Beatrice suffered a fractious night’s sleep, and she lay her disrupted rest fully at Osborn’s door. Which was not their door. After last night…after having spoken so frankly and shared their histories, she would prefer it was their door.
And why not? she thought as she finished pinning up her hair in a looser fashion than usual. Why not make the best of a bad situation? Neither of them had wished to wed, and yet there they were, and if it would help her fertility if they were better acquainted, then what of it?
It was not as if she was losing a battle against anything but her former powerlessness.
She was not without power now.
Beatrice asked for what she wanted, and he gave it. It seemed she was able to say what she meant and only good resulted.
It was a state of affairs she wished to investigate further.
So deep in her thoughts was she, she nearly neglected to dab on her oil.
When she reached for it, the vial was empty.
A wash of fear flooded her. What were the consequences of not using it? Even if it never worked in the past?
If that was not a reason to set the ritual aside, she did not know what was, and yet… She tucked the empty glass into her workbag to show Charlotte later or, better yet, Ben.
Beatrice smoothed down her skirts. It was time for breakfast.
It was time to greet the new day.
She passed by the open window as was her habit and looked out into the wood before closing the curtains.
***
In the wood, the bear stirred and sniffed the air.
***
“Good morning, Mr. Todd,” Beatrice called as she passed the steward’s study. The shushing sound of a quire of paper sliding to the floor followed in her wake as the fox stuck his head out the door.
“Ma’am,” he gasped. He joined her, utterly perplexed.
“Are you regretting your decision, Mr. Todd?” She found she was sorry to think so. She knew he would excel as Osborn’s—Arthur’s—their steward.
“No, ma’am, no indeed,” he stuttered. “I, er… There is something amiss I wished to bring to your attention. However, it has to do with our sort, and I do not know where to begin.”
“The beginning originating deep in the annals of time, I suspect?” Todd shrugged and nodded and grimaced. “Come, take it up with Lord Swinburn, if that suits?” Todd only nodded this time; he relieved her of her workbag, and they continued on to the kitchen.
***
The man argued with the bear as they left the cover of the wood, lumbering past the clothing folded neatly on a rock.
***
Beatrice entered the kitchen. As one, the company within froze, like a tableau at a musicale. Conlon, arrested, hovered over one of the warmers. The maids halted in their work, and Mrs. Porter’s breadmaking stopped mid-knead. The children as one hushed their morningtide gurning. Ben paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, and Charlotte held her butter knife aloft. Morag gaped, and the tea she was pouring gushed over the edges of its intended cup.
“Morag,” Beatrice scolded and fetched a tea towel. Her admonition broke the spell, and while their behavior was unusual in the extreme, she did not comment as she mopped up the spill and sat. “Mr. Conlon, I am in the mood for eggs with my toast this morning.”
“Very good, ma’am,” he whispered. Brosnyn charged in with two footmen in his wake; they came crashing to a halt and stared.
“Good morning, Brosnyn. And to you, Corvus and Brock.” Beatrice set her serviette upon her lap and poured her tea. “Shall we discuss the work of the day?”
***
The bear stopped at the edge of the underbrush and threw his head back. Inhaled.
The man within reeled. Impatient, he drove them forward.
***
“…and as ever, should you have any queries, please direct them to Mr. Todd.” She turned to Ben, who was still staring, his fork suspended once more. “Your food will go cold,” she said. He blinked and set the utensil down. “Is there any class of ceremony required to invest Mr. Todd in his new role? Something amongst your sort I may not be aware of?”
Charlotte nudged her husband in the side as he remained agog. “No,” Ben replied. “There is the initiatio for the like of the Beta and the Gamma. Mr. Todd is neither.”
“I shall confer with Osborn, for it ought to be marked with some occasion.” This received no reaction. Beatrice looked around at the visibly confounded room. “I must ask if all is well?”
“Oh,” said Charlotte, in a faint tone, “one hopes.”
“Yes,” said Ben, who fiddled with his serviette. “One surely does.”
A resounding thump fell against the door, making Beatrice jump and gasp.
“Good Lord!” Beatrice made to rise, but Ben reacted with greater speed. “If that is yet another unfortunate creature—”
“A fortunate creature, more like,” Charlotte said, and Morag, of all things, of all people, giggled.
The door was pounded upon by what had to be a mighty fist. She heard Ben open it, whisper, and then shut it and rush away. Before she could formulate a query, he hurried back from the laundry, arms full of clothing, and slipped out the door.
It must be Arthur, must it not? If no one else was going to remark upon it, then she would not. Even the children had not roused to their usual vocal heights.
“Let us continue,” she said and shuffled another sheet of paper out of the pile.
The kitchen door crashed against the wall, flung open with vigor. Arthur entered and stood, scenting the air. For the first time since they had been under one roof, the company made him proper obeisance, throats bared.
“Good morning, Osborn, we had wondered where you…” Beatrice began as she too made to rise, and he flew across the room to loom over her. He looked wild and disheveled and larger than usual, his curls a riot on his head, his falls hanging by one button. He dropped to one knee, and his eyes—his eyes were glittering and wild and flashed from his warm brown and the fiery golden yellow of his creature and back again. The rumble in his chest resounded like a struck bell and grew in strength and volume; she refused to fear his creature even if she had no idea what it was.
As soon as she thought that, he looked exulted and relieved and annoyed in equal measure. He took her wrist and breathed into her skin. He leaned forward and ran his nose along her jaw.
“Arthur—Osborn! What are you about?”
He answered by drawing his nose up over her cheek, by pausing before her mouth, by rubbing his hand over her neck. “Your Grace, what in the world?” Her voice wavered, her blush a conflagration on her cheeks.
He stood and fled the way he had come, Ben close behind. A roar and the sound of tearing and Ben returned with an armful of shredded garments. Another roar and then a ringing silence.
All present gaped at her; Charlotte’s face bore the frustrated expression that conveyed she had news to impart that fell outside her remit.
Beatrice’s hand shook as she took up her tea. There was little in this world a hot drop could not bolster. She gave Charlotte a meaningful look and took a sip. “As I was saying. Let us continue.”
***
Mate, mate, mate, mate, sang his bear as they tore back to the sanctuary of the wood. It was rare he took precedence over his creature when in his essential shape, but at that precise moment, they were equal in power as never before. Perhaps that was the way of things when one—
When he…
When he met his…
Vera amoris! exulted his bear, who took them for a roll into a dell of bluebells.
It was incontrovertible. Where there had been no scent signature, there was now, in full force: of water flowing over the stones of a streambed on a hot summer’s day, of long grass lightly touched with morning dew, of salt on the tongue, of sugar on the lips. Of stubbornness, were it possible to scent such, of industriousness as well as softness…
And there was an additional note, an essence that sang between her heart and his, unlike anything in his experience. Not surprising, considering he had not known how his vera amoris would convey to him, considering he had kept himself away from any situation in which he may find her, but this, this was unexpected, that each of their elements would be matched by its opposite.
His bear rolled back and forth in the flowers. There was a scent that was not a scent, and it is gone, and we can scent her, and now—
Yes, yes, Arthur scolded, your meaning has been taken.
His bear snarled and tore at a fallen tree. How is it you are so…
So…?
Unmoved? Arthur made them run and run around the far perimeter, the bear’s joy turned to impatience and anger. They ran and ran until Arthur knew the bear, even with his great strength and stamina, could run no more.
I am not unmoved, he said as they sat on a hill and looked out over Arcadia’s lands. I am perhaps too moved.
Poxy humans, his bear huffed.
Bloody bears, he retorted. Snuggling a mate is not the only thing that matters.
Is it not?
The very fate he had hoped to avoid was now without question unavoidable. He knew not what happened next.
Do you not? his bear demanded. Next, you do your duty and, in your duty, find your joy.
Would it be a joy to do his duty? Would the fulfillment of his responsibilities be not arduous but ecstatic?
There was only one way to find out.
***
During the hours between breakfast and tea, Beatrice reviewed ongoing improvements and gave praise or direction. It was time she had to herself while the family did whatever they did to school and divert the children.
On this day, all five followed her everywhere until she determined it was time for refreshments in the den. The children were staring at her with the same fascination they had when they’d first met. Charlotte was tending to her correspondence without her usual focus and gossipy asides, and Ben was pacing around the edges of the room.
The servants had been incandescent with joy, Morag even going so far as to give her the belated welcome the mistress of the house ought to receive from its housekeeper. Beatrice caught Conlon weeping in the footstool room, which nearly set her off into gales of tears, for what reason she could not discern. To keep herself occupied, she directed several footmen to remove the furniture from the awkward reception room Morag had referred to as the Beta’s office and instead instructed them to install a sturdy but elegantly carved rosewood desk, a pair of very comfortable chairs and a tea table, and two bookcases decorated with whimsical figures capering around its edges. She thought to use it as a room in which to deal with her correspondence, as undemanding as it was at the moment. Though that may change as time marched on. There were titles in the locality who would welcome the Duchess of Osborn.
Her breath caught in her chest. For that was she. The Duchess of Osborn.
“I shall save these slices of lemon cake for Arth—Osborn. He is not often about at this time of day and would rue missing out.” She covered a small plate, piled high, with a serviette.
“Had Artie left the house very early this morning?” Charlotte asked.
“Rather late last night.”
“Ah.”
Beatrice met Charlotte’s meaningful glance with a shake of her head. “He told me about his…youth. I declined his, er, continued presence in honor of the trust he took in me.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Charlotte huffed.
“Charlie! I could not.” She tilted her head in the direction of a candlestick. “Not after learning such a thing.”
“What thing?” Tarben was indeed very like his mother.
“Children, I would consult with your mum in private,” Beatrice said. “Do show your papa how well you curtsy and bow.”
Bernadette and Tarben went off with determination. Ursella gave her a long look and meandered after her siblings.
“I suspect there is little to nothing you can tell me,” Beatrice said, “regarding the events of this morning.”
Charlotte laid down her pen and did not meet her gaze. “I cannot say a word, even were it permitted, without becoming…” She withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve. “I will become emotional, and it would not be helpful at this moment.”
“It is terrible? What happened at breakfast?” She had had such hope…
Hope she saw reflected in Charlotte’s eyes, along with tears. “The absolute opposite of terrible. It is wonderful, wonderful. Oh, you are my sister in truth, and I could not be more pleased.” She sobbed, once, loudly, and fell into Beatrice’s unprepared arms.
The commotion their mother made naturally drew the children back.
“Mum is not upset,” Beatrice assured them. “These are happy tears due to, to—”
“To how Uncle Arthur behaved at breakfast,” Bernadette said.
“It is very exciting,” Tarben said at his usual volume.
“It is because you smell, Aunt Beezy,” whispered Ursella.
“You didn’t before, and now you do!” Tarben bounced up and down.
“Was there a change you made recently that may have affected it in the past?” Charlotte sat up and blew her nose.
“I had oil I was told by Castleton’s housekeeper that I needed to apply daily.” Beatrice dug the vial out of her workbag and held it out to Charlotte, who passed it to Ben. “I used the little that was left yesterday.”
Ben removed the stopper and held it up to his nose. “Neem oil,” he said and exchanged a look with his mate before explaining to Beatrice, “which has no scent of its own once it meets the scent of another, if that makes any sense.”
“It does not.”
“It is used to mask one’s natural signature so none may discern it,” Ben explained. “Such as versipelles who wish to hide their essential natures, for example. I have known it to be used as a lark for a masquerade but never with long-term intent.” He sniffed the vial again. “You say Castleton’s housekeeper gave it to you?”
“Upon arrival,” Beatrice said. She glanced over the heads of the children. “I was told it would ensure the succession.”
Ben’s expression darkened. “The exact opposite is true.”
“I am stunned to hear it.” How truly friendless she had been.
“That lot. Intolerant and shortsighted,” Charlotte growled, a very large sound coming out of such a small woman. “They would not have countenanced anyone less than versipellian aristocracy as their Alpha female. They had no notion what they had in you.”
“The oil served to suppress your scent as well as your ability to fulfill your marital obligations regarding offspring.” Ben looked fit to be tied.
“All due to the application of a little oil.” And the soap, which she suspected had been made of the same stuff. “And now that my essence is discernible?”
“It is how vera amorum know one another,” Ursella piped up. The authority in her little voice belied her youth. “And so if you had no scent your true mate could not tell if you were his.”
“Artie was reacting to the revelation of yours.” Charlotte waggled her eyebrows. “And your fragrance is, eh, affecting him.”
“This is as far out of the realm of polite conversation as I have ever dared.” Beatrice took in the hopeful faces around her. “Is the effect due to, due to…” Was she Arthur’s true mate? How could that be?
“It is not for us to say,” Charlotte said as she put her hand over Ursella’s mouth. The child’s shoulders dropped as she heaved a weighty sigh.
“Then there is only one way to find out.” Beatrice rose as the family—her family—bared their necks to her. “I shall seek out the duke.”