A Brazen Curiosity, page 10
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
The prospect of such a dim future was more than the girl could endure, and she dissolved into a deluge of tears, which she sought to stem with the mob cap. The bonnet, of course, was an inadequate substitute for a handkerchief, and Beatrice quickly surveyed the room for a more appropriate item. Spotting a cluster of accessories on top of the chest of drawers, she rifled through the articles—gloves, hairpins, a bracelet, a letter from…hmm, was the Mr. Wilson on the return address her father’s agent in India?—and found what she was looking for. She picked up the cloth square while discreetly sliding the letter into her pocket.
Beatrice handed the weeping Miss Otley the handkerchief and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. “There, there, all will be well, I promise,” she said soothingly as she lamented her inability to provide anything more substantial than empty platitudes. She appreciated the practical aspects of Kesgrave’s manipulations, but it struck her as cruel beyond imagining to allow the poor girl to think she was penniless as well as fatherless.
Miss Otley dabbed delicately at her tears with the handkerchief, her beauty heightened further by the hint of fragility, and took several calming breaths as she struggled to restrain her emotions. After a few minutes, she regained her composure and apologized for the outburst in a voice deepened by sorrow. “Even in these trying times, I know it’s unseemly for one to lose control, and I must beg your forgiveness.”
Although Bea didn’t doubt for a moment the girl’s sincerity, her words could not have been more precisely calculated to make Bea feel like a splotch of mud on the bottom of a gentleman’s boot, for she had come to her room with the express purpose of poking and prying. Her goal had not been to make her cry, of course, but she’d known how unlikely it was that she would gain information without waterworks. “You must not apologize for being human,” she said sternly. “Nobody could suffer as you have and not break down. I’m surprised you didn’t do it sooner. Here, let’s rest for a moment before we change for dinner. We still have a few minutes before we must summon the maid. I must confess, Miss Otley, that I greatly envy how beautifully you cry. Whenever I cry, my skin turns blotchy—overly pale in some places and violently red in others. Yours simply took on an ethereal quality as the tears ran down your cheeks.”
Miss Otley perked up at once and agreed that her complexion was particularly well-suited to tragedy. “My eyes, as well, for they become luminescent in grief, not at all bloodshot, which I know is the more common reaction,” she said before launching into a list of other ways her beauty had always set her apart.
Grateful for the opportunity to offer silent consolation, Bea listened dutifully as Miss Otley…Emily, as she insisted on being called…bemoaned the many hardships that came with physical perfection. ’Twas a constant struggle to get anyone to take her seriously, a grievance whose validity Bea was forced to concede, as she herself was having a difficult time taking the girl seriously at that very moment. Nevertheless, she listened intently and nodded understandingly and kept her brows pulled together in an expression of sympathetic concern. She even murmured, “You poor dear” a few times—and meant it, for it was clear the young woman’s life had been shaped almost solely by her appearance, a prospect that seemed quite depressing to Bea.
A knock on the door brought their tête-à-tête to an end, and Beatrice excused herself when she saw it was Mrs. Otley, who wanted to check on her daughter’s progress. Her lips tightened in stern disapproval when she saw that none had been made. She was further annoyed when Emily thanked Bea for the mob cap. “It’s quite the most marvelous one I’ve ever seen.”
Bea dipped her head and returned to her room to sift through the information she’d gathered before changing for dinner. Emily’s description of events seemed to align with Kesgrave’s claim that the deceased had lied to his investors. The fact that the Incomparable had been unable to find a letter detailing the destruction of the hibiscus crop indicated that no such devastation had occurred. The fire was merely a fiction that allowed Otley to not only pocket the funds his investors had sunk into his new enterprise but also keep all the profit from the sale of the tea for himself. If the hibiscus plants themselves ceased to exist, then the obligation to pay dividends on the earnings derived from them likewise vanished.
Was it possible for a man to tell a falsehood so flagrant and get away with it? Did not the acres of thriving hibiscus plants belie the story for everyone to see?
Ah, but this is India, Bea reminded herself.
Confirming the report would be virtually impossible, for it would have to rely on firsthand accounts and those could not be attained easily. Kesgrave’s friend, for example, would have to hire an agent in London, send him around the Cape of Good Hope to India, trust he could find the exact location of Mr. Otley’s hibiscus plants and wait for him to send a report back. The trip from London to Bombay took at least four months, which meant investigating a claim might consume almost an entire year, by which time anything could have happened, including a fire that actually wiped out the entire crop.
Bea didn’t doubt that Otley’s business ventures—both his hibiscus shrubs and his swindle—continued to thrive. No wonder Madame Babineaux’s bills were paid with customary haste.
But his earlier business, the spice trade upon which he had built his name, seemed to have suffered a genuine setback if Emily’s description of both her mother’s behavior and Mr. Wilson’s letters was to be believed. The loss of the lucrative trade to a competitor had created a fiscal crisis that the immoral hibiscus scheme fixed.
Satisfied with that explanation, Bea retrieved the envelope she’d pilfered from the top of Miss Otley’s chest of drawers and withdrew the letter.
My dearest, sweetest love,
I write to you with an eagerness that cannot be contained, for I have news, good news—indeed the best news. It’s the news I have been hoping these many months to hear, for this trade is rough as are the forces that move within it. I’m desolate knowing it will still take several months to make itself known to you. At long last, the obligation that has kept me here in this arid place, this parched wasteland, with its relentless oppressive sun beaming down week after week after week, is at an end. No longer at night, when I’m unable to sleep because the intense heat has penetrated my skin and invaded my bones, will I have to picture your beautiful form, as dewy and fresh as an English morning. For you will be beside me or near me, in the verdant countryside. John Company can have this godforsaken field if it wants it so badly, I cannot care anymore. Now, finally, with the end of my exile in sight, we can begin to lay the groundwork for our future. I need only await my official release before booking passage home. Will we ever be together as husband and wife? I cannot say, for so much stands in our way. But I have been enterprising during my sojourn in this barren land and wily in my dealings with the Chinese. I leave in much better straits than when I arrived! And I hope I’m not descending into triteness when I say our love will make us rich. My darling, how happy I am that our long separation—only sixteen months and yet it feels like sixteen lifetimes—is almost at an end.
Yr ever obedient servant,
Charles
Stunned by the contents of the letter, Bea read it again and again to make sure she wasn’t creating a love affair from a few heartfelt words. But no, it was clearly on the page: Mr. Otley’s associate was enamored of his daughter.
Did Emily return his regard?
Considering the young lady’s opinion of herself and her belief in the vital necessity of new hats with pink plumes, it seemed unlikely she would develop a tendre for a man of limited financial means. He had managed to make a decent sum of money while abroad, but even according to his own report, they would not be rich.
It was possible, Bea conceded, that Mr. Wilson had overestimated the warmth of Emily’s feelings. Some men remained determined in their affection regardless of the encouragement they may or may not get from the object of their affection.
That could be the case here, certainly, but sincere indifference could not account for the letter’s condition, which was well-worn. The grooves where it had been opened and read many times and smeared in places by teardrops indicated it was a cherished possession, as did the fact that Emily carried it with her when she traveled.
Bea looked at the date again and noted the letter had been written in late December. Had Mr. Wilson left India and reclaimed his love, as he’d intended, or had he stayed and cultivated the new hibiscus crop, as he must have been instructed? Given that his current employer was his prospective father-in-law, she imagined he’d remained to do his bidding. It would not further his suit to precipitously desert his employer in his time of need. Indeed, retaining Mr. Otley’s goodwill would increase his chances of becoming a partner in the business after the marriage, which would be the best arrangement for all involved.
Had Mr. Otley known of the relationship? Would he have embraced Mr. Wilson as a prospective son-in-law?
Considering that the purpose of their visit to Lakeview Hall was to establish a connection with the Skeffingtons, the answer was a resounding no. The Otleys had higher expectations for their beautiful offspring and would never have welcomed the pretentions of an upstart former employee.
Would Emily’s passionate pleas for her own happiness have swayed her father? Bea very much doubted it, for a man who valued social status and wealth so highly would find no benefit in surrendering his glittering prize of a daughter to a man who could advance neither. Skeffington’s barony went back two centuries, which had to be especially appealing for Otley, who could not evade the faint whiff of trade that followed him around.
While Bea submitted to the ministrations of her maid, Annie, she tried to imagine how the scene between Emily and her father could have unfolded in the library. She pictured Mr. Otley chastising his daughter for not working hard enough to engage the affections of Mr. Skeffington, and Miss Otley announcing that she would have nothing to do with the excessively bright future her parents were bent on arranging. Instead, she would live humbly but happily with Mr. Wilson.
Bea knew there was no way either of the young lady’s parents would respond with equanimity to such news. They were in awe of her beauty, yes, but only in so much as they were overwhelmed by its massive appeal on the open market. If Bea could understand all that after only a few days, then perhaps Miss Otley knew it too, and acting out of rage at their treating her like a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder, raised the candlestick and struck her father over the head.
There were several problems with her theory, as it failed to account for why the pair would choose to meet at such an infelicitous hour in a deserted portion of the home when either of their rooms would have done. But other factors fit, such as the daughter’s motivation for confronting her father and her height, which put her a little below eye level with her father. Without question, she was tall enough to wield the implement effectively.
Would she have?
Could she have?
Bea had no idea.
Answering those questions would require another conversation with Emily, and Bea wondered how she would bring up the topic of Mr. Wilson without seeming to pry. Could she forthrightly ask her about him—in the context of her father’s business, of course, as that was the way Emily herself had mentioned him in the first place? Or would that be too jarring? If Emily was as besotted with her father’s agent as his letter implied, she would no doubt welcome the opportunity to talk about him to a sympathetic listener.
The bigger challenge, Bea decided a half hour later as she joined the subdued group in the drawing room, would be arranging another private chat with Miss Otley, who did not make a practice of seeking out intrusive spinsters. Bea didn’t blame her, for Flora’s attentions were far more flattering than her interrogations, and Russell’s admiration, sparked by the young beauty’s heightened fragility, was more gratifying.
Her surprise was therefore acute when she entered the room and Emily called out for her to sit next to her on the settee. “Look, dear, I saved you a seat,” she said, indicating the cushion next to her, which was indeed empty.
At once, the hum of conversation in the room stopped, and it was impossible to say who was more stunned by the development: Flora, Aunt Vera, Russell, Mrs. Otley or Beatrice.
Smothering the urge to tell her aunt to shut her mouth before a fly flew in, Bea walked across the well-appointed room, with its blue-gray furnishings, and claimed her position next to Emily. She bid her new friend good evening and then greeted the other guests present with a dip of her head that was at once audacious and shy. The expression on Viscount Nuneaton’s face was most amusing, for she could swear he was trying to figure out if he’d ever seen her before. Perhaps a new guest had arrived?
Although Bea had little experience in the role of confidante, she had a firm sense of how to perform it and she took Emily’s hand with a reassuring grip. “I’m delighted to see you are looking well, my dear,” she said in a low voice. “I trust you’re feeling better.”
Emily confirmed her spirits were much improved from her episode earlier just as Flora declared that the poor thing was too drained by recent events to make unnecessary conversation and Russell announced that the lovely dear was about to tell him about her childhood home.
The siblings stared daggers at each other as their cousin sat down.
“How sweet you both are to be concerned, but I’m delighted to make room for Beatrice,” Emily said, further devastating her admirers by revealing her previous interest wasn’t a mistake or an anomaly. “We just had a lovely conversation in my room, and I’m eager for it to continue.”
The idea of a tête-à-tête behind closed doors so disheartened Flora that her face fell and she stuttered, “You…you d-did?”
“Your cousin brought me this mob cap,” she added, pointing to the hat she wore on her head. “It was lovely of her to realize that I might wish for something ugly and plain to suit my mood.”
“It was?” Flora asked wretchedly. “I don’t have any mob caps, but I have a bonnet with a broken plume, which is just as ugly, if not exactly plain. I would be honored if you chose to wear it tomorrow on our walk to the folly.”
Overhearing the comment, Mrs. Otley announced that she couldn’t be sure she and her daughter would remain long enough in the day to embark on the planned outing. “We must pack our things and go to our home and meet with our solicitor and…”
Here, the widow trailed off because she either didn’t know what came next or couldn’t bear to contemplate it, and again her hosts insisted that she not feel compelled to rush off and confront the future.
Emily, aware of the compliment Flora had paid her in offering her the defective bonnet, promised to keep the item in mind but said it was far too early to consider what she would wear the next day. “Life is too unreliable to plan one’s hats in advance.”
Flora agreed with this observation and promptly enumerated all of the issues she was incapable of resolving beforehand. The list was comprehensive and, Bea thought, rather accurate, but the notion that her cousin avoided making decisions as a matter of precaution rather than indecisiveness struck her as a bit of a revision of history.
The conversation in the rest of the room resumed, but Bea could feel several people examining her with curiosity. Aunt Vera, for one, was trying to figure out why her niece had sought out the other young lady to give her the mob cap, as she had never made such a genial or charitable effort before. If she’d only been an outgoing child, they could have unloaded her onto another family years ago. Alas, Bea was shy and reticent, displaying a strident discomfort that was oddly infectious, as typically gregarious people suddenly became tongue-tied in her awkward presence.
Uncle Horace insisted that it was Bea’s features—button nose, beady eyes, narrow lips—that unsettled people, for they made her seem perpetually steeped in remorse. She looked as if she was always on the verge of apologizing for herself.
Nuneaton was watching her too, trying, Bea thought with cynical amusement, to determine when she’d joined the party. Perhaps that afternoon, while the gentlemen had been fishing in the lake? It seemed the most likely, and yet how ghoulish to arrive at a house only hours after it had suffered a self-murder. If she was so bent on travel, then she could have stayed with some friends in Tunbridge Wells.
Although highly entertained, Bea kept her expression mild as she imagined the viscount’s thoughts.
“What color I feel like wearing often depends on the weather,” Emily said, “for it’s impossible to wear green when it is gray outside.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Flora said with deep satisfaction, as if she’d had this exact thought many times in her lifetime but never before had the opportunity to express it. “And to wear pink when it is snowing is beyond supportable.”
Bea, who had been looking at Nuneaton out of the corner of her eye, tilted her head toward Emily to see if she would respond to Flora’s comment with equal fervor. Alas, Miss Otley did not hold this conviction and insisted that rose was the ideal shade to don on a winter’s day, for it matched the color one’s cheeks turned from the chill and bluster. Flora squeaked lightly in distress, then rallied with the insistence that if her cheeks flushed as becomingly as Miss Otley’s, she would wear pink all the time.
