PortraitofPassion (25 page)

“Do not call my mother a whore!” she growled. Vaguely, she
was aware of Lady Hastings jumping back as if she feared what she would do.
Good, she thought savagely.
Let her fear me.

“My father loved my mother. He worshiped her from the day he
met her. He loathed you. And you knew it. You saw his hatred every time he
looked at you. You have no one but yourself to blame. You should have released
him from the betrothal as he begged you!”

“He never,” Lady Hastings cried out weakly, falling back
onto the sofa beside her son. “He loved me, but she tricked him, she used his
lust to chain him. He never loved her.”

“He loved her!” Bea shouted. Her entire body was vibrating
with fury, with the bitterness she had held inside for nine long years. “He
married you only because you would not release him and he was too much a
gentleman to ruin you by breaking the betrothal. And how did you repay him? He
told you he loved my mother. He told you before he married you. You promised
him Idyllwild would be hers, mine! You know you did.”

Beatrice was shouting, screaming uncontrollably. She tried
to rein in her rage, tried to calm down enough to convince Henry to do the
right thing. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and gathered the tattered
threads of her self-control about her.

When she opened her eyes it was to find Henry looking at her
in horror, his mouth hanging open, his blue eyes dominating his pale face. His
mother sat as still as a statue staring up at her, her gray eyes unfocused as
if she did not see Bea at all. Olivia was sobbing. Bea whipped her head around
to see her leaning against the wall, face buried in her hands as her entire
body shook with the force of her sobs.

Slowly Bea turned her head to where she knew Simon stood. He
was closer now, his long legs in shiny black boots and dark-gray trousers
moving toward her. He held one bare hand outstretched toward her as if he would
touch her, restrain her. She refused to raise her eyes to his face.
He does
not exist
, she reminded herself bitterly as she stepped away from his hand.
For some reason she suddenly found his nonexistence funny and laughed,
startling herself with the dry, crackling sound.

“Henry,” she said as calmly as she could, turning to him
once more. “Idyllwild should be mine. I know it is entailed. I know you cannot
give it to me. I only ask that you allow me to live there. I will pay you for
the lease. Please, don’t you see? I need it.”

Henry dropped his head forward into his hands.

Bea looked at him. He had not said one word, had not made
one sound since she had walked into the room.

Suddenly the door behind her opened and she felt a rush of
air, heard heavy footsteps behind her moments before a hand grabbed her
painfully by her arm. She spun around and pulled her arm from Dobbins’ grip.

“Dobbins!” Simon shouted and the butler made another attempt
to grab her. Bea lurched back, bumped into the low table and nearly fell. She
cried out as all her weight came down upon her injured foot.

“No!” Olivia screamed as Dobbins’ hard hand grabbed Bea’s
wrist, twisting it painfully. She yanked her arm back, but his grip did not relax.

“Release her,” Simon growled as he stepped up beside Bea. “I
will…” The remainder of his words were drowned out by the high, keening wail
that came from Lady Hastings and an anguished cry from Olivia as she stumbled
away from the wall.

Dobbins released her and took a quick step back. Bea
immediately turned toward Simon. His hands, his large, dark hands were reaching
for her.

“No!” she cried, stepping out of his reach, spinning around
to face Henry again. She felt pain shoot through her injured foot as she
turned, lost her balance and fell hard upon her knees.

“Beatrice,” Henry whispered and she looked up at him. He was
sitting on the sofa in front of her, inches from where she knelt, staring down
at her with the saddest eyes she had ever seen. He opened his mouth, closed it
again, shook his head slowly.

“Henry,” she cried softly, placing one hand on his knee. She
heard the countess ordering her to be removed, heard a great commotion behind
her, guessed that additional servants had come to assist in ejecting her from
the house, heard Olivia sobbing. She ignored it all, focused all her attention,
all her will upon the man who sat before her, the man who looked so achingly
like his father, her father.

“Please, Henry,” she whispered, bringing her hands up before
her to clasp them together beseechingly. Tears fell from her eyes. She let them
fall, welcomed them. “I am your father’s daughter. I am your sister. I should
have told you the truth the moment I saw you. I was afraid. Idyllwild means
everything to me and I did not want to take the risk. Please, Henry, give me
what my father…what
our father
was promised.”

Henry looked up over her head. Without looking away from
him, she knew they were coming for her, would drag her out if they had to. She
was out of time.

“Why?” she screamed, never taking her eyes from Henry’s
face. Hands gripped her shoulders, dragging her up. She wiggled frantically and
the hands dropped away. There were raised voices all around her. She blocked
them out. “You have never seen it, never given it one single thought! You have
never walked her fields, never gotten lost in the magic of her woods, never
watched the sun set over her pond, or reached your hands into her dark soil.

“You have never tread her old warped boards, never laid your
head down under her roof and listened to the sounds of the cottage as it
settled for the night, never woken to watch dust motes dance in the first rays
of sunlight that stream through the windows. You do not love Idyllwild! I do! I
love Idyllwild! Idyllwild is my home, my heart, my place in the world.”

Bea finished on a sob, her body shaking, a wailing cry
tearing loose from her heart. Henry closed his eyes and raised his hands to
cover his face before turning away from her. She opened her mouth and let the
cry loose, set it free. She closed her eyes, threw back her head and allowed
one long, deep wail to fly about the room, until there was no sound, no air, no
feeling left within her. Then she dropped her head into her hands and went
still.

There was only silence in the room, no movement. The air
seemed suspended, waiting.

A warm hand wrapped gently around her upper arm, another
settling softly upon her back. Someone was trying to carefully lift her from
her knees. She opened her eyes, started to rise.

“Beatrice, please.”

She heard Simon’s whispered words above her, felt the caress
of his breath against her ear, against her neck.

“No!” she cried, jumping to her feet and twisting away from
his hands. Frantically she backed away from him, winced as her injured foot
took her weight and ignored the pain. She batted at Simon’s hands as they
reached for her again. She refused to look at him. “No, do not touch me. Not
ever again!”

She looked about the room wildly, unsure what to do. She
thought only of escape, of running from this cold house that could never have
been a home to her father, from his son who would no longer look at her, from
the man who did not exist but whose eyes she could feel upon her. She turned
and ran.

She ran past Dobbins and two footmen and out the door into
that great silent foyer. She wrenched the front door open and flew through it.
The rain slammed into her like a wall and she stumbled, spinning and slipping
on the wet steps. Her feet flew out from under her at the same instant Olivia
appeared in the open door.

“Beatrice!” Olivia screamed.

Bea shot her arms out for balance, found nothing to grab,
tried to get her feet back under her. Her injured foot gave way and she lost
her battle to stay upright. She went down hard on her hip, bounced down the
remaining half-dozen wet steps to crash onto the hard ground and roll across
the walkway. She finally came to a stop on her side, facing the street, the
left side of her body and face resting in an inch or more of muddy water. She
rolled onto her hands and knees and hung her head down as the rain poured over
her.

Olivia screamed her name again and Bea looked up to see her
running down the steps. Simon rushed past Olivia, taking the steps two at a
time, and Bea’s heart clenched. She scrambled to her feet and ran out into the
street. Mud sucked at her boots, dragged at her skirts. She darted out in front
of a wagon and the driver shouted a warning. She did not stop, did not slow her
pace.

She reached the other side of the street, heard her name and
looked up through the driving rain to see Gerald running toward her. She took
one unsteady step, looked over her shoulder to see Simon standing on the other
side of the rolling river that was the street. She could not see his face,
could only see him like a shadow in the gray light and pouring rain. His arm
rose slowly, his hand reaching for her, palm up. She turned away and fell into
Gerald’s waiting arms.

He scooped her up and spun around, away from Simon, away
from Hastings House, away from dashed dreams.

Simon stood in the pouring rain and watched as Beatrice was
carried away. When she was no longer in sight, he dragged air into his lungs,
leaned down and grasped his knees and hung his head in sorrow, in shame. He was
desperately ashamed of his behavior, both last night and today.

As he’d ridden home through the dark streets the night
before, sobered by the knowledge that he’d taken Beatrice roughly, had all but
forced himself on her, to punish her for deceiving him, he’d realized that he still
loved her, would always love her. With that love came faith. Faith in the love
he’d seen in her eyes, felt in her touch. She may have set out to seduce him to
gain his assistance in seeing Idyllwild returned to her. But she hadn’t given
herself to him, hadn’t gifted him with her virginity for a house and a few
acres. She loved him, likely as much as he loved her,

Certainly she’d befriended Henry, and later Olivia, in order
to reclaim her home, but she’d become ensnared in the web of deceit she’d created.
He’d watched her come to know her siblings, come to love them.

How had they come to this? How had he allowed his aunt to
poison his mind, poison his love for Beatrice? Perhaps Mary Haverty had seduced
his uncle, had enticed him to set her up in a long-forgotten estate. But
Beatrice had been innocent of the sins of her parents, her only crime a desire
to spend her life at Idyllwild, to return to a place filled with happy memories
of her childhood, to return to her place in the world.

He should have taken her from the house the moment he saw
her standing there in the doorway, her face pale and her eyes glowing. He
should have walked over and scooped her up into his arms and taken her away.
She would have fought him, would have fought him with everything in her. But it
would have been kinder than allowing her to stay there, to listen to his aunt’s
evil words, to watch as Henry turned away from her desperate pleas, to feel
Dobbins’ big, meaty hands upon her.

“Beatrice,” he whispered. “My love.”

He took one last deep breath and forced himself to stand, to
turn back to the steps Beatrice had just gone tumbling down. In his mind he saw
her again. He had just entered the foyer behind Olivia, had seen past his
cousin standing at the open door, saw Beatrice turn, a surprised look upon her
face. He had known the instant she lost her balance on the slippery steps, had
seen surprise turn to fear, and watched helplessly as she tried to recover her
balance. He had taken off running down the hall, praying he reached her before
she fell, watching in horror as she tumbled down, down, down, rolling over and
over the steps and across the muddy walkway.

He would never forget the fear that raced through him as she
finally came to rest in the mud, or the relief that rushed over him when she
crawled up onto her hands and knees. He knew that he would never, not as long
as he lived, be able to erase from his mind the look of terror upon her face
when she spotted him leaping down the steps to help her.

He looked up from the steps to see Olivia standing in the
open door. She raked him from head to toe with her angry, scornful eyes.

“I will never forgive you,” she hissed at him. “You or
Henry. Never.” She turned and walked back into the house and out of his view.

“That makes two of us,” he murmured under his breath as he
slowly made his way inside, closing the door softly behind him. Dobbins walked
toward him with a lofty smirk upon his face. Simon stepped forward to meet him
in the middle of the foyer.

“My lord…” the butler began.

Simon’s fist connected with his chin, flinging his head
back. Dobbins stumbled back a few steps. Simon followed him across the long
room, fists flying, jabbing at his face, connecting with this cheekbone, his
nose, his mouth, until the butler fell backward. His head hit the marble with a
sickening thump. His big body bounced once and lay still.

Simon stood over the unconscious man, breathing hard,
cradling his bruised and bleeding hand in his other just slightly less battered
one.

“Easton,” his aunt screeched as she hurried from the parlor.
“What have you done to Dobbins?”

“He never should have put his hands on Beatrice,” Simon
growled at her.

“What?” she cried. “You beat this man for touching that
whore?”

Before Simon could begin to formulate a reply to her words,
Olivia came running out of the parlor, grabbed her mother by the arm and spun
her around. Simon watched in shock as his cousin raised her hand and slapped
her mother across the face. Hard. Hard enough to cause her head to snap back,
to spin around on her thin neck.

“Do not ever call my sister a whore!” Olivia screamed. “You
have abused her and maligned her name for the last time. So help me God, if you
say one more word about her, I will make you sorry!”

Lady Hastings took two steps away from her daughter, looked
at Simon as if for his intervention, realized her mistake and cried out feebly,
“Henry!” Then she walked away, down the long foyer to disappear into what he
thought might once have been her embroidery room.

Simon stared at his cousin in amazement.

“I do not understand you, Simon,” Olivia said, her eyes
pinning him. “You love Beatrice. I know you do. How could you let her beg on
her knees for what is rightfully hers? How could you let her humble herself
that way?”

He swallowed, tried to find words to explain to her,
realized there were no words, no explanations, no excuses.

“I think I would rather live all of my days in a cold,
loveless marriage than risk my heart to love.” Olivia’s words were a mere
whisper. “I watched you and Beatrice and I thought…here are two people falling
in love right before my eyes. I thought it a wondrous, beautiful thing. But it
wasn’t…it isn’t…it’s mean and selfish and terrible.”

Simon could find no words to answer her heartfelt
declaration. He watched silently as she slowly walked up the stairs and
disappeared.

Simon walked down the long, deserted foyer to Henry’s study.

Henry sat behind his desk in the massive chair that had once
belonged to his father. His eyes were closed, his head resting against the back
of the chair. On the desk sat a brandy decanter, half full, and an empty glass.
Simon walked to the sideboard and got a glass, then helped himself to a healthy
measure.

“Simon,” Henry murmured sleepily and Simon was painfully
reminded of Beatrice whispering his name in just that way when she was tired.

He thought of all the times he had failed to recognize what
his mind had known, all the times he had seen Henry in Beatrice and Beatrice in
Henry. He remembered the first time he saw her and how he had expected her eyes
to be blue. He thought about his dizziness in the gazebo, his apprehension when
Henry imitated Beatrice’s voice. He thought about the Piedmonts’ ball. It
seemed so long ago. Could it really only have been three days ago?

Henry tilted his head in just the same way he’d seen
Beatrice do countless times.

“How much have you had to drink?” Simon asked his cousin.

“Too much to defend myself should you decide to pummel me
the way you did Dobbins. Not enough to obliterate from my mind the image of
Beatrice on her knees before me.” Henry sat forward and reached for the
decanter.

“What will you do?” Simon asked as he lowered his weary
frame into the chair before the desk.

“I keep wondering how I did not see it,” Henry murmured,
ignoring Simon’s question. “She looks just like him.”

“Yes,” Simon agreed.

“Did you suspect?” his cousin asked.

“No,” he answered. “There were times…a certain smile…the way
she tilts her head just like you do…but no…I did not suspect she was your
sister.”

“My sister,” Henry whispered. “Do you think Olivia knew? Do
you think she saw our father in Beatrice?”

“Yes,” Simon answered. He thought back to that first meeting
between the two ladies in Gunter’s, how Beatrice had watched Olivia in
fascination, how his usually reserved cousin had held Beatrice’s hands in hers
and gazed back with wonder. He remembered Beatrice dancing in the doorway, her
head thrown back, and her husky laughter carrying to him across the street.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” Henry asked, his voice plaintive.

“I think she wanted to allow you to come to know her first,
to come to care for her, before she told you…perhaps she did not intend to tell
you at all. Perhaps she only wanted to ask you to lease Idyllwild to her, as
one friend would ask a favor of another.”

“No, I meant Olivia,” Henry replied. “I understand why
Beatrice did not tell me she was my sister. I only wonder that Olivia did not
tell me.”

“I do not know,” Simon admitted. “You must ask Olivia.”

The cousins sat drinking their brandy in silence.

“You’ll return Beatrice’s home to her?” Simon finally asked.

“Of course,” Henry replied promptly.

“Why did you allow her to beg that way?” Simon growled.

“Why did you?” Henry countered.

Simon looked out the big bay window to see that the rain was
letting up, the sun poking through the clouds. He leaned his head back, closed
his tired eyes. Why, indeed? The more important question was how he could have
listened to his aunt’s demented ramblings last evening. How could he have
believed any of it? And most troubling of all, how could he have taken
something as precious, as beautiful as the passion he and Beatrice shared and
turn it into a weapon to be used to punish and humiliate her?

It was true that Beatrice had deceived him, deceived them
all.

“I should have told you the truth the moment I saw you. I
was afraid. Idyllwild means everything to me and I did not want to take the
risk.”

“If Beatrice had told you she was your half sister, your
father’s illegitimate daughter when she met you in Paris, would you have
welcomed the news? Welcomed her?” Simon asked quietly.

Henry tilted his head as he thought about his cousin’s
question. Simon waited patiently.

“No,” Henry finally whispered. “I am ashamed to say I would
have shunned her, denied her.”

“If she had come to you, let’s say two days ago, before your
mother returned, and asked you to grant the leasehold to Idyllwild to her,
without telling you she was your sister, would you have agreed?” Simon
suspected that had been her plan all along.

“Certainly,” Henry replied. “I might have wondered how she
knew of the estate as I’d never even heard of the place. I would have gladly
allowed her to take up residence. I might have offered to travel north with her
to see the place.”

“Bad timing,” Simon replied.

Henry blinked in surprise. “Why did she wait?”

Simon did not reply although he thought he knew the answer.

“She did not want to leave you,” Henry answered his own
question.

“Us,” Simon replied. “Beatrice did not want to leave us, you
and me and Olivia. We were never part of the original plan.”

“You and Olivia, perhaps. Surely I was part of the original
plan.”

Simon nodded in agreement before answering, “Beatrice
naïvely thought she could attach you to her without becoming attached to you in
return.”

“And then she met you,” Henry continued the tale. “And she
somehow thought she could seduce you and not come to love you.”

Love. They had never given one another the word. He loved
Beatrice and he knew she loved him, knew it down to his very bones.

“She doesn’t know herself at all, does she?” Henry murmured.
“To think that she can stand alone, untouched by those around her.”

“I don’t think she has allowed herself to think of anything
but regaining her home for all these years,” Simon replied quietly. “Not love,
not friendship, not security. She allowed herself no hopes or dreams that did
not involve Idyllwild. Even her art was a means to keep Idyllwild in her heart
and provide the funds necessary to reclaim it.”

“That crumbling old fountain purchased my bread and
butter for years.”

“Poor, lonely Bea,” Henry whispered.

“You must go to her,” Simon said. “You must tell her that
Idyllwild is hers.”

“You will come with me,” Henry replied as he rose to his
feet behind the massive desk.

Simon contemplated his cousin’s words. He longed to see her,
to assure himself she was uninjured. He pictured again her fall down the
slippery steps, saw again the fear on her face as he rushed down to her.

“It’s best you go alone,” he whispered. “Return Idyllwild to
her. Gift her with the knowledge that she is no longer adrift.”

“But surely you…” Henry halted his words as comprehension
dawned. “Beatrice knew before she called here…she already knew that her secret
was exposed. You told her…when?”

“Last night,” Simon answered, meeting his cousin’s wary blue
eyes.

“Oh Simon,” Henry whispered. “Whatever you said, whatever
you did, can it be fixed?”

“I do not know,” Simon answered honestly. “I hope so.”

Henry walked from the study, his footsteps slow, his head
shaking.