A Victorian Romance
by Steven Schechter
Chapter 3: French Language Lessons
part 2
“Digby,” Arthur began, “I am not fond of long engagements, no longer, at any rate.” Certainly, the engagement had lifted Arthur’s spirits. “I am thinking of six weeks’ time.” Arthur was telling Digby that he had six weeks to make wedding arrangements.
“That is brisk, sir. Will Lady Beatrice be about?”
“I shouldn’t worry about that, Digby,” Margaret interjected. Digby hadn’t known she was listening.
“She leaves tomorrow for Richard’s home in Scotland,” said Arthur, “then I expect they’ll do all the party rounds. But Lady Margaret will advise you.”
She leaves tomorrow!... What does she think? She will go off with the hero free as a bird, and I will go grudgingly on my way empty-handed? “Of course. She has made an excellent match, sir,”
Arthur nodded heavily. “He is an exceptionally pure-minded and honorable young man. We have been very fortunate.”
“Will the Major stay with his regiment then?” I won’t see her again until the wedding, and then at a distance.
“No, indeed. He’s been offered a fine position: Her Majesty’s Undersecretary of State for Ireland.” He winked at Digby. “Quite a coup for a Major still in his twenties.”
Digby’s last chance to speak with Beatrice was at a gathering in the music room before dressing for dinner. However, Arthur pulled Digby away to work with him on final changes to the marriage contract that Richard would carry with him to Scotland. They would both miss the gathering entirely.
* * *
Beatrice was the center of attraction in the music room, playing and singing at the piano as Richard looked on adoringly. Several young women harmonized with Beatrice and more guests drifted over. The afternoon’s exertions and a moderate taste of wine had produced a mood of bonhomie.
“’Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone,
All her lovely companions are faded and gone...”
Beatrice’s face suddenly froze in alarm. “Oh!” The room followed her gaze to see Thomas Beauton in the doorway, silently watching Beatrice. In the six weeks of grief, Thomas had let his beard grow out without much grooming giving him a somewhat wild appearance. In his hands he carried a long flower box.
Margaret rose to her feet as Richard took a protective step toward Beatrice. The room was silent until Thomas spoke to Beatrice. “I beg your pardon, Lady Beatrice. I am so sorry to have frightened you.” He included the rest of the room, “Please, everyone, accept my apologies.”
“Thomas,” Margaret’s voice was friendly, mildly chastising. “I didn’t know you were here. Did William see you in?”
Meanwhile, Beatrice was laughing and making much of her silliness. “How foolish of me! I don’t know why I — why did I scream so?”
Thomas stepped closer to Beatrice. “I only wanted to deliver my wedding gift in person. Then I won’t trouble you any further.” He smiled for the first time. “I am so glad to see that you are getting on with your life. You have a wonderful chap in Richard.” He offered up the box of flowers, and she accepted it. “I wish you and Richard every happiness.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” said Beatrice. “This is so noble of you.”
Richard put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Awfully good of you, Thomas.”
Margaret did not for a moment take Thomas at face value. She didn’t know what he was about, but it was violent and hateful, of that she was certain. Still, she had no choice but to pretend. “Will you join us?” she asked.
“Please do,” added Beatrice. There was a flurry of persuasion, but Thomas insisted that he would not impose himself any further. Within minutes he was gone, and the somber mood seemed to leave with him. Although Thomas had spooked Beatrice for a few moments, she told herself that he was simply crazed with grief. She sensed his hatred, but she felt insulated from danger, beyond his reach. In the delightful evening that followed, with many toasts to the young couple at dinner and the opening of gifts and games of charades, the incident was forgotten.
* * *
After finishing the night’s work with Arthur, Digby took the stairs to his room. That Beatrice would leave without a word, without bestowing some reward upon him, some bauble or ornament for his service, this had surprised him. She had read him all too well, Digby told himself. She would not risk being alone with him.
No matter. Digby had thought much about the enjoyment of his reward, and he had no intention of allowing Beatrice to leave without having it. He expected that, with her leaving in the morning and with the house full of guests, Beatrice assumed that she was in no danger.
Digby took the last few steps to the second floor landing and, happily, the hallway was empty. He needed less than a minute at Beatrice’s doorway to remove a small pin from the lock, and continue on the way to his room at the far end of the corridor. Digby’s tampering did not disable the lock, were one to test it; Digby could now pick it more easily after Beatrice had retired for the evening. Digby guessed about 2:00 a.m.
But Beatrice had another surprise in store for him. Digby was barely over the threshold to his room when his senses came alive: perfume! Beatrice’s perfume! She had been in this room not long before! For what reason? He thought to pinch himself as he savored the fragrance. His eyes searched the room for anything different or out of place. There on the desk was a small leather pouch he didn’t recognize. Lifted, the pouch had no weight. He found a folded note inside. Unfolded, the note read in a rough print: YOUR REWARD. SCHOOLROOM. 3:00 a.m.
* * *
Had there been an observer outside Ossbourne at 3:00 a.m. and had Digby carried a candle, the witness would have seen the candle moving eastward from window to window along the highest floor of the east wing, until the candle reached the far end and entered the tower. But Digby had left his extinguished candle in the stairwell and made his way down the corridor by moonlight. Inside the tower was one room, in what was virtually the most remote part of the building.
Digby knocked on the door and entered the room, dark but for a bit of moonlight through a single window. He lit an oil lamp with a match. Everything in the room was miniature: chairs, desks, an easel. This was Beatrice’s schoolroom from years ago. Digby sat on one of the desks to wait. Minutes later he heard light sounds outside the door, a soft knock and the door opened. Beatrice wore a robe over a heavy dressing gown and a shawl draped over her shoulders.
“Simon,” she said low, stepping inside. She closed the door behind her. “I am sorry your reward has been so long in coming. Please don’t think I meant to put you off.”
Digby gestured that it was nothing.
“Well, we must hurry,” she smiled. Digby’s eyes followed her as she crossed the room to an old cabinet. She produced a key and opened one of the drawers.
“You have chosen an ideal spot, m’lady,” Digby observed. “Nothing can be heard if we yelled at the top of our lungs.” Beatrice took a case from the drawer and opened it with another key, removing a beautiful necklace of diamonds. She held the sparkling necklace up to admire. “This was given to me on my sixteenth birthday. It is worth more than £20,000!...if you were to sell it, I imagine you know about that sort of thing.”
Digby watched all of this impassively. For the next minute or so, Beatrice told the story of how, when they were a week in Italy, she had claimed the necklace lost, and of the bald inspector from the insurance company who interviewed her; how nervous she was! She seemed to Digby to be nervous in the moment. When the story was done, she looked down at the necklace and held it close a few moments as if for sentiment’s sake. Then she ceremoniously held it out to him.
“This is yours, Simon. For a service well performed.” A frown had spread over Digby’s features. “Don’t be shy, Simon. I am giving it to you.”
He folded his arms over his chest and looked at the floor. “Yes. That is what disturbs me.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened. “What on earth do you mean?” Digby turned away from her and began to walk slowly about the room, trailing his fingertips over the furniture as if examining it for dust. She watched him for a moment.
“You are angry that it has been so long — aren’t you?... But I had to be very careful.”
Digby was at the window looking out. “No, I am a patient man.”
“Good. I would not want you to be angry, Simon.” Beatrice cleared her throat. “Come here.” Digby turned from the window and came closer. She held the necklace out again. “This is yours now, Simon.”
He met her gaze. “The necklace is very lovely, Beatrice.” She didn’t react to his use of the familiar. “Were it a gift, I would protest that you were too generous. But to offer this for a murder?”
“No-one was murdered!” She flushed red. “It was hardly my fault he took his own life! It was horrid!”
Digby was silent a moment. “Well,” his voice was gentle, conciliatory, “he could not live in the world after what I’d done, could he? Perhaps I should not have made such a cruel case against him.” Digby shrugged. “But I did it for you, my lady.”
“I have shown my appreciation, have I not?”.
Digby assumed an injured expression and shook his head.
“What is wrong now?” Beatrice asked.
“Is that how you see me? As some ruffian who murders men for money without compunction?” Although Digby’s words suggested offense, his tone was calm, patient. “You could have hired the job out for a good deal less, and I wouldn’t have it on my conscience.”
She looked at him a long moment pursing her lips. “I don’t understand you,” she said.
“Tell me.” he said. “Is there anything so precious that it is too great a price? For a murder?”
“Now riddles!” Beatrice threw up her hands but in the next moment, she smiled. “Ah. You want more. That is it, isn’t it? But you are too shy to ask.” She sighed and thought a moment. “Because you have served me so well, I happily put in the bracelets. That will add eight thousand pounds.”
“You only add to the insult,” said Digby.
“Bless me!” She turned away from him, feeling dizzy. Then suddenly she was all brisk motion, hurrying to the cabinet, retrieving the case and replacing the necklace, putting things aright as she spoke. “If you are too modest to say what you want, then write it down. I will send it to you.” Abruptly she turned to him. “Where will you go now?” she asked.
“I am not going anywhere.”
“That was not our plan!”
“Were anyone to suspect you, it would not look well that I left so soon.”
She could not think clearly. She pulled the shawl tighter and approached him again holding the case out. “Here. I will not offer it again.”
Digby ignored the necklace as he slowly knelt and looked up at her. “I only want that... we not be parted so soon. That you take pity on me as a man.”
“Gibberish,” she said. “I must go!”
“That we love. Like Adam and Eve... if only for one night.”
She stared at him, hearing and not hearing the words, then she threw the case at him, hitting him hard in the face. “Pig!” She slapped him. “I’ll cut your tongue out!” She tried to slap him again as he rose, but he caught her hand. Her eyes widened as he pulled her in and kissed her. “Uh!” She recoiled violently, sputtering as if dunked underwater. Struggling and twisting away as he tried again to kiss her. “Stop!!” she screamed. “Help me! Help!”
He released her, and she backed away. Suddenly, she moved toward the door, but he blocked her way.
Face to face, she trembled, her eyes wild. “Digby,” she whispered. She backed up again, trembling.
After a moment, Digby spoke in a clear firm tone: “You needn’t fear me, m’lady. I am not a violent man.” Her shawl lay at his feet. He picked it up and offered it to her. She came forward to take it and returned to her spot.
“But hear me one moment,” said Digby. “I deserve that much, don’t I?”
Beatrice showed no reaction. He went on. “I put an end to your troubles, did I not?” Her face contorted as if seeing a great ugliness. Putting her hands over her ears, she turned her back.
“I am in pain with desire for you.”
“Stop!”
“Isn’t it justice?”
“No-one could be so evil!”
“Consider it a charity.”
“Never!” she screamed. “I never shall!” Backing up, Beatrice felt the far wall behind her, as far from Digby as she could get. “I would die first!!”
She began to weep and spoke through her tears. “I should never have heard such vicious language in my life! I would have married that man, and lived my whole life with him, rather than hear such words!”
“Pshaw.” Digby came closer, regarding her ironically. Beatrice put her hands back to her ears and turned to face the wall, showing him her back.
“Why did you think all this trouble was taken, m’lady?” He came closer. “Surely you remember how desperate I was to do your bidding. How I begged and knelt for it?” He gently pried a hand from her ear. “Did you really think it was money I wanted so pitifully?” There was no sound from Beatrice. “Your flesh understood me, I am sure of that.”
After a few moments watching her, Digby left Beatrice facing the wall and crossed the room to the doorway. He pushed one of the desks against the wall beside the door, and sat on top of it to wait for her.
It was some time before Beatrice was ready. Then she turned around and came across the room to stand in front of him. “I have heard you, as you asked. Am I still your prisoner?”
Digby gestured that her way was free.
Beatrice nodded. “In the future, do not ever speak to me, or look in my face. Remember the distance between your blood and mine, and keep it! Or I will have my revenge for this night.”
Digby chuckled. “Distance?... Aren’t we the same now, you and I? Cut from the same cloth?”
“The same as you!? Foul vomit-faced worm!”
“In your heart, Beatrice, you are a whore.”
She flew at him, flailing at him and caught him solidly in the face. He stood and managed to grab her wrists and turned her, forcing her backward against the wall. He attempted another kiss. She bit him hard, and he recoiled in pain, tasting blood, still holding her tight against the wall. She spit in his face as she struggled. “Vicious pig! Let me go!”
“Easy... easy.” Digby secured his hold on her hands, wiping his face against his sleeve. He took a few moments to catch his breath, as she struggled, kicking him in the shins so that he had to straddle her.
“Let me go! I’ll have your head for this, I swear it!”
Digby put this face close to hers, trying to keep her gaze. “Hear me, Beatrice. If I can’t have you, no-one will have you.”
“Gibberish, gibberish, gibberish!” she chanted back into his face as she struggled, “Let me go!”
“I will let you go in a moment. But hear me, I am going to confess everything.”
For a fleeting moment this pierced her heart, but she quickly recovered, dismissing the prospect. “Ha! They would hang you in the morning!”
“If they could find me. But I will disappear into the city where no-one can find me.” Beatrice told herself to stop listening. If the worm disappeared, there was nothing to fear. She struggled and kicked him again.
“Then one letter to the Times of London, written in the hand of Lord Charles Beauton... though he writes from the grave.”
She turned pale. “Simon.” Her hands went limp and he released them. They dropped to her side.
“There will be no marriage to the hero,” he said. “You will be my partner, before all the world, in shame and misery.”
“Simon.” Her hands found his hands again. “Simon, listen to me! Listen! On my sacred word! All the wealth I have, I will make it yours! I will find a way to do this! Listen to me!”
“Shhh... I told you. All the gold in England would not buy this pleasure from me.”
Tears flooded her eyes. “Simon... Simon, no... for love of the God who created us... This will kill my father!”
“Shhh... Your secrets are safe with me. I told you that.”
They stood a few moments like this with no sound except Beatrice weeping. She began again, lower, through her tears. “I must be pure on my wedding night.. Pure as the day I was born.”
More was said, but it did not change anything. In a few hours, the household would be rising.
Copyright © 2023 by Steven Schechter
