Beatrice paused in her daily pilgrimage through Arcadia on the threshold of the larger reception room. Its placement at the top of the stairs seemed to beg for its designation as a room for receiving callers, but there was something about it she wanted to keep for their family.
For Osborn’s family.
“Mr. Todd.” She stopped the factotum on his way past her, a hammer in one hand, a broom in the other. “A word, if you please.” He laid aside the broom and crooked his neck.
If only he were as obedient in practice as he was in theory. “The roof,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It is untouched.”
“Yes,” Mr. Todd said, drawing out his response. “The arrival of the family has disrupted the schedule to some degree.”
“Has it? Have you inquired into workmen?” The prince’s factotum flushed and showed her his neck again. “Need I involve His Grace in the conversation?”
“You must do as you think best,” he murmured.
“I think it best, as I said, that you approach the village for workers.” She brushed her hands down her apron. “I could, of course, make my way to Arcadia Demesne myself.”
“Again, ma’am, you must do as you wish.” There was a twinkling look in his eye, bordering on sly.
The sound of bickering preceded the maids and Morag as they carried in a carpet they had taken for beating. Mr. Todd set down his hammer and came to their aid, which served to fluster the mice. Was he a cat himself? The four of them rolled it out to reveal a gorgeous Axminster, its colors reminiscent of a springtime field of wildflowers. It went nicely with the sofas she had admired in the attic, and the mirror that had come so close to smashing down around her hung in pride of place over the hearth. The room was only missing a few more homey pieces: an embroidery frame, a piano, a kitten to curl up on a lap.
As to that. Beatrice cleared her throat. “I came across a cat last night, and I wonder if it is…a cat cat?”
“It is simply feline, ma’am,” Mr. Todd assured her. “I suspect it issues from the barn.”
“And it will only prey upon mice of its sort?” She glanced at the maids.
“Oh yes, ma’am,” Ciara piped up. “They know better, they do.”
“Don’t stop you running in the other direction,” Morag said. Beatrice caught her eye and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, ma’am, sorry, ma’am,” the hen muttered.
Beatrice took stock of the room, noting objects whose provenance she did not know; she turned a porcelain vase and wished for flowers to put in it, made an opening move on the draughts board set up on the games table. She straightened the andirons on the hearth and tugged the bell pull in the corner.
It fell out of the ceiling and nearly brained her. The mice gasped, and Morag emitted a guttural sound Beatrice was not certain should issue from a bird. She picked up the rope and held it out to Mr. Todd. “And this task remains on your schedule. Along with having the chimney swept. I shall assume you have not made your way here yet.”
He took the rope from her and collected his broom. “Leave it with me, ma’am,” he said as he slunk away.
Clattering and whooping erupted from above and swept past as the children raced one another to the ground floor. Ben followed, scolding them lightly as they went. Charlotte came in carrying a lap desk and looked around, approval writ on her features. “Ben is taking the young out to play. They are nearly able for the Change and have more than their fair share of energy.” She smiled and stood, expectant.
Did she desire an invitation to stay? Oh, how Beatrice had dreamed of receiving in her own home. Her mother had not socialized, given her delicate health; she and Eleanor used to pretend to call upon one another, complete with bonnets and pelisses and calling cards. Any hope of creating a circle of her own had died an immediate death once her journey to North Sunderland had been completed and Castleton’s true identity revealed. Lady Frost did not entertain.
“I was about to, to sit,” Beatrice said. “If you would care to join me.”
“This is the most comfortable place in the house, always was. You may have noticed I took the liberty of setting a few things about.” Charlotte plumped herself down on one of the sofas.
Beatrice sat with more decorum on the other. “What was the original use of this parlor?”
“It was the family reception room. It is nice to see some of our old things back in the house.”
“Had they been above in storage?”
“No, no, we had them in London, uh, when we moved there. I don’t suppose Arthur has…”
“Told me anything about his youth? He has not.”
“We grew up in Court, which is, of course, no place for children,” Charlotte said. Beatrice recalled Osborn’s anger at Georgie’s threat to take in the family. “When ours were infants, it made no odds, but as they are about to celebrate their seventh birthday—”
“Seven years of age? They are quite robust.” She had put them at half a score.
“Yes, this is typical of our kind. Even Ursella, who is smaller than usual.”
“She appears healthy.” The child was merely quiet, a respite when it came to the liveliness of her siblings.
“Oh, she is, but she is reserved in ways that our kind typically are not, unless they are Omegas,” Charlotte explained. “If Ursella designates as such, she will be given the respect she deserves, I don’t need to tell you.” She did, rather, but Beatrice was not about to say so. Her ignorance of their ways was mounting. “Amongst our sort—oh drat, I do find it awkward, unable to refer to what we are, but—”
“But Osborn has not made himself known to me.” In more ways than one. Which was what they’d agreed.
Beatrice vowed she could see the words bursting to spill off Charlotte’s lips and the effort it took to withhold them. “I must do as my Alpha wishes,” she managed.
“Must you.”
“Well, mostly.” Charlotte winked and set the lap desk on the table. “Meaning no disrespect, of course, as our Alpha’s only desire is our safety and happiness.” She opened the lid and laid out her writing implements. “It is a great responsibility and the work of the heart rather than the brain.”
“The heart?”
“It is where the sentio originates and not the mind, as was assumed in olden days.”
“This term is unknown to me.” Charlotte looked at her with such perception Beatrice rose from the sofa to escape it. “My marriage to Castleton was not…communicative.” She moved over to sit in a chair, an austere caned affair, one of several scattered about the room.
“And yet you know what we are.”
“My knowledge was gained inadvertently.”
Glynis entered with the tea service, her pace as arduous as if trudging through molasses; Mr. Conlon followed behind with enough correspondence to supply a mail coach, piled on a salver. He squinted at every address and handed them over one by one. All were for Charlotte, who exclaimed with pleasure at each.
All but one.
With great ceremony, Mr. Conlon presented the last missive to Beatrice. “From the Duchess of Lowell, Your Grace.”
“Oh, dear. Our letters will cross.” She slid a finger under the seal.
Dearest Beatrice,
I must begin by insisting we do not proceed “Your Gracing” one another to death now that we are of equal rank. You will recognize this as sheer entitlement on my part. Or cheek. Whichever amuses you the more.
I have been made to understand you are aware of the “unique qualities” to be found amongst the denizens of Lowell Hall and indeed your new homeplace due to your previous situation. Despite this, you must contrive to read between the following lines.
Alfred gives his seal of approval to this approach and sends his compliments.
I am told that Arcadia, while sounding idyllic, may not be as halcyon as its name would indicate and have sent this missive with our speediest messenger, to whom the miles between us are like to nothing. As you may know, it is customary here at Lowell Hall to train those members of a variety of “family types” who are often thought to be incapable of holding their own, as it were, amongst their “sort.” Their lives are not held in great regard when compared with their stronger compatriots, but every soul has meaning, and Alfred has made it his duty to preserve these precious lives. As a result, we enjoy a surplus of men willing to work, and I am sending some to you so they may make the best use of their talents.
The “least hardy” of the myriad “sorts” are exclusively male, and as such we have no maids to send. Or, rather, none that meet the presumed gender of one who has a facility for household tasks. There are several lads perfectly adept at the delicate work required in making a house a home and take pride in doing so.
The head footman is Brosnyn. Please call upon him to best deploy each to their gifts.
As we must send them “suitably attired” and with what is needed to do their utmost for you and Arcadia, it will take time for them to arrive. Please look out for them at least three days hence.
Until then, dear Beatrice, I know you will contrive. You are such an inspiration to me. I often watched you turn aside the worst society had to offer with nothing more than a glance, and my admiration for your composure was boundless. You faced down the beau monde (unlike I, who hid behind the palms without compunction), and I doubt there is anything too daunting for one of such fortitude and heart.
In sincere friendship, Felicity
In sincere friendship. Beatrice held the letter to her bosom, her first letter, ever, from a friend.
“Thank you,” she called after Glynis and Mr. Conlon as they tottered away. Setting down her precious missive, Beatrice poured out, adding milk and the honey Charlotte cooed over. As she accepted the cup and saucer, Charlotte noticed Beatrice’s wedding ring.
“Oh!” she cried. She set down her tea and grabbed Beatrice’s hand.
“Yes?” The woman’s grasp was warm as toast.
“Arthur gave you the topaz?” Charlotte had a complicated look on her face, one of dumbfounded shock with a hint of glee. “Georgie must have kept it for him.”
“Is that what it is?” The sherry-gold stone gleamed. “I do not know what it signifies. His Grace is keen to keep his secrets.” Beatrice poured herself a cup.
“The better for a dramatic revelation at an inappropriate time,” Charlotte said.
“I doubt there will be much call for such histrionics here at Arcadia.” Beatrice offered a plate of biscuits. “I do wish to apologize for failing to address you correctly. I presume your husband has a courtesy title? Do you not use it?”
“It is Swinburn. It has done us little good up to now,” Charlotte said. She took a breath and continued. “I am sure it is your place to make this request, as you are higher in status, but I shall be bold and ask if I may make free with your name.”
“Of course.” Beatrice’s heart was like a flame in her chest, filling her with warmth. “As, as friends do.”
“As family do. And you require a name to be used only within the sleu—er, amongst ourselves.” Charlotte regarded her through playfully narrowed eyes. “Beatrice, Beatrice…Bea? Trixie? Beezy! We shall call you Beezy. I am Charlotte, but do call me Charlie.”
That was taking it too far, and Beatrice knew her expression showed it. “Charlotte. I shall give it thought.”
“Thinking,” Charlotte scoffed. “That’s getting you and Artie nowhere.” She started reviewing her mountain of missives, slotting several to the bottom of the pile.
“I’m sure I do not know to what you refer.” Charlotte scoffed again. Beatrice fussed with the sugar tongs. “I trust you will let me know if there is anything else I can do to make you comfortable.”
“You have achieved an impressive amount in such a short time. I cannot imagine being cozier than we already are.”
Beatrice had to stop herself from scoffing. Aloud, at least. “You say that now, but wait until the next rainstorm.”
“One noted the lacework on the roof from the road,” Charlotte said, amiably enough. “I did overhear you suggesting Mr. Todd hire workers.”
“Yes, I intend to fund the work and, while doing so, build loyalty in the village.”
“It’s been years since there was money flowing from this seat.” Her sister-in-law was nothing if not direct.
“I have my own.”
“I have heard it said that you do.” Five letters made their way into their own pile.
“It is true.” There was nothing more she wished to say on that score. “I have received a letter from the Duchess of Lowell. I wrote asking if they could spare a few ready hands, and here is Her Grace addressing the matter herself.”
“You share an acquaintance?” Charlotte shuffled three cards nearer the top.
“She is…” Beatrice thought of those last lines of the letter. “She is my friend.”
“Then you may find yourself playing godmother,” Charlotte said. “She’ll be up the duff as soon as may be, I reckon.”
“I do beg your pardon.”
“The Duke of Lowell won’t be waiting to get young.” Charlotte shuffled her letters into yet another formation and thumbed through the last few.
“Young?”
“It’s due to the curse being overturned. Our lot don’t palaver with curses. About whom I cannot inform you,” she muttered.
“Curse?” Was Felicity safe?
“That Lowell and their pack would not be fruitful and multiply until the duke found his vera amoris. So he has, and so they will.” Charlotte seemed satisfied with the arrangement of her correspondence and opened the top letter on the first pile. “You would think he’d have waited.”
“Waited?”
“To call in the children.”
“Call in the…?” What on earth?
“It’s the way of the males of each Shifter species, Goddess knows why it was allowed. It is the men who determine fertility.” Charlotte scanned the contents of the letter. “We blame the wolves. Their creation tale has become the most widely known among us due to their greater numbers. In their infinite wisdom,” and her tone conveyed that it was the opposite, “they deemed it imperative to their survival that their Goddess Diana set the male in charge of fertility.” She put aside the first letter and picked up the second. “As all species have mixed over the last century or so, this power has manifested amongst the rest of us.” Charlotte tossed her current missive down and sighed. “It is quite tiresome and often requires more breeding than is fair to a female.”
This was not news to Beatrice. “It is like that among, um, humans as well.”
“As if we haven’t other things to do. I adore my cu—children, but Freya forbid Ben take it into his head to repopulate our sle—family ourselves.”
“But… ” Beatrice blushed. “It is the woman’s failure if there are no offspring.”
“So say the human doctors. Ha! This is not our belief.” Charlotte opened another letter with rather more force than was needed. “I reckon when human ways meet Shifter ways, there will be no doubt as to who prevails. No, dear sister, you will have a child as your Alpha deems it so. Unless you come to a compromise, as Ben and I have. We decided as one, which is the way it should be in this enlightened era.”
“Therefore…” If what Charlotte said was true…
“Therefore were I you, I’d have a word with Arthur about keeping his powder dry. There’s no rush for the wee ones, you’ll be run off your feet putting this house in order as it is, you needn’t be chasing after children the livelong day.”
“You are all that is illuminating. Please excuse me.” Beatrice rose and left the room.
***
Madam was looking at him.
At the beginning of their acquaintance, she’d avoided meeting his eyes most days and subtly, or not so subtly, turned a shoulder away from him when she spoke.
Not so this evening. Throughout the cursory sherries in the footstool room, which was under consideration as a parlor, and during the meal, she’d gazed at him. He’d catch her at it, and she’d not so much as blink.
Arthur drank his wine down in one gulp. He saw she was still regarding him, unblinking, with calculation. Not cold calculation, there was a softness to it—a heat?
A wondering. A thoughtfulness.
The children had eaten and were preparing for bed with Morag. They adored her apparent inability to be impressed, which led them to do everything in their power to dazzle her with their wit and imagination.
The footstool room did not meet with Madam’s approval for use after the meal, and she sailed past it with nary a glance in its direction. She led them up to the family parlor; he hesitated before entering, but the balance between what was familiar and new was well struck. The vase, the draughts board brought with them bittersweet images: of Arthur and Ben with their father, learning the game, of mum arranging blooms she’d gathered from the rose arcade. The rug was a new addition as well as several pieces they’d come across in the attic.
“I see you have distributed the furniture.”
Madam looked up from the tea service Ben had brought up. “To your approbation, I do hope. For example, these sofas will be more use here than in the footstool room.” He barked a laugh. So they were agreed on that, albeit not openly.
They waited for him to bring them in on the joke. He chose not to do so. Madam tilted her head at the mirror. “I also believe the glass is better suited here than tucked away abovestairs.”
“Despite the interesting memories attached to it,” Arthur said and then wished he had bitten his tongue in half rather than be treated to Charlotte’s smirk.
“Making interesting memories so soon?” Charlotte shared out Ciara’s latest creations onto plates and passed one to Ben. She fluttered her lashes at Madam. “Do tell.”
“Do not, unless you desire half the nation apprised by morning.” Arthur snaffled another slice of lemon cake, his favorite combination of tart and sweet.
“I suspect you are second only to your sister-in-law when it comes to knowing what there is to know about society,” Madam retorted. “What was it you were saying about Baron Cuddy?”
Charlotte choked on her tea. “Is he still at it, then?”
“The last I heard,” Arthur leaned in, “he moved himself and his drove to the Isle of Wight, where apparently—”
The children rushed into the room, freshly scrubbed and dressed for bed. Well, Tarben and Bernadette rushed; Ursella roamed the perimeter, touched the vase and the draughts board before she stood next to her aunt and, as was the child’s wont, clutched at her skirt. Madam hesitated and then reached out and ran a hand down one of her plaits.
“Did Morag do this for you?” Ursella nodded and leaned her head against Madam’s side. “They are very pretty.”
“It is time for our bedtime story,” Bernadette announced.
“We want Aunt Beezy to tell it,” Tarben added.
Madam blinked rapidly and stiffened. “I am honored,” she said, “but it is not my strong suit.”
“Everyone knows stories,” Tarben insisted.
“They may know them and yet be poor at relating them,” she said. Her eyes landed on Arthur again. “I suspect your uncle is far better at it than I.”
The children swung around to face him, and he swore he caught a glimmer of humor on Madam’s face. Consideration? And now humor? Whatever next?
“I shall start you off, Madam,” he returned, and the glimmer transformed into a glare. “Once upon a time, a fair lady was brought to a falling-down castle.”
“The lady was fair indeed,” contributed Charlotte.
“And she took no nonsense from the mysterious stranger to whom she had been wed against her will.” Ben’s addition received astounded looks from the adults in the room.
Madam rallied. “This is true, she did not, for she was not nearly as delicate as she looked. She had a spine of steel, like the sword in the story of King Arthur and his court, who contrary to popular belief lived in a borough very near to where we abide.” Bernadette looked askance at that, but Madam forged ahead, the result being a confusing tale in which more than one princess, in a nod to fairness for the girls, and a prince, for Tarben, spun straw into gold to appease a trio of wolves who were the size of a thumb. These wolves did not pose much of a threat, and Madam trailed off at the children’s growing confusion. She cleared her throat. “I shall endeavor to discover other ways of entertaining you in the days to come.”
Their parents struggled not to laugh. “And we shall leave story time to Mum and Papa,” Charlotte managed.
“But you must finish it,” Bernadette said, looking aghast at such reckless abandonment of common practice.
“Yes, Madam, you must,” Arthur said.
“The end.” Madam scowled at him.
Ursella shook her head, and Tarben cued, “And they lived…”
Her expression softened, mischievous. “And they lived in cordial affiliation from that day forward.”
***
Beatrice received hugs from the children before Morag herded them up to bed. Ben kissed her cheek and once again looked puzzled while Charlotte was making faces to rival broadsheet caricatures as they left the room. What were those weighted grimaces regarding?
As if she didn’t know. As if she hadn’t been looking at Osborn.
What if he could “bring in the children,” whatever that meant?
What if she dared ask him what it meant?
What if a “cordial affiliation” could be construed to include “marital duties”?
“You need not have told them every bedtime story in one sitting,” Osborn…teased? Was he teasing her? Did that fall under the rubric of cordial affiliation?
“I gave fair warning,” she replied, and she fought her lips turning up at the ends. As though she wished to smile.
His gaze focused on her mouth. She supposed she must be, then. Smiling. It was such a small thing, but it made his eyelids droop and his head tilt, considering her face and her, her lips.
“Children,” she began.
“Yes?” He rose and paused by the draughts board.
“Charlotte said…” Beatrice rose from her seat. She would stand before him and say what she wanted. “She said you can give them to me.”
His hand hovered over the board. “Did she.”
“She did. The males of your species are in charge of doing so, Charlotte said.”
“Charlotte.” He slid a black draught forward one space.
“We are on terms.”
“You and I are not. On terms.”
“Terms are not needed in truth, are they? You are a man. Men wish only to do bed things.” Beatrice struggled against the need to wring her hands or else use them to fling a cushion at his head.
“A woman may catch more bees with honey than with vinegar.”
“Are you a bee?”
“I am not!”
His expression! If she had been in the habit of laughing, she would have roared with it. “Whatever you are, is it true?”
“That the male brings in the children? Yes. It is some goddess-forsaken—truly, one would have to forsake the goddess to give the male this power, but yes. If I deem it so, then when my seed…does what it does in your, your womb, then if I—” He trailed off.
“If you what?” How difficult could this be? “Are there words, a ceremony? Need you dance around a bonfire as a heathen would or…?”
“I do not know. I have never called down a child before.”
“Shall I ask Charlotte?”
“Do not!” His Grace tore at his hair, which exploded in a profusion of curls. “Sweet Freya, that’s all we need.”
“If I was to allow marital duties as a part of our cordial affiliation…” Was he going to make her say it?
“You are taking leaps and bounds here, Madam. Even for one such as I, who is not a hare.”
“Then I shall put it to you.” Beatrice stood as firm as she could. She called upon the spine of steel from her poorly told story. “I seek to redraw our terms. If it is in your power even with one such as I, who has been barren throughout five years of marriage, if your kind can give me a child, then I ask you to give me a child.” Ah. There was power in her asking. Did he say nay, her life was no different, but did he say yea…
“I must think on this.” He crossed to the hearth to kick the fender.
It was not a “no.” “Of course. I did catch you on the hop. Hare or not.” Beatrice hid her shaking hands in her skirts. “I shall leave you to it, Osborn.” She nodded, and he nodded, and she walked out the door.
“Sleep well,” he called as she went down the stairs.
Through the corridor.
Into the stillroom.
Where she closed the door.
And leaned against it.
And breathed.
She sat in her chair, after washing her face and plaiting her hair, and stared at the moon waxing in its heaven…and had hope.