Ann Lethbridge - Regency Society

Beautiful. Like all the Wellinghams were beautiful, though her fair hair and blue eyes were not mirrored in either of her brothers.

‘You are Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke, are you not?’ she asked, a heavy frown easily seen between her brows.

‘I am,’ Bea returned and stood, though she was nowhere near as tall as this newcomer and wished suddenly that she had kept her seat.

‘The same Mrs Bassingstoke involved in an accident with my brother Taris between Ipswich and London?’

‘The very same.’

‘Then I am pleased to meet you.’ Her wide smile was both puzzling and welcome. ‘Very pleased to meet you, in fact—I am Lady Lucinda Wellingham, Taris’s only sister. Might I sit down?’

‘Of course.’

She sat on the sofa less than a foot away and left very little room between them, though when Bea hesitated she carried on in a whirl of words. ‘I heard from my sister-in-law that you would be speaking this week on the property rights of women.’

‘An inflammatory subject that I hope I will handle sensitively,’ Bea returned, not at all certain of the position Taris’s sister was approaching the argument from. ‘I should not wish to run foul of your family.’

‘Oh, I rather think it is too late for that—you have already.’

Tardon?’

Lady Lucinda’s hand swatted the air in front of her as though any problems would be easily solved. ‘Asher seems to think you should be hanged, drawn and quartered for your outlandish opinions.’ Her giggle softened the sentiment.

‘And your other brother?’

‘Oh, Taris holds all thoughts of you very close to his chest, Mrs Bassingstoke. The incident you were both involved in outside Maldon was, after all, fairly unusual, and he seldom courts gossip in any form.’

‘I see.’ A man who was careful, then? Careful to live his life within the boundaries of what was expected, the tittle-tattle of society dangerous to a man who would hide his lack of sight from everyone. Even from his sister? For in every conversation Beatrice had had in which Taris Wellingham was the subject, not once had she heard a whisper of what he could or could not see.

‘ Our family has had its fair share of tragedy, Mrs Bassingstoke, but then I would guess you are no stranger to such a thing either…’ Her glance flickered to the ring on her marriage finger.

‘No. I suppose that is true.’

‘If I might give you a piece of advice then…’ the younger woman suddenly whispered and leant forwards so that her voice did not travel ‘…my brother is a man who would be well worth pursuing.’

‘Oh, I doubt that I would interest him, my lady,’ Bea began, hating the telling blush that crept up her cheeks.

‘Ahh, you might be surprised in that, for I have never seen him ask a woman to dance in years and certainly not a waltz.’

Shrewdness was evident in her eyes and because of it Bea was inclined to answer defensively. She did not wish Taris’s sister to relay any tale back of a perceived interest.

‘I have only recently been made a widow, Lady Lucinda, and as I am well over twenty-eight…’

‘You had no children from your first marriage?’ Lucinda Wellingham clamped her hand across her mouth even as she asked the question. ‘I am sorry; of course that was very rude of me to ask.’

The blood pumped in Beatrice’s temples as she was taken back to the house in Ipswich, the voice of her husband reverberating loudly.

‘I am trapped in a lacklustre pointless marriage to an uninspiring and barren wife, and all you can do is apologise?’ His fist had connected with the side of her head before she could answer and knocked her from her chair ‘You cannot even give me an heir. Beatrice-Maude, you cannot even give me that when God knows I have given you everything… ‘

Everything? A broken arm and a broken nose and a hundred bruises hidden beneath the folds of her gown…

‘Are you quite all right, Mrs Bassingstoke?’ Lucinda Wellingham’s worried countenance came through the haze, bringing Bea back to this time, this place, the wheezing in her breath worse now than she had ever heard it.

Panicked, she tried to stand and could not, collapsing against the sofa, a sheen of sweat marking her face and her hands shaking.

Barren Beatrice.

Broken Beatrice.

Such a long, long way from Bea-utiful and Bea-witching Beatrice.

‘Should I call someone to help you?’

‘No…Please do not do that…I…shall be all right.’ Clearing her throat, she made herself sit up, made herself face the woman opposite, the curiosity imprinted in the watching light eyes persuading her against her better judgement to try and explain.

‘I could not have children, Lady Lucinda, and it was a great loss…’

‘I am so sorry; of course, with your husband now gone to his Maker a child might have been such a comfort. A memory, so to speak, of all the good times, a child formed in the mould of a man you had loved.’

Stifling a smile at such a sentiment, Bea began to feel immeasurably better. She had never met a woman who seemed so able at putting her foot in her mouth. A memory? Of love? My God, when all she wanted to do was to forget. Still, there was something appealing in such eager openness, some engaging exuberance that reality had not yet snuffed out, and so completely opposite from the careful and measured stance of her brother.

‘Thank you for your kind words, Lady Lucinda. It has been most…refreshing, and please do give my regards to your sister-in-law.’

‘Emerald? You know her?’

‘Not well.’

‘You remind me of her in some ways, not in looks of course…’

Again Bea smiled.

‘But in strength. You have the same sort of intensity that she does. But now, I really must be going for I see you have much work here to do.’ Her glance flicked to the pile of books and notes on the table. ‘Of course, I cannot even imagine speaking in front of a whole room of people and on subjects that you seem to want to delve into…’

‘And at your age I am certain I would have felt just the same.’

A practised giggle was the only reply as her young visitor stood and allowed the maid to show her out. Sitting back again on the sofa, Beatrice tried to collect her scattered thoughts. What had just happened? Had Lucinda Wellingham come to warn her or to help her?

She could not quite fathom which, for every Wellingham she met thus far was as impossible to understand as the last one and Taris Wellingham was the most difficult of them all to comprehend.

Pushing back her concerns, Bea ironed out the creases in her vibrant green-silk day dress with her fingers.

Outside she could hear the servants going about their day, cooking, cleaning, polishing. A house with only her in it. It all seemed so very wasteful and unnecessary to do such tasks each day when she was the only inhabitant, but the penny-pinching she had been forced into for so many years had led her to enjoy just a little bit of luxury.

Lord, why on earth had she told the girl of her barrenness when for ten years she had mentioned it to no one? The grief of loss turned slowly again in her chest, but with even such a small conversation the potency of such a secret was lessened. Perhaps therein lay the fortunes of the Catholic confessionals, the age-old adage of a trouble shared being a trouble halved suddenly making a sense that it never had before.

Because in all her life she had never really had friends. Not real ones until coming here to London.

Lucinda Wellingham’s concern had unwittingly laid bare all the strategies she had put in place for coping.

Barren.

No wife for any man. No fit and ripe companion. No heir.