CHAPTER III
Beatrice awoke with the echoing pressure of a headache and Clara laying out a dress choice for a day cooped up indoors waiting for callers—a printed cotton stripe trimmed in thirty-point lace, the skirt a soft conical increase to be worn without a fulling cage.
Clara halted with the gown in her arms and smiled. “Good morning, Beatrice. Are you ready for your caller?”
It was time to wake up. It was time to smile, and be unfailingly polite, and find out why Ysbeta Lavan now wanted her acquaintance when she clearly had not wanted it at the bookstore. “Good morning, Clara. The stripe will do.”
“Not the peach with the lady-slipper embroidery?”
“My caller is to be Ysbeta Lavan, not Ianthe. She insisted on seeing me first.”
“Hm. There could be a dozen reasons for that.” Clara laid the gown on the foot of the bed and moved to Beatrice’s bedside, dabbling a cloth in a basin of water. She wiped Beatrice’s face. “You’re frowning.”
“Headache.”
“You drank too much elderflower punch.” Clara swiped down her neck. “I’ll have Cook mix you a potion. I’ll bring it to you in your bath. Up you come, out of bed.”
Clara guided Beatrice to the bathing chamber and unbuttoned her nightgown, leaving Beatrice to descend into the water herself and place a cool cloth over her eyes.
She had these few moments to herself, before she was expected at breakfast, and then she would be pinned and laced into a gown that displayed her like a jewel and sent an artful message—that she, expecting a quiet afternoon at home, had dressed herself simply, but the cut of the gown from neckline to hem was meant to flatter her youth. She was meant to be interrupted at a creative pursuit, designed to reveal her education and skill.
She was expected to display a sense of beauty and the skill to produce it. She played violon, though few women performed for public entertainment. She could draw in colored pastel and paint in oil, though few women’s works hung on display in the galleries of Chasland. She was proficient in knitting, hooked lace, and simple embroidery—all skills that would be displayed on her children’s clothing. Beatrice’s head pounded, and she flipped the washcloth over, trying to sink into its soothing, cooled embrace.
Mercifully, the door opened, and Clara hustled inside. Beatrice lifted the cloth from her eyes and accepted the dose-bottle, tipping it to her lips. Cook had tried to sweeten it, which only made it worse.
“Skyborn Gods, that’s awful,” Beatrice gasped. “Thank you, Clara. Is there water?”
“I’ll get it.” Harriet, having just come in, crossed to the jug and poured a cup.
“Oh, I’m going to die, just die,” Harriet whispered. “Ianthe Lavan is coming to call on you. He’s beyond a Valserran marquis. He’s beyond even a minister! Beatrice. It’s just like Crossing Quill Street, where young Laura Cooper catches the attention of the Margrave of Went, and—”
Oh no. Harriet didn’t know the truth. “Harriet. It’s not what you imagine.”
“But he helps her father catch a hen!” Harriet insisted.
A what? “We do not keep hens.”
“Neither did they,” Harriet countered. “It was from the market.”
Beatrice didn’t want to begin untangling her little sister’s logic. “As you say.”
“Harriet,” Mother called. “Come here, please.”
Harriet huffed, but she left Beatrice alone.
Once clean, Beatrice donned a dressing gown and went downstairs to breakfast. A copy of the morning’s broadsheets sat next to Father’s empty place, and Beatrice picked one up, turning the pages to the shipping and finances section. Harriet leaned over to swat at her hands.
“You’ll get ink smudged on your fingers.”
“Ink comes off.” Beatrice leaned away from her sister and read. “Robicheaux Automations is putting on a display of the latest inventions from Vicny. These automatic wonders will delight onlookers as they usher in a new age of productivity and convenience.”
“Here in Bendleton?” Mother asked.
“In Meryton. I should like to see them. I understand that they can spin fine thread at astonishing speeds. It would be worth investing in manufactories for cotton, if one acted quickly—”
“Beatrice,” Father said. He walked into the breakfast room and plucked the paper from her hands. “What did I say about ladies reading the paper at breakfast?”
“That it leads to squinting and wrinkles. But Father, have you considered what I said about timber and iron yesterday?”
Father gave Beatrice a look of patient disappointment. “You shouldn’t be troubling yourself with such thoughts. You should be bursting with news of the Assembly Dance last night, of all the gentlemen you met. How many did you meet?”
Father moved to the head of the table, and servers moved into action, bringing heated plates of breakfast dishes to the family.
“We left before midnight, Father,” Harriet said. “Beatrice hardly had a chance to meet anyone.”
Father folded the paper so he could peer over it. “I thought the Assembly Dance was important.”
“It is!” Harriet exclaimed. “But Beatrice got her own cake. She didn’t dance once.”
“Beatrice,” Father said. “I do wish you would take your duties seriously. Look at Harriet. She needed to be at that ball to make friends her own age. Leaving early cost her opportunities.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“She wasn’t feeling well,” Harriet said, defending her sister at last. “But for all that, she has a suitor, and he’s going to call on her today.”
“He’s not.”
“Which suitor?” Father asked.
“Ianthe Lavan.”
Father’s smiling, indulgent gaze flicked from Harriet to land on Beatrice. The smile melted into open astonishment. “You spoke to Ianthe Lavan? What did you speak of?”
“Fidelity,” Beatrice said. “Honoring one’s family. The stars.”
“Romantic,” Mother said.
“Intellectual,” Harriet said, and wrinkled her nose.
Beatrice dropped her gaze to her plate. “We only talked,” she lied. No one needed to know the rest. Besides, Chaslander girls took kisses too seriously. It hadn’t meant anything. Not from him.
“I hope you weren’t too free with your knowledge,” Father said. “A man expects to guide his wife in all things. Displaying too much cleverness can make a woman seem less appealing.”
“Mother is clever.”
Mother smiled, picking up her teacup once more. “Your father is correct, my dear.”
“We understand the shrewdness of women,” Father said. “Your education is unusual, compared to a woman of higher birth. I stand by my decision to teach you the keeping of accounts and records even though your husband is likely to have a secretary. It’s more than you need to manage a house, but you’ll know if your suppliers are cheating you. That is where a wife’s cleverness shines.”
She could do rather more than that. She hated the idea of pretending to be less than she was for the sake of her husband’s comfort, and the hundred little ways she was expected to bend and give way. Ianthe had listened to her opinion. He had thanked her for it. He was the kindest man she’d ever met.