Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
sigh. ‘Forgive me, Beatrice. It pains me to say such things, but they are the truth and it is the message I am charged to deliver. I am the polite option. You may return with me of your own accord, or be burned out, so to speak. There will be no more money to pay for your keep. How long can you infringe on the Maddoxes without it?’
Beatrice looked out over the fields, taking a moment to gather her thoughts, to recover from this latest sally against her fortress. Hadn’t she expected such a manoeuvre? ‘I have prepared for such an eventuality.’ It wasn’t untrue. She and May had planned for it. They’d vowed together back in the autumn never to return to England, even if their allowances were cut, even if they lost the hospitality of her relative’s cottage on loan. So much had changed since the autumn, though. Her plans had not been laid expecting the cottage to be lost to fire or May being forced to flee with Liam, leaving her alone. Could she manage their schemes on her own?
‘I have some money set aside. I saved part of the allowance every month.’ She forged on bravely, outlining her plans. ‘I have found a small cottage to rent. I can grow herbs and bake bread to sell in the market. There is no school teacher here. I can tutor children, teach them to read in exchange for whatever I need.’ The plans sounded meagre when she voiced them out loud, fanciful and desperate.
To his credit, he did not mock her. Preston gave a brief nod. ‘Your efforts are commendable.’ But she knew what he was thinking. They were her thoughts, too. Was she really willing to commit her financial well-being to the caprices of barter and trade? Not just hers, but her son’s, too. What if it wasn’t enough? But it had to be. The risk in going home was too great. It wasn’t just the shame that kept her here. She could face the shame for herself. There were other fears, bigger fears.
‘I won’t let them take my son,’ Beatrice said with quiet force. This was the real fear, the one that had plagued her since her pregnancy: that her parents would snatch the child away, placing it with a family somewhere in England where she’d never find him again. That fear rose now. Had Preston come with more in mind than simply retrieving her? ‘I will not give him to you.’
Her family had chosen their messenger well, perhaps presuming on her friendship with him to let down her guard. They would find she was not so easily manipulated. Preston might be her old friend, but she would fight him, would make him the enemy if he thought to take the baby from her.
‘Never, Bea. How could you think that?’ The suggestion horrified him, breaking through the harshness. He was her friend once more. But they both knew how she dared to think it. It was what well-bred families did to erase the stain of scandal, to pretend the sin had never occurred. Preston reached for her hand and squeezed it, his grip strong and reassuring. ‘I give you my word, Beatrice, I will not allow the two of you to be separated. I am your parents’ messenger, Bea, not that it pleases me, but I am your friend. May and I have seen to it that your wishes are represented in this. We have made it clear that you expect to raise your son at Maidenstone.’ He spoke as if her acquiescence was inevitable. Maybe it was.
Maidenstone. The family home. Oh, he didn’t fight fair! Generations of Penroses had romped there, grown up there. There was no place like Maidenstone in the spring and the summer, the gardens full of wildflowers and roses. The thought of Maidenstone made her heart ache with nostalgia. Images of her son growing up there were powerful lures indeed. To show him the trails she’d walked, the lake, all of it, would be a wonderful joy. The allure must have shown on her face.
‘Maidenstone is his heritage, Bea. Would you deny your son what is his in exchange for raising him in near poverty? Life here will not be economically easy without your parents’ support.’ Preston was relentless in pointing out the realities of her situation. ‘Winters will be hard. Even more so without the resources you had this year.’ She knew that. She’d already lived through one winter without a home of her own. She redoubled her resolve. She had to hold firm. May and Preston meant well, but promises could be broken.
‘He is a male Penrose, Bea. Surely you see how that changes everything.’ Preston pressed his case more thoroughly now, moving from the philosophical considerations to more practical ones that unfortunately resonated with her logical side. ‘It is his protection. You have given your parents a grandson. He can inherit the Penrose land, the wealth. Maidenstone could be his.’
‘That is a fool’s dream. Do you think I haven’t thought of that?’ She had, of course, when she lay awake late at night worrying over the future. ‘It would be better for him to never know, to never suffer the disappointment of what might have been.’ Beatrice spoke honestly. ‘Society will call him a bastard. I would not wish that on him. Better for him to grow up here and learn a trade, find his own way in a world of his making than to hover on the fringes of a world that doesn’t want him, always on the outside.’
Preston’s response was quick and impatient. ‘Not if he’s recognised. Your father can choose to recognise him. It would even be better if your son’s father recognised him. You could give your parents the name of the father. He could be found and brought to account.’
Bea stiffened at the mention of the father. Malvern Alton. A deserter of women. A man who cared only for himself and for his pleasure. He had not cared for her any more than he’d cared for the consequences of their actions. It had taken her a while to recognise and accept the bounder for what he was—a rake of the worst order. For months, she’d clung to the illusion that he’d loved her and the hope that he’d come back. But now that she saw him clearly, any mention of Malvern Alton had to be met with the strongest of defences. She wanted nothing of him in her life. He didn’t know of her son and she wanted it to stay that way. He would be even less of a father than he’d been a lover. Not that the courts of England would agree with her. Nobly born fathers held influence if they exerted themselves to claim custody. If Alton wanted her son, he could force her hand. The very thought made her shiver. She struggled to keep her voice even. ‘No. I will not force a man who does not want me into marriage any more than I would force myself into marriage simply to appease society’s dictates.’
It wasn’t just Malvern she wouldn’t marry. It was any of them—any man willing to take her and her son. Such a situation would be disastrous, it would sentence them all to a life of unhappiness. Another fear rose, threatening the calm she’d fought so hard to win. ‘Don’t you see, that too is a reason I can’t go back. I will not go to London and seek a husband so that society can be appeased.’ Marriage—that was the other thing well-bred families did to erase the stain. She’d not put it past her own family to do the same.
They’d barter her off to a man willing to overlook her sin and her son and she would pay for that every day. That sort of man would lord it over her and her son, making them feel grateful for even the merest of considerations from him. She met Preston’s gaze, studying him for the truth. ‘Are there plans for me to marry? Is that why you’ve come now? To take me to London for the Season?’ She could imagine nothing worse—a social hell to rival Dante’s. No, that wasn’t quite true. She could imagine one thing worse—coming face to face with Malvern Alton again, especially now that she had her son to protect. While she was in Scotland, there was little chance of that happening. Alton liked his luxuries. There were few luxuries here.
Preston lowered his voice and leaned his head close to hers in confidence, his gaze earnest. She could smell the scent of horse and sweat mingled with wind and sandalwood on him. ‘There are currently no plans to marry you off to anyone.’ Evening shadows were starting to fall, long and sure across the fields. They’d talked away the afternoon. Resistance, refusal and refutation were all exhausted and still there was no resolution.
‘Come to Little Westbury, go home to Maidenstone. I won’t pretend it will be easy, but you should try. For your son’s sake. He should be raised among friends and we’ll all be there, waiting for you,’ Preston urged one last time. It was the third time he’d asked since this conversation had begun. Intuitively, she knew he would not ask again.
‘I choose to stay,’ Beatrice said firmly. Here, she was safe, not just from Alton, but from all danger, all men.
Preston bowed his head in a curt nod. ‘Then you leave me no choice.’ It was an ultimatum.