Dorothy Eden (4 page)

“You must let me show you my butterfly collection before you go, Miss Bonnington. I remember you used to be interested.”

That was William’s voice as he paused a moment, before moving on with an entrancingly pretty young woman on his arm. A moment later the violins burst into full sound and the dancing had begun.

Somehow the evening passed. Beatrice danced several times with strange young men (sent, she guessed, by Mrs Overton who was a painstaking hostess), and at last with William who whisked her round efficiently, then said, “Oh, excuse me—awfully sorry—I think the next is the supper waltz and I’ve promised—Is someone taking you to supper?”

“Yes,” Beatrice lied, and prayed for Papa to arrive.

There was to be no moonlight walk in the garden. Determination, she realised, wasn’t enough. Neither was the hopeless love that she hid behind an impassive face. She decided she would spend the supper waltz upstairs, and once again wander from room to room. Why not? Nobody would miss her.

The house could not reject her, as William did.

This solitary occupation had its own reward. She found that William had moved into the General’s bedroom. She knew this because there was a cabinet of butterfly slides where the General’s writing desk had stood. The top one was pulled out and she could study the fragile iridescent insects imprisoned beneath the glass. Painted Ladies, Red Emperors, Fritillaries, a rare Swallowtail. She was pleased that she could recognise them. She had read a great deal about moths and butterflies since that long ago afternoon on the Heath. A happiness as fragile as the butterflies filled her. It came partly from memory, partly from stubborn anticipation.

One disastrous party had not ruined her hopes. She was not the kind of person to give up because the young man she loved was thoughtless and insensitive, though in the most charming way. Everyone had faults. She had enough herself. Besides, he wouldn’t behave like this when he knew her better.

The old General was no longer there to encourage her, but another significant thing did happen. Two middle-aged women had emerged from the bedroom next door and were absorbed in the kind of vaguely malicious conversation that went on at parties like this. Beatrice could hear every word they said.

“If he doesn’t marry money they’ll be in a fix. Poor Blanche has confided in me.”

“Then Laura Prendergast won’t do?”

“Goodness me, no. She’s got even less money than the Overtons. Anyway, she’s only one of William’s flirtations. He’s a most disgracefully fickle young man. I hardly envy the girl he marries, in spite of all that devastating charm.”

“I’d choose money any day, rather than charm.”

“That’s what poor William will have to do.”

The two ladies rippled with laughter.

“You know, they say that Beatrice Bonnington is the richest girl here tonight.”

“Really? That badly-dressed girl with no looks? I wondered how she came to be invited. Although if William must marry an heiress, one would have thought he could find one in his own class.”

“He’s not that much of a catch, Millicent. Poor health, idle, a reputation for being a philanderer. Besides, an important heiress would want a bigger house than this. It’s charming enough, but it’s really not much more than a pretty cottage.”

“Really, Etty, what a snob you are.”

“No, I’m merely stating facts. Compare it with Syon House or Osterley Park, or Kenwood. Now those are great houses worth cherishing.”

“So is Overton House, in its way.” (Beatrice agreed strongly with Millicent.) “It’s a perfect example of Queen Anne architecture, and goodness knows, in the future there may be few enough houses like this left, considering some of the monstrosities our generation is building. So ugly. Pretentious without being pretentious enough, if you know what I mean.” (Papa would not agree with Millicent. The house she described was exactly the kind he had built, and with which he was entirely satisfied.)

“Anyway,” Millicent went on in her confident carrying voice, “we weren’t talking of preserving houses so much as preserving the Overton family. Wasn’t there that rumour that the General wanted his son to marry the little Bonnington. Something about the family needing an injection of healthy blood. After all, the Overtons have practically bled themselves dry for their country.”

“So the little Bonnington is to produce more cannon fodder?”

“Perhaps. But money’s the first essential, I believe. Of course, if the girl’s a romantic, she may well refuse William. She’ll see through that kind of proposal.”

“Don’t you believe it. Haven’t you noticed the way she was looking at him tonight? She hasn’t even learned to dissemble.”

“Then I say, poor little fool. I can’t see Blanche being happy with a daughter-in-law like her.”

“She may have to be.”

“I’ll believe you, my dear, when I see William having the last dance with the little Bonnington. I daresay he’ll do as he’s expected to.”

He did. He danced several times with Beatrice before the evening was over, performing his duty with courtesy and charm. If he were only pretending sincerity he was a remarkably good actor. She was almost certain that he enjoyed her company and her conversation. Finally, he asked permission to escort her home. When she said that her father was coming for her, he said could he not walk on her other side. She had two sides, hadn’t she?

Yes, thought Beatrice, she had, one that was highly suspicious of William’s sudden dedicated attention to her, and another foolishly flattered and delighted one, which was going to suspend all commonsense indefinitely.

“Now Bea, love,” said Papa when they were at home, “that young man we’ve just said goodnight to. His intentions aren’t honest, you know.”

“Papa, how can you possibly tell? You scarcely know him.”

“Don’t get on your high horse. Does William Overton know you frequently ride a high horse, for instance? No, he thinks you’re a meek little mouse ready to kiss his feet because you’ve been invited to the big house and he’s paid you a few compliments.”

“Papa, I’m not exactly a fool.”

“No, you’re not, and that’s my point. Young Overton thinks you’re stupid enough to be taken in by flattery. All he wants is your bank account. Your mother knows it, and I know it. The difference between us is that your mother doesn’t mind, but I do. What about you, Bea? You’d have more pride, wouldn’t you?”

Desire was much stronger than pride. Didn’t Papa know that? Or was he so immersed in business that he recognised only people’s avaricious qualities?

“I think you’re jumping to conclusions,” she reproached him. “Just because I was invited to a party at Overton House doesn’t mean that tomorrow I’ll be wearing William Overton’s ring.”

“But you would like to be. Come on, love, confess.”

“Yes. If he ever wants to put a ring on my finger I’ll let him. Whether it’s for my money or not.”

“Good Gad!” Papa began stroking his moustache in a helpless way. “And I always thought you had plenty of sense. Supposing I decide to cut you out of my will.”

Beatrice was alarmed. “You wouldn’t, Papa! Promise you won’t do that. It isn’t that I want the money for myself—”

“But for that idle young man. Do you really think you could be happy in that kind of marriage?”

“Yes,” said Beatrice. “Because I would make it a real marriage,” she added, after a pause.

“Well, it hasn’t happened yet.”

“No, but it will.” She knew, suddenly, that this was so. Her eyes, a soft moth-wing grey, had a glint as steely as that of her father’s. He recognised this, for he gave a short unamused guffaw.

“Good Gad! I believe Master Overton may be getting a package he doesn’t expect.”

“And for my wedding,” said Beatrice, “Miss Brown must be more careful. This dress was quite wrong for tonight. I looked a frump.”

Papa’s knowledgeable fingers felt the material of her dress.

“That’s the best Macclesfield silk. Can’t see how you could be a frump in something as good as that.” His eyes had a wry look. “Don’t let that lot patronise you, Bea. You’re my daughter, and I’m not a nobody.”

“I’m not a nobody either,” Beatrice said.

It did seem that William was serious in his intentions, for from that night he began an assiduous courtship which even Joshua Bonnington could not criticise. Although the word love was never spoken. Beatrice didn’t want it to be for that would make William a hypocrite. She guessed that, pressed by the family solicitors and his mother, he had accepted the situation reluctantly, but since he had accepted it he meant to carry it through. He was a man of honour. And he would not be the first gentleman in straitened circumstances who had made a marriage of convenience.

When finally marriage was a certainty Blanche Overton, William’s mother, took Beatrice on a tour of Overton House. Beatrice had longed for this. She wanted to absorb everything about the house and took such a gratifying interest that Mrs Overton, who didn’t consider that the marriage contract meant she had to feel any fondness for her daughter-in-law, relaxed a little of her polite hostility.

They progressed from the long music room to the yellow drawing room, then to the china room (the Overtons had always been collectors of beautiful things) and the mirror room, a frivolity of an eighteenth-century Overton who was said to have had some strange habits. Whatever riotous parties had taken place in this room in his day, it had later become more respectable, and was the traditional place for romantic proposals of marriage.

To Beatrice’s regret, William had not made his proposal there. He had chosen the Heath, where the open spaces and the soft balmy air of a perfect summer day had improved his spirits and given him enough recklessness to commit himself.

All the bedrooms on the first floor had quaint octagonal powder closets adjoining. They were used now as dressing rooms. If there were to be a large family of children in the house, they would make perfectly adequate bedrooms for nurses or governesses.

The top floor was divided into much smaller bedrooms, servants being a species who didn’t need much space, having few belongings. This was where cook, two parlourmaids, Mrs Overton’s personal maid, and two very young maids-of-all-work, slept. Beatrice made a mental note to claim the room at the end for Hawkins, whom she would bring with her. Mamma was willing to let her go, and Hawkins herself was eager. She was only four years older than Beatrice, and devoted to her. It would be nice to have an old friend in her new home.

After the inspection of the upper floors, Beatrice insisted on viewing the kitchen, the pantries, the still room, the storage room, and the long stone-flagged passages in the basement. She opened cupboards and inspected marble-topped benches and scrubbed wooden tables, and admired the shining black-leaded stove, big enough to roast a whole lamb. Her mother had taught her to cook, she said, so she would be quite critical of Cook’s ability.

“Mrs Jones is an excellent cook,” Mrs Overton said stiffly.

“I’m so glad. I wouldn’t care to begin by dismissing servants. Do you know that Mamma and Papa began their life with only a very stupid girl called Polly. I remember her quite well. She had chilblains all the year round, and was scolded a great deal because she had never been properly trained. Now of course we have too many servants.” Beatrice sighed a little. “I sometimes think Papa got rich too quickly.”

“I hope you won’t make remarks like that at dinner parties,” Mrs Overton said, giving her light rippling laugh.

“It’s only the truth.”

“The truth doesn’t always need to be aired.”

“No. Perhaps not.” Beatrice sighed again, then added, with a rush of feeling, “But I do love this house.”

“Not more than my son, I hope?”

Beatrice was startled. Was Mrs Overton, this painted china woman with her carefully repressed hostility, speaking the truth herself, for a change?

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Only that—well, my dear, no one is pretending this is a love match. Come now, if you profess to speak the truth you must admit that you’re longing to live in this house.”

“I know I am. But for all that, on my side it’s a love match,” Beatrice said with intensity. “And it always will be.”

Nothing, from then until her wedding day, had shaken her on that point.

“Take some interest, Beatrice.” It took the sharpness of Mamma’s voice to penetrate her consciousness and bring her back from her daydream. “Really, the trouble we’re taking and you look as if you’re a million miles away.”

“I was, too. I was thinking how I came to be here today, getting dressed for my wedding. I’ve been going over my past like a drowning man.”

Miss Brown gave her abrupt tittering laugh.

“Goodness me, far from drowning, Miss Beatrice! I only hope you won’t be too grand to make your weekly visits to the shop.”

“That isn’t fair! You know nothing would keep me away.”

“Except a husband, perhaps,” Miss Brown murmured wistfully.

“Not even a husband. Anyway, I’ll be bringing him with me.”

Privately, however, Beatrice doubted this. William was happy to have Bonnington’s as a source of income, but he wasn’t likely to get proprietorial about it. She knew already that it bored him. She had once begun a discussion about the merits of French goods as opposed to English. Bonnington’s richer customers, she said, thought that if a hat hadn’t a Paris label it wasn’t worth buying.

The look of polite boredom on William’s face had made her stop in mid-sentence. She never talked about merchandise again. Instead she studied his interests, music, poetry and art, painting and sculpture, butterflies. Soon she would be able to talk about such subjects with an assumption of ease. She intended to encourage William to take her regularly to the theatre. She would read the latest books. She might even attempt to take up piano playing again, although she had no gift for music.

But she would
try.
She knew that she and William would be excellent friends. He would treat her with kindness and affection and she would not allow herself to embarrass him with displays of her deep devotion, even though she knew there would never be a time when she did not respond to his ebullience and gaiety, his wit and courtesy and good looks. He was one of those people intended to decorate the world. She gladly accepted him as such and hoped she would never be responsible for dimming his spirit.