A Victorian Romance

by Steven Schechter

Table of Contents

Chapter 2: His First Caress

part 1

Ossbourne had been built in stages, with a heavy gothic influence. The west wing was built during the 1600’s, the courtyard enclosed and a chapel built. The great east wing was built a century later and the wings joined by arches and crowned by a clock tower in the center. A cascade of wide stone stairs mounted to the main entrance where the doors opened into the Great Hall, which was not really a hall but an immense interior space two stories high extending halfway through the house.

A broad stairway led from the Hall to the state bedrooms on the second floor. Each morning, Beatrice’s lady’s maid, Abby, lugged a heavy pot of hot water down the hallway to her mistresses’ bedroom. This room held an abundance of refinements: marble statuettes, gilded baskets of flowers, an easel by the window. After checking the fire, Abby would awaken the beautiful girl sleeping in the canopied bed.

When Abby woke her the next morning, Beatrice felt full of excitement despite the obstacles. She lay in bed a while remembering the magic of Richard’s words. I love you dearly.

Stretching, luxuriating in her perfect youth, she remembered that she must write a letter to Richard immediately! She stared at the ceiling a few moments in concentration: My beloved Richard... I am so dreadfully sorry for not telling you.

There was no time to waste. She sat at a small desk by the window. I was truly at a loss. But know this: I am yours and yours alone.

She was no longer discouraged that Auntie refused to help; at least her father would not be told now. She had even thought of a different plan. Perhaps Richard would go to her father and ask for her hand. Who could refuse him?! At any rate, she was in no immediate danger.

It was Friday, Charles would be coming. After dressing, she hid herself in the piano room to finish the letter. Darling, the picture is not so dark. I think of others who have won through. Why not us? At one o’clock she realized that Charles must already be there. Let them find her, she thought. She played the piano and sang, now and then adding something to the letter. I see my way clearly. She was a woman now. It shall be the happiest day of my life, the day we are united.

In the west wing, Digby was methodically making his way down the hallway: opening doors, looking in, closing the door and going on. He crossed the Great Hall heading for the East wing. Whatever ails me grows stronger by the day. I can no more refrain from seeing her than I can stop breathing. Once inside the east wing, faint piano music set him in the right direction. That morning, he had intercepted a compliment of flowers from Charles and delivered them himself, only to face a barrage of insults worse than before. She can’t abide the sight of me.

Digby was not a conventionally handsome man, but he had not gone unnoticed by some of the young women in service. He had “that steady gaze,” in the words of one young woman in the laundry who freely confessed her crush on Digby. There are faces far worse than mine who don’t want for beautiful women to dote on them. He turned the doorknob to the piano room and pushed the door open.

Beatrice turned to look and jumped to her feet. “Again!?”

Digby bowed slightly. “My Lady—”

“What is it?” she hissed.

He was pained to realize how paltry was his present mission: only to say a few words and be gone. So soft and fair, I can’t part with her so soon. “Was that Gounod’s serenade you were playing?” he asked.

“What is your business!?”

Digby coughed, then laughed nervously. He regarded her with a gentle, ambiguous smile.

“Speak, baboon! Have you lost your tongue? Who sent you?

“I have a message from your aunt,” he replied with a little bow.

“Is there no-one else to deliver messages?”

Digby shrugged. “It is my luck to be always in the way.”

“Do it and be gone, then!”

“Patience would better become such beauty.”

Furious, Beatrice was quickly up to him and slapped him hard across the face. “Lout! How dare you!” For a long moment, they stared at each other.

“No matter,” she said. “My father will hear about this today, and that will be the end of you.” She turned, sitting again at the piano bench with her back to him and began playing.

“Haven’t you left yet?” she said after a few moments.

“Your aunt gave me a message.”

“Say it then and be hanged.”

“Lord Charles Beauton, sole brother to Thomas Beauton, has arrived.”

Beatrice was silent as she played. Finally, she rose and giving him a wide berth, she left the room. Digby remained a few moments longer, feeling his cheek. Perhaps I have received my first caress.

* * *

Lady Margaret had taken charge of the Belham household eighteen years earlier when Beatrice’s mother died in childbirth. Almost from the beginning, it seemed to Margaret that there was a struggle of natures between Beatrice and herself, something that made it impossible for her to feel close to the child. But if she could not cherish the girl, she had done her best to love her; it was her duty to love Beatrice.

But what duty required in the present emergency was not clear. Margaret could remember when romantic love was thought unnecessary to a good marriage, especially in her caste, where unions involved great transfers of wealth and land. But now young women insisted on the primacy of their emotions, in their own choice of a mate, and Margaret’s ideas were changing along with the times. One could no longer argue that love was an indulgence.

But wasn’t Beatrice a case unto herself? A willful girl who had said of the man she had known only one week, “He is everything to me!” How much weight could be attached to these feelings? By giving in to Beatrice, would they be harming or helping her? Margaret knew Charles to be, in addition to his considerable gifts, a good and patient man, the sort of man Beatrice needed. Still, she could not escape the feeling that, were they to impose their will on Beatrice, it would go terribly wrong somehow.

And Richard — were they to allow Beatrice to withdraw — would he cooperate in all of this? It was a bad job all around, but one thing was clear: Arthur must be told as soon as possible. Margaret therefore arranged events on Friday so that she could give Beatrice due warning. There would be a croquet tournament after lunch, during which she and Beatrice would speak.

* * *

On the immense front lawn of Ossbourne, Arthur and Charles were a good distance ahead of the other players, followed by some politicos. Charles was distracted by the sight of his fiancée on the sidelines sitting on a blanket with Margaret, ostensibly watching the tournament but mostly talking. Arthur insisted on making small talk while Charles silently worried about Beatrice, who had been absent at lunch. It also worried him that Margaret had not made a full-throated excuse for her, instead alluding to something vague.

On the sidelines, Beatrice was forced to listen as her aunt reviewed the problems Beatrice would face, were her father to allow her to withdraw from the marriage: the social ostracism, Major Griffith again, and the rest. She noticed how Charles kept looking up at them, almost furtively, and she looked away with a scowl. Margaret did not care to have this talk in such public circumstances, but time was forcing her hand. She must give Beatrice an ultimatum.

Arthur smiled as he lined up his stroke. “I wonder what the papers will find to write about when your wedding is done. I suppose I should pick a date and put an end to their speculation.” Stealing another glance at Beatrice, Charles could see that the conversation had suddenly grown heated.

“If you tell Papa now, I will never forgive you! I told you in confidence!” Beatrice was apoplectic, speaking in a desperate stage whisper.

“But you told me.” Margaret abhorred the prospect of violating her niece’s confidence, but there was nothing for it. “I cannot hide from your father something so important to him, and to you. Of course, you should be the one to tell him.”

“I will tell him!”

“This will be a great blow to your father, Beatrice. Every day that he is kept in the dark is an injury to him.”

Beatrice picked angrily at the grass. “He has not even set a date. There is no reason—”

“You know well why.”

“There is no reason!” Beatrice shouted.

Margaret put her hand up. “Stop, Beatrice. Stop. Do not create a spectacle.” Arthur had turned to look, but almost as quickly returned to his game.

“Look here,” said Margaret after the women had sat silent a while. “I will keep your confidence for a short while longer.” She let that sink in. “When we all go to Ingatestone tomorrow, I want you to stay here, by yourself. So that you can think this through. I will tell the others you are ill.” She had Beatrice’s attention. “When we return on Sunday, you will tell your father your intentions.” She paused. “Unless, of course, you decide to give it up.” Margaret did not expect Beatrice to give it up, but it seemed wrong to proceed without something of this kind.

Charles was about to hit the ball when he heard a cry and looked up in time to see Beatrice spring to her feet, in tears. He and Arthur watched silently as Beatrice, holding her skirts, ran all the way to the house.

In her bedroom, Beatrice stood before the vanity, crying. With a sweep of her arm, she sent everything on the vanity crashing to the floor.

* * *

The next morning when Abby brought her breakfast, Beatrice lay on the bed awake. “Will you be wanting anything, ma’am?” Beatrice was silent.

Later in the morning, Beatrice ignored the bustle outside of everyone leaving on the trip. She would not budge from her bed or touch the food Abby brought until late evening, when hunger drove her to the little table with the tray. As she sat eating, she was aware of something pushed under the door, a note perhaps. After eating a small amount, she pushed the tray ever so slowly across the table until it fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Rising, she walked the periphery of the room, trailing her hand along the wall. Whatever she touched, a painting or sculpture or trinkets on the shelves, she pulled down in her wake. Coming to the door at one point, she stopped to pick up the note and unfolded it to see a handwritten poem, entitled, “LADY BEAUTY.”

Under the Arch of Life
Where Love and Death and Terror
And Mystery guard her shrine
I saw Beauty enthroned.

Disgust welled up — she well knew who sent the note — yet something caught her attention, and she stared at the note. “Abigail!” she shouted for her maid. “Abigail!!”

The girl came in, noting the mess she would have to clean up. “Yes, ma’am.”

Beatrice handed her the note. “Whose handwriting is this? Do you recognize it?”

Abby glanced at it. “It’s yours, ma’am.” Indeed, the handwriting was identical to Beatrice’s.

“But I did not write it,” said Beatrice.

Abby looked at her blankly, handing the note back. “Is there anything else, ma’am?”

Beatrice dropped the poem, no longer amused, and returned to her bed as Abby carried the shards out to the hallway. As she lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, an idea suddenly sprung upon Beatrice with such force and clarity that it seemed to come from outside her. He is a clever fellow... Must I show my hatred for him? If God in His infinite wisdom and mercy has given me this power, cannot I use it?

She rose and walked around and round the room again, thinking. Finally, she settled down in front of her vanity and gazed at her image in the mirror. Are you so bold, Lady?

* * *

Digby had spent the early part of the evening below stairs, entertaining the staff with clever parlor games: card tricks and magic, or sleight of hand as he called it. He was quickly becoming a popular fellow at Ossbourne. Later, he retired to the study to answer Arthur’s mail. A few minutes after 1:00 a.m., he heard a low sound down the hallway, possibly coming from the drawing-room. The sound came again, softer. He rose and took a few steps down the dark hallway. A light was on in the drawing room, and he heard a light sniffle. Might there be a ravishing surprise for me?

Reaching the drawing room, he looked in to see Lady Beatrice. She was sitting up straight with a book opened before her. I will endure any abuse. “Lady Beatrice. I am glad to see you are up and about.”

Beatrice looked up, not with scorn or anger but with a soft openness. She looked as if she’d been crying. “Good evening, Simon.”

She called me by my name! Not baboon or serpent! “You are feeling better, I hope?”

She dabbed at her tears with a hankie. “Simon, there is something I must say to you. Will you sit a moment?”

I will go mad with joy! Digby took a seat several yards away.

“I have treated you rudely,” she began,“but it is my unhappiness that makes me act that way. Do forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. May I ask why you are unhappy?”

She ignored the question. “I did not mean those awful things I said.” She smiled. “In fact, a certain hardness in a man’s face can be quite becoming.”

Digby gave a little bow in his chair. “You are very kind, my Lady.”

Beatrice motioned with her hand for Digby to turn his head. “Simon, turn this way...” She peered at the scar under his eye. “Ah. I have a preparation in my room that will hide your mark.” She rose. “Please, accept it as an apology.”

Digby rose with her. “None is needed. Must you go so soon?”

“I will return. Wait here.”

She was soon back with her gift and polite conversation. The minutes went by as she asked after Digby’s past and family and he answered with bland fictions, all the while soaking up her nearness. Breathing in her intoxicating female beauty, her voice washing softly over him. He studied the exquisite violet striations in her eyes, the tiniest imperfections in her skin that made the whole more miraculous. To have her sit so close and talk this way to me, it is half the act of pleasure itself.

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2023 by Steven Schechter