“Yes, that’s quite enough of that,” Mother snaps, drawing herself up to a sitting position. “I do not wish to relive the conversation.” She glares at me. “This is the final straw, Beatrice. I’ve had all I can take of you behaving like a hoyden, scandalizing our neighbours, scrambling around the countryside in a complete state, collecting creepy-crawlies in jars and stuffing your head with Latin – and goodness only knows what those books are about, given the sort of conversation you find appropriate for the dinner table…”
I have to contain another nervous wave of laughter at the idea of my scandalous Latin reading. (As if I don’t know about the questionable romance novels she keeps hidden behind the plant pots in the greenhouse. Now those have been illuminating reading.)
“Well, I am sorry,” I say, feeling the sharp sting of regret that always inevitably follows my bad behaviour. “I know it was wrong of me, but I just couldn’t help myself. I mean, really, Mother, Cuthbert?”
She regards me in icy fury. “Cuthbert Astley was your last great hope, my girl!” She waves a finger dramatically in my face.
I snort derisively, even though a cold hand clutches at my heart at the desperation in her voice. “Cuthbert Astley is not likely to be described as anyone’s great hope, Mother, last or otherwise.” I keep my tone deliberately light.
“Oh, that’s just like you, Beatrice,” she exclaims, and I hear real worry in her voice. “You’re so pleased with yourself, but what will become of you when your father and I aren’t here to look after you?” She sniffs, pulling a rather crumpled white handkerchief from behind one of the sofa cushions.
I sink down on to the ground beside her and take her hand. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you worry, but honestly, I don’t think a husband is the answer. I could get a job, like I talked about…”
It’s Mother’s turn to snort now. “A job,” she scoffs.
“Well, why not?” I say. “I could join a profession. Plenty of women work, doing all sorts of things.”
“Not women in your position,” Mother says firmly, and she rubs her forehead tiredly.
I know that she would never understand my desire to work. Or even to study. The thought of studying, of going to a university to learn, perhaps even about science or medicine, from real experts, is a sudden ache in my chest, and I press my hand there for a second, as though trying to contain the feeling.
I haven’t even tried to talk to my parents about it. I know they wouldn’t approve, and it’s not as if I can afford to go anyway. Somehow, I can’t bear to have them dismiss this idea as they have done my others – it feels too precious.
“Please, darling, do stop teasing me,” Mother continues, oblivious to my train of thought. “You know my nerves can’t stand it.” And she begins to cry again, real tears which make me feel awful.
“Now look what you’ve done, Beatrice!” Father booms from the doorway where he has appeared. He crosses to Mother’s other side and takes her hand. “This is all your fault.”
His words are like a match to the kindling, setting something big and angry inside me alight. “You two are clinging to some ridiculous version of the past,” I snap, out of guilt as much as anything. I jump to my feet. “There’s a whole generation of young people out there who are changing things and living exciting, modern lives, but here we are, living in this mausoleum. It’s like time has stopped here and I can’t stand it!”
“Stop being so hysterical.” Mother’s voice is shrill. Clearly there’s only one member of the family who is allowed to have nervous episodes.
“I’m not being hysterical!” I say, taking a deep, shaky breath and trying to speak more calmly. “But you two are trying to raffle me off like some prize-winning mare without any consideration for what I want…”
“We are trying to do what is best for you.” Father’s face is turning an interesting shade of puce. “Not that we get any thanks for it, and God forbid you actually honour your family and our history. There have been Langtons at Langton Hall for over FIVE HUNDRED YEARS!”
Normally, I would simply nod and think about something else while he spouts on about the family honour, but right now, suddenly, I have had enough. I have been hearing this for my whole life and I am sick of it, sick of the weight of Langton Hall and its legacy, sick of the generations of history bearing down on me. It’s as if I can feel the walls of the house pressing in, cutting me off from the rest of the world.
“I know that there have been Langtons at Langton Hall for over five hundred years.” I am close to tears and I try to steady my voice. “But you must see that even if I went along with your plans and married some wealthy, inbred aristocrat to prop the estate up, then – well, then I wouldn’t be a Langton any more.”
“But you’d be able to keep the place going,” Mother says.
“You’d keep the Langton bloodline alive!” Father’s voice is hushed, as though he is describing something too sacred to approach at a normal volume.
I look at them now and feel a pang of sympathy. They look smaller in this moment, their eyes ablaze with fanaticism.
“I’m sorry,” I say wearily. Guilt sits heavily in my stomach.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, Beatrice, I really don’t,” Mother replies, and her voice sounds sad and quiet, as though she’s given up on me somehow. The ache inside me grows. I made fun of Cuthbert but the bleak truth is that they are probably right. My future as it stretches out in front of me looks horribly empty. I can’t carry on like this for ever. Maybe Cuthbert – or someone like him – really is the only option.
“There, there, Delilah,” Father says. He walks up and down the room a few times and then stops suddenly, looking at her. “Listen, I think … I think it’s time for us to consider Leo’s offer.”
“No!” Mother exclaims. “Michael, I thought we agreed…”
Father holds up his hand and Mother falls quiet. She always does, when he says so.
“We have no choice,” he goes on. “Clearly we’re not getting through to Beatrice. These childish antics are getting out of hand, and now she’s embarrassed us in front of half the county. Best thing for everyone if she’s far away for a while, under some strict supervision. I’m sure” – he turns to me, suddenly fearfully tall, a glint of steel in his eyes – “that, given time to reflect, Beatrice will reach the same conclusions we have, and that on her return she’ll behave in a way more becoming of a young lady in her situation.”
“Return from where?” I ask suspiciously. “Where exactly am I going?”
“Your uncle feels that your cousin Hero needs some young companionship. He has invited you to stay with him this summer. Your mother and I had not yet decided, but under the circumstances I think it might be a good idea.”
“Uncle Leo?” I say, a sudden flare of excitement catching inside me. “Uncle Leo who lives in Italy?”
“It’s not a holiday, young lady,” says Father. “It’s a chance for you to reconsider your appalling behaviour.”