“That is precisely why it is not a society I want to sustain,” Beatrice said, a bit surprised by her uncle’s comment, for he’d never suggested she contain herself to society’s edicts before. She smiled at him, hoping to better his mood. “You are on my side, are you not?”
“Indeed, I am, Beatrice,” he assured, though he seemed a bit strained. “But there comes a time in every lady’s life when she must take up the yoke of matrimony.”
“Yoke, indeed,” she replied. “Do I look like an ox?”
“No,” her uncle said. “You look like a lady, and ladies must marry.”
“Do not must me. That is the most ridiculous drivel. I have the privilege of independence, and I shall not give a gentleman my property or my freedom,” Beatrice retorted evenly. The truth was…she didn’t hate marriage, exactly. It was more that she’d seen how much unhappiness it caused. Except in one case—her parents’ marriage. They had loved each other so fully, with such loyalty, respect, and affinity, she’d never, ever be able to settle for anything less. As she’d grown older and become more aware of the harsh realities in this world, she realized her parents had been a veritable miracle. And because of the way they had treated each other, she’d accept nothing but the miraculous for herself.
A life of tolerance was one she could not…well, tolerate. And thankfully, unlike other young ladies, she did not have to.
“We all must do things and accept our roles, Beatrice. It is the way of the world,” her uncle pointed out.
Such thinking, though she cared for her uncle, permitted the worst of things to continue unchallenged.
She eyed him carefully. “Are you about to tell me that I need to make a marriage, uncle?”
He was silent for a moment, and she felt a hint of dread.
Could he?
He’d always been incredibly supportive of the fact that she had no wish to marry, largely due to the fact that she had a private fortune from her parents, who had passed ten years ago. Her uncle had been an indulgent guardian and kind and given her much education and support in her endeavors. She had always appreciated him as a man of good sense. But now, as he sat beside her cousin, with Maggie’s arm tucked in his, pleased as punch that his daughter was likely to marry the brother of a duke, Beatrice wondered…
No, no. She would not contemplate it.
“I, for one, am eager to marry,” Maggie said, looking positively besotted. “I adore Kit. He is the most marvelous man in all of London.”
“This cannot possibly be true,” she replied flatly. “There is no marvelous man, save uncle here.” She spotted the consternation worrying Maggie’s brow and decided to relent. A bit. “But I will say that he is tolerable compared to his brother.”
“His brother is not so very terrible,” Maggie defended. “He does a great deal of good work.”
“Indeed. On his terms, with no understanding or consultation of the people he deigns to assist. His arrogance is breathtaking,” she returned.
“He is a duke,” her uncle pointed out, as if it explained everything.
And largely, it did. She didn’t have to like it, but neither did she have to leave it unchallenged—and challenge it she would, for she had the means and the ability. It was her duty to do better.
“Tonight, he shall not escape me,” she said. “He cannot cast me aside as he did my letters. And he shall hear my case.”
Both her uncle and Maggie let out simultaneous noises of alarm.
“Must you?” Maggie queried, her voice slightly strained.
“Indeed, I must,” she affirmed. “For if no one else does, we shall be in a great deal of trouble and women shall continue to be shunted aside, mere codicils in the annals of history.”
“Yes, yes,” Maggie soothed. “We know, Beatrice. You are most articulate, and we appreciate your point of view. And I stand beside you, a sister in the bluestocking cause, yet I wish to marry. Can you not be happy for me?”
Beatrice stared at Maggie’s beautiful visage for several moments, and her heart softened. “Of course, I’m happy for you,” she said. “You are a wonderful friend, and I would never wish ill upon you.”
Maggie nodded. “Thank you.”
She shifted on her seat as the coach rolled up before the great house of the Duke of Blackheath. She stared up at the towering edifice that put to shame every other building in London.
It was going to be a long night.
Beatrice pulled her pamphlets from her reticule and clutched them. Her uncle rolled his eyes but made no protest.
She knew she was rather single-minded and that it could prove tiresome on occasion. But if no one was as tiresome as she was, nothing would get done.