Her Lady’s Honor Page 2

  Chapter Two

  Three loud knocks echoed down the hallway, almost drowned out by the rain battering the Welsh slate roof of their stone farm cottage. Beatrice rushed towards the front door, her heart pounding. One of their neighbours must be in trouble—serious trouble—if they’d risked coming here for help in this wild summer storm. People used to visit all the time, before the war, when Father was the best veterinarian in Aberystwyth and surrounding districts. But he’d gone to war, earned the title of Captain, and the locals had learned to treat their farm animals without his help. They’d stopped visiting. In the six weeks since he had been sent home from the Somme, he hadn’t practiced. He was too ill. Everything had changed since he’d arrived home, and yet, nothing had. Beatrice hesitated, with her hand on the door handle. Was she ready for whatever disaster was on the other side of the door?

  She flung open the door to see a tall, slender woman in a military jacket standing in the pouring rain. The unexpected glorious figure on their doorstep stole her breath momentarily, changing the racing tempo of her pulse from worry to desire. Beatrice swallowed. She probably shouldn’t stare at a stranger’s lips, so she glanced away and breathed out slowly to try to stem the rising heat on her cheeks. Beatrice blinked. Rain streamed off the visitor’s sodden military hat, yet she seemed unflustered by the storm swirling around her. Confident women didn’t exist in Aberystwyth; they only existed in books or in Beatrice’s dreams. The stranger’s clear blue eyes were lined with crow’s feet, and she stared back at Beatrice with knowledge in her gaze, as though she’d seen the world and it hadn’t conquered her. Even the storm couldn’t beat this stranger, who stood unbendingly with her chin high. Everything in her gaze and stance made Beatrice feel like a naïve country mouse who’d never left her home. She felt utterly seen, and she couldn’t decide if she should indulge her curiosity or run very far away.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the stranger spoke, her lyrical voice warming Beatrice all the way through. The stranger’s posh English accent sounded almost exotic compared to Beatrice’s Welsh tones. Beatrice gulped. She couldn’t help but compare herself to this goddess and find herself wanting.

  ‘Yes?’ Where were her manners? A long time ago, her English mother had taught her all the proper manners, in the hope that Beatrice would escape the confines of their rural Welsh household. Mother had grown up near the River Severn in England and had taught all the children how to speak English at home. Father, the Captain, had insisted on it. Learning English meant Beatrice had more books to read from the library at the Aberystwyth University, but the real benefit of being bilingual came right at this moment, as she understood the dulcet tones of this stunning stranger.

  ‘Is this the household of Captain Llewellyn Hughes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent. My name is Nell—’ She coughed lightly. ‘Eleanor St. George, and I’m here to deliver Captain Hughes’s horse.’

  ‘His horse?’ Beatrice seemed to be stuck in a horrid world where she had no thoughts of her own, only able to parrot whatever Eleanor St. George said. Eleanor—a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. It suited her perfectly. Beatrice tapped her hands gently on her heated cheeks.

  ‘Are you well?’

  Beatrice cleared the roughness in her throat. ‘Oh, yes. We don’t get many visitors here. Please, excuse my poor manners. Would you like to come in?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Eleanor nodded in the direction of the horse, and Beatrice noticed him for the first time. The horse reminded her of Tommy, the farm hack Father had taken to war with him, a plain bay gelding with a white star. The sturdy crossbred gelding standing beside Eleanor was leaner than the horse who’d left five years ago. If it was the same horse, he’d lost a lot of muscle condition, and his thick black mane had been shaved short.

  ‘Do you have somewhere for Tommy to get out of the rain? A stable or the like?’

  ‘Of course.’ Tommy. It was him. ‘There is a shed around the back. I’ll send one of the boys out to look after him.’ A nasty heat lodged behind her eyes, and she tried to blink it away. Tommy and Father had arrived home from the war, while her brothers, Gareth, Aled, and Owen, had not. She nodded vaguely in the direction of the shed.

  ‘Thank you. Please make sure they give him a good scrub down so he doesn’t stay cold, and don’t let him out in all that fresh grass. He’s not used to it.’

  ‘I will get the Captain and pass on your message.’ Beatrice disappeared inside the house, her ancient gingham dress swirling around her stockinged legs. She had to move, had to do something practical before she followed Eleanor nonsensically out into the rain without a coat. The severe cut of Eleanor St. George’s jacket and her skirt that only came down to her mid-calf, showing off her military-style boots and narrow ankles, made Beatrice all too aware of her old-fashioned simple dress, more suitable for a house maid than a daughter of the house. Oh, who was she kidding? They couldn’t afford servants. Between her and her remaining siblings, they did all the farm work. Beatrice was as close to a servant as possible—just without the miniscule payments afforded to a servant. Why pay servants when you have two spinster daughters?

  ‘Captain,’ Beatrice called out to Father, cringing as the use of his preferred title reinforced her position in the household. What was it about their visitor that brought back all her old doubts about her life? She’d learnt to push them away, because no amount of dreaming would change her situation. It was much better to focus on the practical day-to-day matters. Less hurtful. Leave the dreaming to her sister Grace. Grace still grieved for her fiancé killed in the war, but Beatrice would never marry for a completely different reason. Marriage wasn’t for women like her.

  ‘Can’t a man enjoy his drink in peace?’ Father barked harshly, followed by several deep coughs that wracked his body. A twinge of guilt wavered across the back of her neck. Father had sacrificed the health of his lungs for the war efforts, and he’d helped win the war. She ought to give him the respect he requested—a little leeway on her part was only a small sacrifice compared to his. Beatrice entered the kitchen, blinking at the sudden heat from the wood-burning Aga. It would be more efficient to use coal, but they couldn’t afford it. As always, Father sat at the table nursing an old bottle of homebrewed spirits. Six weeks ago, he’d arrived back from a war hospital near the Somme, and he’d spent all his time sitting there slowly sipping his way towards death, issuing orders to everyone in a rough consumptive voice.

  ‘We have a visitor asking for you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  Beatrice pinched her lips together, careful not to show her frustration, or to blurt out that she was telling him now. The war had changed Father—made him even harder than before. It had changed everyone, it seemed, except Beatrice. Mother and Grace both grieved outwardly, but Beatrice was too busy holding together everything left behind. The war had prevented her from leaving. It had taken her few options and crushed them like autumn leaves under heavy tank wheels.

  Father stood up, one hand on the table to steady himself. After one wobbly step, he marched to the front door without a sign of his drunkenness, military style with squared shoulders. He moved with the same innate confidence Eleanor had. Beatrice drew in a deep breath as she realised Eleanor must know Father from the war. She’d turned up here in a military uniform, with Tommy; of course they knew each other. How well? An odd tingle traced over the skin at the base of her throat. Beatrice turned to Mother, who sat quietly in the corner darning some clothes.

  ‘Mother. Is everything alright?’

  ‘Yes. Of course, dear. What is for dinner?’ Mother’s ability to ignore all the tensions in the room had come from years of practice. Mother didn’t want to be seen. Eight of her twelve children had survived past the age of five, and now the war had taken three of her healthy sons. All those dead children—another reason why Beatrice didn’t want a husband—she didn’t want the creating of children, nor the grief of losing them. Beatrice flicked a glance at the Aga. Lamb stew bubbled away in a giant pot. Since Father had arrived home, they’d been able to spend some of his hard-earned war income on stock for the farm. After years of surviving on vegetables they’d grown, they finally had seven dairy cows, a small herd of sheep, a few chickens, and two pigs. A good daughter would be grateful for the use of his funds, not bitter that he doled them out in small drips so he could control everything.

  ‘Mutton stew, Mother.’ The same as yesterday and the day before, and the same as tomorrow, although by then it would be watered down considerably. Her mother nodded, her glance sliding sideways to the hall, giving Beatrice the tiniest advance warning that Father was about to reappear.

  ‘Beatrice. Make up a room for Lady St. George. One of the boys can deal with Tommy.’ Father’s voice rang out loud, followed by his usual hard coughs. She jerked around to see Eleanor standing behind Father in their tiny hallway. Lady? That would explain the posh accent and the essence of how she could stand in their front yard in the pouring rain and still look like a goddess. The class gap between them was impossibly broad—even before Beatrice added her own unusual preferences into the mixture. It’d be just her luck to be attracted to someone so out of reach. She’d spent enough Sundays in church to know her interest in other women wasn’t deemed natural in polite company. But thanks to Annie, the librarian at the Aberystwyth University, she knew she wasn’t the only woman who felt this kind of desire. It’d been a long time since her short-lived affair with Annie; it ended when Annie left for another job. Beatrice was always getting left behind; she really shouldn’t let herself dream too much about Lady St. George.

  ‘Of course, Captain.’ The farmhouse had three bedrooms upstairs, but her four siblings took up most of the space. Beatrice had her own room downstairs. She’d taken over her older brothers’ room when they’d gone to war, but the room was piled with boxes of their things. She usually slept on a pile of lumpy cushions in the corner of the kitchen, just like a servant, because she was always the first one up, and at least that way, she’d get the best warmth from the Aga.

  Father pushed past her and collapsed heavily into his usual chair at the kitchen table. The stench of his alcoholic haze wafted past, and she hoped their visitor, the stunningly beautiful Lady Eleanor, hadn’t noticed. Beatrice sighed. How could anyone not notice?

  ‘Call me Nell.’ Nell suited her even more than Eleanor, and the shorter name felt intimate. The surprises kept coming as Nell stuck out her hand. Beatrice glanced sideways at the Captain, then shook Nell’s hand. Her arm jolted and she tugged her hand free, Nell’s rough skin abrasive against her own work-hardened hands. Beatrice schooled her features to try to hide her reaction. She wished she’d met more beautiful women, so she might have had more practice at hiding her true reactions to a beauty like Nell. Why did she feel so exposed as she shook Nell’s hand? As if Nell could feel her racing pulse and see past her life of drudgery as the unmarried daughter of the house. As if Nell could see all her dreams of travel and love and sex. Impractical dreams. Without money, she couldn’t leave, and besides, her heart wouldn’t let her leave Mother here alone with Father. Or little Ira, or any of her siblings. Someone had to protect them.

  ‘Nell.’ The deflated shift to reality echoed as she spoke. A puddle of water started to form around Nell’s boots, slowly dripping off her skirts onto the stone floor. Yet more tasks for her to complete.

  ‘No. Call her Lady St. George,’ Father croaked from his seat. Beatrice stiffened at the command. Naturally, Father would want to preserve titles. He’d always aspired to be part of the upper classes after rubbing shoulders with members of the aristocracy while studying to be a veterinarian. When she was a child, she’d heard so many of his stories from that time, and it was no surprise at all that he’d ignore Nell’s wishes to use her given name.

  ‘Lady St. George. Please follow me. I will find you some dry clothes.’ Beatrice walked towards her small bedroom. Her clothes would swim on the lovely Lady’s slim frame, and her long limbs would stick out from the ends—exposing more of her shapely calf muscle—but being dry and warm was more important than fit right now. Besides, Beatrice knew she’d spend all night sewing to take in some of her clothes and extend the length if Nell asked. She pushed open the door to her room and tried not to cringe at the piles of stuff everywhere.

  ‘Please. Call me Nell.’

  ‘Nell. I can’t, not when—’

  Nell nodded once. ‘He insists you call him Captain, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’ An embarrassed flush raced across her cheeks. Her own father.

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me. I worked with him in the war.’ Nell’s simple statement and the frown that flitted over Nell’s brow told Beatrice that Nell understood everything, and probably more, about Father’s difficult and dominating personality.

  ‘You worked in the war?’ She’d already guessed, given her military-style clothes, although they were the current fashion. Not many people in Aberystwyth could afford new tailored clothes, but they could afford to buy the fashion plates and sew their own copies. ‘With the Captain?’ A dark worry clouded Beatrice’s vision as she parroted Nell. Was Nell her father’s lover? How very presumptuous to arrive on their doorstep. Beatrice placed her hands against the twist in her stomach.

  ‘Yes. For the Army Veterinary Corps.’ Nell confirmed she’d been in the same unit as Father.

  ‘How incredibly brave.’ The ugly knot in Beatrice’s stomach sat heavily, and she pressed her hands harder against it to try to knead it away. Was this feeling jealousy? She didn’t dare let herself feel envious of anything, otherwise it would consume her small life. Almost everyone in the world had more options than her. A Lady who’d worked in the war most likely had more adventures in a week than Beatrice would have in her whole life, past and future combined.

  ‘Foolish, more like.’ Nell cleared her throat, her blue eyes gazing out the small window. ‘I thought I’d be a hero, saving horses, and helping the war effort. I didn’t expect to spend most of my time tramping through mud to shoot horses. The ones we could save were patched up with inadequate medicines and bandages, only to be sent back out to be shot at again.’

  Beatrice swallowed. How could you respond to a statement like that? The pain slicing through Nell’s voice stretched the gap between them even further. Beatrice had never seen the war. Only read about it in the news sheets. Every week during the war, she’d gone into Aberystwyth on the train to sell produce, collect the mail, and hopefully use any money she’d earned to buy supplies for the household. She’d used the time away from the family’s demands to read the papers and keep up with the war efforts. It was a brief but necessary respite from her duties, and she treasured every moment. Never once had she received a letter from Annie, and after the few she’d sent to her had been returned with an incorrect address stamp, she’d given up. Apparently, their fling meant nothing to Annie, a one-sided love affair where Beatrice had risked her heart and her reputation for a woman who’d walked away too easily. The knowledge she wasn’t alone in her desires was cold comfort in the wake of that dismissal.

  ‘My three older brothers never came home.’ She clamped her hand across her mouth, but the words were already out. Her weekly trips into town meant she’d been the first to read the telegraphs about Gareth, Aled, and Owen. The first to know that Grace’s fiancé, Jimmy, had been killed too.

  ‘I’m sorry. Tommy is a poor substitute for brothers.’

  ‘Substitute?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure you’d rather have brothers than the Captain’s horse. My task was to deliver him.’ Nell shivered, and Beatrice’s cheek blazed with shame at the way she’d let her guest stand there, soaking wet, while they talked.

  ‘Please remove your wet clothes before you catch your death of cold.’ Beatrice blushed again, her face burning bright hot at the thought of Nell undressing. ‘I’ll find something warm for you to wear, and I’ll hang your clothes by the oven to dry them for you.’

  ‘It’s fine. I have another set of clothes in my case.’

  ‘Shall I get it for you?’ Beatrice needed space. Being in the same room as Nell was too much, too tempting, and far too emotional. She hadn’t expected to be confronted with her war grief, nor by a pretty Lady with capital L who might just be her father’s lover. No. She had to get away before her face gave away all her thoughts. To think she’d worried the knock on the door might be a neighbour in trouble.

  ‘Thank you. I left it at the front door.’

  Beatrice bolted from the room, noise roaring in her ears, with her skirts gathered in one hand. She needed more than the two strides it took to spy Nell’s small brown suitcase, and she stood in the hallway staring at it and the leather satchel leaning against the suitcase. How could Nell possibly fit anything into there? Wouldn’t a Lady travel with large carpet-bags? Beatrice scoffed, then twirled around to check that no one else heard the unladylike sound which seemed to echo in the hallway. She picked up the case and knocked quietly on her own door.

  ‘Come.’ Nell stood in Beatrice’s room in her underpinnings, like a fantasy come to life. The dank smell of wet wool did nothing to stop the rush of desire that raced down her spine, pooling between her legs. Beatrice squeezed her thighs together.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Come in and close the door.’ Nell held her hand out for her case, drawing Beatrice’s attention to the gooseflesh pebbling Nell’s skin. What a fool she was to ogle their visitor while she was frozen cold. Beatrice swallowed as guilt rose in her throat, with a taste of old carrots, at her lack of practicality. And all the time, Nell held out her hand as if Beatrice was a servant. If she’d kept a record in a notebook for every time she’d misunderstood a situation, she’d have a whole bookshelf of them. She lifted her chin and ignored Nell’s hand, instead placing the case on the edge of the sagging single bed, next to the piles of unfolded linen. The reminder of the jobs she hadn’t gotten to yet didn’t help with the unbalanced surges of emotion she’d suffered since Nell had arrived.