LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Four

      Beatrice tucked her hair behind her ears and surveyed her downstairs salon, bedecked with books on each available surface. Her weekly book discussions were becoming…fashionable, attended by people from every walk of life, a crush that was the talk of the town.

      How she loved London, loved its rush and bustle and the way the fabric of life here was so entwined with good debate and politics and culture. No one expected things of her or corrected her. If she wished to spend an evening reading in bed she could. If she wished to go out to a play she could. London with its diversity of intellectual pursuits set her free in a way that she had never been before and she relished such liberty.

      Her clothes were nothing at all like the ones she would have worn three months ago either, those shabby country garments that spoke of a life tempered by ill health and routine long gone, and the highly coloured velvets she had replaced them with as unusual as they were practical.

      Unconventional.

      Original.

      Incomparable.

      Words that were increasingly being used to describe her in the local papers and broadsheets.

      She liked the sound of them, the very choice such description engendered. No expectation or cloying pragmatic sensibleness that had been the hallmark of her years with Frankwell.

      She did not think of him now as the man who had hurt her, the image of an angry bully replaced by the child who had lingered longer. Hopeful and dependent.

      When he had died she had laid him in his coffin with an armful of Michaelmas daisies because they had been his favourite and the church had rung with the sounds of children’s songs, the same tunes that he himself had sung in his final moments of life on this earth.

      Sorrow had been leached though here in London, her life filling with new friends and new experiences. How fortunate she had been to have the Hardy sisters as neighbours, for within a week of arriving here their wide group of acquaintances had become her friends as well, their social standing making her own acceptance into society seamless. When they had taken her under their wing and encouraged her dream of having such a forum in her own salon she could barely believe the speed with which the whole idea had taken shape. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror and saw the way she smiled she could not remember the sombre woman who had fled Ipswich in a snowstorm.

      Breathing out, she tried to stop the name that would come to her mind next. No, she would not think of him, of that night, of the way that he had left without even once glancing back; when her friend Elspeth Hardy came into the room with another pile of papers in her hands, Bea was glad of the interruption.

      ‘We have nowhere at all to put those, Elspeth. Perhaps if you could take them back upstairs we may discuss the contents next week.’

      ‘But they talk of the habit of wife selling, a topic that has been raised before—I wondered if they might add to the discussion?’

      Bea screwed up her nose. ‘I have read many accounts of such a practice, and have become increasingly of the view that the intention of these bargains is a way in which a woman can move on with her life, both parties having agreed to the proceedings.’

      ‘ You are not against them? I cannot believe it of you!’

      Beatrice laughed. ‘Often the purchaser is a lover. Would you not countenance such a path, given the impossibly difficult and expensive alternative of filing for a separation through church or court?’

      ‘I do not know. Perhaps you might be right…’

      ‘We will think about it later, for tonight I have prepared a talk on the ills of piracy and the human cost to such a vocation.’

      ‘Piracy! A topic that should appeal to the growing number of men now attending! Have you not noticed that, Bea? Over the last month we have had an almost equal composition of the sexes, which is…encouraging to say the least.’

      Beatrice nodded and sought out the trays to set. The new financial independence that she had inherited on the death of her husband was sometimes bemusing and she still liked to do as much around the home as she had when her situation had been less flush.

      Tonight, though, she felt nervous for some reason, her heartbeat heightened and her hands clumsy. When she dropped a cup it shattered on the parquet floor and as she bent to pick up the shards of china one cut deep into her forefinger.

      The blood welled immediately, running down her palm and threatening the sleeve of her gown. Snatching at the muslin cover used for the cakes, she was thrown back into that darkened carriage outside Maldon when Taris Wellingham had offered her the square of material wrapped around the fruitcake as a scarf. At the time she had barely thought about it…but now? Other things began to pile into recollection. The way he used his hands and the scar that marred his forehead. No small accident that. An injury collected when he was a soldier, perhaps, or a little later…

      ‘Shall I find a bandage, Bea, or is that stopping?’ Elspeth’s sister Molly had come to join them.

      ‘No, it is all right, thank you.’ She gingerly took the fabric away and was relieved when the skin looked knitted and clean. The fear in her very bones did not diminish, however, and when the clock in the hallway struck seven o’clock she jumped visibly. Two days ago, as she had walked along the street to the bank, a man had jostled her quite forcibly, the pile of papers she held in her hands scattering around her. He had stayed long enough to peruse the contents and then had disappeared, neither helping her nor apologising.

      He had seemed angry, though she could not truly catch sight of his face to determine if she had met him before. Perhaps the outwardly Bohemian nature of her lifestyle had galvanised him into a reaction that was rooted in fear. Fear that, should women start to think, they might displace men who were less astute in the work-force and in society. Her roots in business probably added to the equation, as the Bassingstoke fortune had been wrought from the hard sweat of rolling iron for the ever-burgeoning railway.

      The whole thing was probably harmless, but added to the accident in the coach she was beginning to feel…watched.

      Beatrice shook her head hard. It was half an hour before the first men and women would be arriving and she still had much to do. All this ruminating on a perceived menace would neither get the room organised nor help her ridiculous case of the jitters. Smiling at Elspeth and Molly, she resolved to put her worries aside, and, plumping the cushions in the room, she dusted off the seats of the chairs and sofas.

      The downstairs salon was full to bursting and the discussions were under way when a new arrival made Beatrice stop in mid-sentence, for the woman who had run into the open arms of Taris Wellingham in the barn was here.

      Emerald Wellingham?

      A wave of embarrassment washed away any sense of the argument she was trying to forward. Why would she come? What possible reason would bring her here, for surely she had understood her brother-in-law’s wish for distance as he had left the barn so quickly after the carriage accident? The Duchess of Carisbrook was a beautiful woman, her countenance in this room even more arresting, if that was at all possible, than it had been in a snow-filled night.

      ‘As

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