I had a chance, she came back to me.” He thought a moment. “It was the weekend we all went to that stiff affair at Ingatestone. We left her behind, she was ill. Do you recall?
Margaret nodded, expressionless.
Arthur smiled. “No sooner had we returned than she came to me and asked me not to dismiss him. She said he meant no harm, and she did not wish to injure his career.”
Margaret felt dizzy, she held onto the table.
Arthur stood. “Margaret?”
Margaret fainted.
* * *
Margaret awoke a half-hour later laying on a sofa in the drawing room. The curtains had been drawn. She was confused; then she remembered. She told herself that there must be an explanation for everything.
She gathered her strength and rose. Taking the stairs quietly to the second floor, to Beatrice’s bedroom, she rapped very lightly on the closed door. She didn’t know what she was going to do or say. When there was no answer, she quietly opened the door to see Beatrice asleep, her legs akimbo off the bed.
Margaret lifted Beatrice’s legs onto the bed, then softly sat next to her. She saw a letter on the floor and a letter in Beatrice’s hand. She picked up the letter on the floor, the first letter that Beatrice had read and then discarded. Margaret read it through and put it down. The letter contained nothing remarkable and for a moment, she thought she might leave. The world she had always known was still with her yet, but she could feel it changing, as if all the air in the world were escaping.
She gently extracted the letter in Beatrice’s hand — the second letter — and began to read. “8 February” caught her attention immediately. In the next moments, her worst apocalyptic imaginings became true. The letter was not from Richard but from Beatrice’s real partner. Affectionately, your husband, Richard... Go to our home now... I will get leave to come see you.
Margaret’s body remained upright, she breathed still, but her world had disintegrated. Beatrice’s eyes opened to see her aunt sitting a few feet away, holding a letter while silent tears rolled down her cheek. Beatrice’s eyes closed shut.
Copyright © 2023 by Steven Schechter
