“And if they are anything like their mother, rather hard on the local population of fish.”
Bea laughed, and Matilda felt a little rush of delight at how comfortable the girl was with her now.
These cursed de Bords! She could make them so happy—if only they would let her.
She knew she was in danger. She knew she wanted too much—for them to care for her, to want her to stay here and bring light and laughter to their small family—and she feared her heart would not survive the damage when they sent her home.
But she couldn’t stop herself from trying anyway.
That was how she loved, she supposed—recklessly, with abandon. It was why she was so cautious about giving her heart away: because she could not do it by half-measures.
“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “you might take one or two to the townhouse in London. By spring, they’ll be plenty old enough to be separated from their mother.”
Bea bit down hard on her lower lip and looked determinedly at the kittens on the bed, who lay sprawled together, their bellies round with milk. “I can send one with you, if you like. When you go back to London.”
“I’m sure my sister would like one,” Matilda allowed. “But—if you go, in the spring—a kitten—”
“I cannot go,” Bea said. “Please—please don’t bring it up again.”
Matilda stalked a few paces away, in the direction of the bed, then turned back to Bea before Angelica Kauffman could notice her approach. “I don’t mean to upset you or to intrude.” She paused. “Well, all right, perhaps Idomean to intrude. Bea, did something happen? Is there something you are afraid to encounter in London? Someone?”
“It is not—” Bea broke off and wrapped her fingers in her skirts, folding a fan of little pleats. “It is not about me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Bea made her way to the bed and sank slowly onto the counterpane, which was definitely not going to survive the day’s events. Angelica Kauffman looked up briefly, recognized Bea, and resumed her aggressive licking of the damp orange kittens.
“I was eight,” Bea said, “when we moved here from Devon.”
Matilda had known that. It had been shortly after Christian’s wife had died.
“He—I suppose you know why we left Devon?” Bea looked down at her lap.
Matilda thought of how the girl opened up while they painted side by side, and suspected it would be easier for Bea to tell the story if they were not face-to-face. She settled herself down on the ground, drawing her knees up to her chest. “I don’t know anything about it.”
She had assumed they left the Devonshire estate because the memories were too painful for them both. Only—Beatrice had never mentioned the marchioness.
“That was where Christian’s wife died. Grace. Lady Ashford.” Bea’s breath was harsh, not quite a laugh, and Matilda felt a pulse of sadness for the child Bea had been. “Christian thought I did not know what they said about him, but I knew. How could I not?”
From her position on the floor, Matilda could see flecks of charcoal and pigment on the bedraggled hem of Bea’s gown.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That must have been so difficult for you to hear the awful rumors about your brother.”
“They called him a murderer.” Bea’s voice was choked with tears. “He—he—he would have happily traded his life for hers, and they called him amurderer.”
“I’m so sorry—”
“We moved here because everyone quit,” Bea said sharply. “The gossip was so poisonous and the rumors so cruel that the staff all left, one by one. Mrs. Perkins tried—she tried so hard—but no one would live at the house with a mad killer.”
People don’t usually stay,Bea had said.
Matilda felt the painful wrench of grief.
“My nurse,” Bea said, “was the last to go. They tried to keep the house running, but it was too big. The gardens all went to seed. We moved here, far enough that the gossip did not quite follow us. And we’ve stayed here ever since.”
“Oh, Bea,” Matilda said. “I hate that you went through that.”
She had not realized, she supposed, just how privileged she and Margo had been. Attitudes were more relaxed in London; their antics had been a source of gossip, yes, but they had never been completely shunned. But then, no one had called them murderers behind their backs. They were only the Halifax Hellions, absurd and outrageous and impossible to control.
