Lord Ravensden's Marriage

Beatrice smiled, knowing that she always without fail managed to twist her father round her finger. He could refuse her nothing, for the simple reason that he was able to give her very little. Fortunately, Beatrice had a tiny allowance of her own, which came to her directly from a bequest left to her by her maternal grandmother, Lady Anne Smith.

Nan had given her a towel to dry herself, and Beatrice had used it to good effect. Her long hair was wild about her face, gleaming with reddish gold lights and giving her a natural beauty she had never noticed for herself. She handed the towel back to her aunt, and looked down at herself. Her gown was disgraceful, but her dear, forgetful papa would probably never notice.

“You realise Olivia will be an added burden on your father’s slender income?” Nan warned. “You have little enough for yourself as it is.”

“My sister will be destitute if we do not take her in,” Beatrice replied, frowning. “I do not know whether they have cast her off without a penny—but it sounds as if they may have done so. It would be cruel indeed of me if I were to refuse to let her shelter in her own home.”

“Yes, and something you could never do,” Nan said warmly. “I have no objections, my love. I only wish you to think before you leap—unlike my poor brother.”

“We shall manage,” Beatrice said, and left her aunt with a smile.

The smile was wiped out the instant she left the room. She had not mentioned anything to Nan, because it was still not clear to her exactly what her sister’s rather terse words had meant—but clearly Lord Ravensden was not a man Olivia could love or respect. Indeed, if Beatrice was not mistaken, he was a hard, ruthless man who cared for little else but wealth and duty.

He had had the cold-hearted effrontery to tell one of his friends that he was marrying to oblige Lord Burton. Since the Burtons had no children of their own, the title and fortune would pass by entail to a distant cousin of Lord Burton. They had felt this was a little unfair on the daughter they had adopted, and so made their wishes known to Lord Burton’s heir: it would please them if he were to marry the girl they had lavished with affection since she came to them.

Apparently, Lord Ravensden had proposed to Olivia, giving her the impression that he cared for her—and it was only by accident that she had learned the truth. It must have distressed her deeply!

No wonder she had declared herself unable to love him. If Beatrice were not much mistaken, it would push any woman to the limits to find a place in her heart for such an uncaring man.

She wished that she might have him at her mercy for five minutes! It would give her the greatest pleasure to tell him exactly what she thought of him.

Chapter Two

Beatrice fought her rising temper. She was slow to anger, but when something offended her strong sense of justice—as it did now—she could be awesome in her fury.

“If I could but get my hands on him!” she muttered furiously. “He should see how it feels to be treated so harshly. I should make him suffer as he makes my poor sister.”

No, no, this would not do! She must appear calm and cheerful when speaking to Papa. He had so many worries, the poor darling. This burden must not be allowed to fall on his shoulders. As for the added strain on his slender income…well, it made the idea of her becoming a teacher at Mrs Guarding’s school even more necessary. If she could support herself, her father would be able to spare a few guineas a year for Olivia to dress herself decently—though not, her sister feared, in the manner to which she had become accustomed.

Beatrice paused outside the door to her father’s study, then knocked and walked in without waiting for an answer. It would have done her little good to wait. Mr Roade was engrossed in the sets of charts and figures on his desk, and would not have heard her.

Like many men of the time, he was fascinated with the sciences and the invention of all kinds of ingenious devices. Mr Roade was a great admirer of James Watt, who had invented the miraculous steam engine, which had begun to be used in so many different ways. And, of course, Mr Robert Fulton, the American, who had first shown his splendid steam boat on the Seine in France in 1803. Bertram Roade was certain that his own designs would one day make him a great deal of money.

“Papa…” Beatrice said, walking up to glance over his shoulder. He was working on an ingenious design for a fireplace that would heat a water tank fitted behind it and provide a constant supply of hot water for the household. It was a splendid idea, if only it would work. Unfortunately, the last time her father had persuaded someone to manufacture the device for him, it had overheated and blown apart, causing a great deal of damage and costing more than a hundred pounds, both to repair the hole in the kitchen wall and to repay the money invested by an outraged partner. Money they could ill afford.

“May I speak with you a moment?”

“I’ve nearly got the puzzle solved,” Mr Roade replied, not having heard her. “I’m sure I know why it exploded last time…you see the air became too hot and there was nowhere for it to escape. Now, if I had a valve which let out the steam before it built up…”

“Yes, Papa, I’m sure you are right.”

Mr Roade looked up. Beatrice was usually ready to argue his theories with him; he was none too sure that his most recent was correct, and had hoped to discuss it with her.

“You wanted to talk to me, my dear?” His mild eyes blinked at her from behind the gold-rimmed spectacles that were forever in danger of falling off his nose. “It isn’t time for dinner—is it?”

“No, Papa, not quite. I came to see you about another matter.” She took a deep breath. “Olivia wishes to come and stay with us. I would like your permission to write and tell her she will be welcome here for as long as she wishes.”

“Olivia…your sister?” He wrinkled his brow, as if searching for something he knew he must have forgotten. A smile broke through as he remembered. “Ah yes, she is to be married. No doubt she wishes for a chance to have a little talk with her sister before her wedding.”

“No, Papa. It isn’t quite like that. For reasons Olivia will make clear to us, she has decided not to marry Lord Ravensden. She wants to come and live here.”

“Are you sure you have that right, m’dear?” Mr Roade looked bewildered. “I thought it was a splendid match—the man’s as rich as Midas, ain’t he?”

“That is a very apt description, Father. For if you remember, Midas was the King of Phrygia whose touch turned all to gold, and on whom Apollo bestowed the ears of an ass. Lord Ravensden must be a fool to have turned Olivia against him, but it seems, like that ancient king, he cares more for gold than the sweetness of a woman’s touch.”

“Must be a fool then,” sighed a man who had loved his wife too much. “Olivia is better off without him. Write at once and tell her we shall be delighted to have her home. Never did think it was a good idea for her to go away…your mother’s idea. She wanted the chance of a better life for at least one of her daughters, and her poor sister-inlaw was childless. Thank God the Burtons didn’t pick you! I couldn’t have borne that loss, Beatrice.”

“Thank you, Papa.” She smiled and kissed his forehead lovingly. “You know, if you let all the steam go in one direction, it might pass through pipes before it finally escapes, and give some heat to the rooms. It would make the bedrooms so much warmer…as long as you could be sure the device that heats the water will not blow up like it did the last time.”

“Let the steam pass through pipes that run round the house.” Mr Roade looked at his daughter as if she had just lit a candle in his head. “That’s a very good notion, Beatrice. It might look a little ugly, I suppose. I wonder if anyone would put up with that for the convenience of feeling warm?”

“I certainly would,” Beatrice replied. “Have you made any advances on the grate for a smokeless fire? Mine was smoking dreadfully again last night. It always does when the wind is from the east.”

“It might be a bird’s nest,” her father said. “I’ll sweep the chimney out for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Papa, but I’m sure Mr Rowley will come up from the village if we ask him. It is not fitting for you to undertake such tasks.” Besides which, her father would make a dreadful mess of it!

“Fiddlesticks!” Mr Roade said. “I’ll do it for you first thing tomorrow.”

“Very well, Papa.”

Beatrice smiled as she went away. Her father would have forgotten about the smoking chimney five minutes after she left him, which mattered not at all, since she intended to send for the sweep when their one and only manservant next went down to Abbot Quincey to fetch their weekly supplies.

Seeing her father’s manservant tending the candelabra on the lowboy in the hall, Beatrice smiled.

“Good evening, Bellows. It is a terrible evening, is it not?”

“We’re in for a wild night, miss. Lily brought your letter?”

“Yes, thank you—and thank you for thinking to fetch it for me.”

“You’re welcome, miss. I was in the market at Abbot Quincey and it was the work of a moment to see if any mail had come.”

She nodded and smiled, then passed on up the stairs.

It was possible to buy most goods from the general store in Abbot Quincey, which was much the largest of the four villages, and might even have been called a small town these days, but when anything more important was needed, they had to send Bellows to Northampton.

They were lucky to have Bellows, who was responsible for much of the work both inside the house and out. He had been with them since her father was a boy, and could remember when the Roade family had not been as poor as they were now.

For some reason all his own, Bellows was devoted to his master, and remained loyal despite the fact that he had not been paid for three years. He received his keep, and had his own methods of supplementing his personal income. Sometimes a plump rabbit or a pigeon found its way into the kitchen, and Beatrice suspected that Bellows was not above a little poaching, but she would never dream of asking where the gift came from. Indeed, she could not afford to!

Walking upstairs to her bedchamber to wash and change her clothes, Beatrice reflected on the strangeness of fate.

“My poor, dear sister,” she murmured. “Oh, how could that rogue Ravensden have been so cruel?”

She herself had been deserted by a man who had previously declared himself madly in love with her, because, she understood, he had lost a small fortune at the gaming tables. She truly believed that Matthew Walters had intended to marry her, until he was ruined by a run of bad luck—he had certainly declared himself in love with her several times. Only her own caution had prevented her allowing her own feelings to show.

If she had given way to impulse, she would have been jilted publicly, which would have made her situation very much worse. At least she had been spared the scandal and humiliation that would have accompanied such an event.