Margaret gaped at her. “I don’t understand. You have a fortune yourself. That’s very generous of the duke to wish to give you more money.”
Beatrice’s stomach sank.
How could she not tell her cousin?
Margaret looked at her with suspicion. She crossed to the bed and leaned against the tall, ivory-painted post. “What motivated you to marry him, Beatrice, if not love?”
“Passion,” Beatrice insisted, but even though it was partly true, it felt like the worst lie in her mouth and tasted acrid.
She looked away. At last, she threw her hands up, crossed to her dressing table, and picked up the small paintings of her parents that were in connected, golden frames. She stared at their handsome faces. Faces she sometimes struggled to recall.
But in her heart, she knew they wouldn’t wish her to be false to Margaret. No, they’d wish her to be true to herself.
And then she turned to her cousin and admitted, “Finances.”
“Finances,” Margaret echoed, shaking her head, which sent her perfectly coiled hair bouncing. “How is that possible, Beatrice? You have a larger fortune than I.”
She ground her teeth, her own complicated feelings about the circumstances whirling around her middle.
She felt both relief that she had William and frustration that her life had gone in such a completely different direction than she had intended.
All because of the decisions of her guardian.
“I do not,” she replied evenly, forcing herself to sound calm lest she overly distress her cousin. After all, she did not wish to arrive at the church with Margaret’s eyes red as burned coals from crying.
Margaret grew still as she picked up the flowers that were meant to go into Beatrice’s hair from the counterpane.
A single white rose dropped from her grasp. “I don’t understand. You have money—”
“No, I don’t,” she cut in, not wishing to make either of them suffer any more than was necessary. She licked her lips, readying herself to break the news. Because she couldn’t allow her cousin to live in a lie just because her uncle thought it best. Margaret was an adult, not a child. She deserved the truth.
“What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The color slipped from her already pale face, leaving her ashen.
“I’m not supposed to tell you this. Uncle told me only yesterday, and it is why I am getting married so quickly, without looking back.” She swallowed, squaring her shoulders, determined to make the best of it and hoping Margaret would, too.
“You see, dearest cousin, I am charging into the future,” declared Beatrice, trying not to shake as she shared the truth.
Though it was hard to force the unpleasant words out, she felt better for it. Men were always trying to protect ladies, but in the end it wasn’t protection, was it? No, not at all. Women were not porcelain dolls one had to protect from cracking. No, they were living, breathing people with feelings, and they deserved to know their fate.
“Margaret, you have no money, either,” she said honestly and as gently as she could.
Margaret scoffed, then laughed, though the sound was far too high for humor. “I have a very good dowry that will go to Kit. Although he’s a second son, he doesn’t have the kind of fortune his brother has. I shall be a help to him.”
Beatrice closed her eyes, hating that Margaret was about to have her feeling of assisting her beloved taken away.
She licked her lips and ventured, “Luckily, Kit has a good deal of money, thanks to his brother. You will be taken care of by the duke’s fortune.”
Margaret shook her head. “Impossible. Papa has a fortune.”
“We are paupers, Margaret,” she insisted patiently, recalling how out of sorts she’d felt when learning their circumstances.
“This is not a funny joke.” Margaret flinched. “Stop it, Beatrice,” she said, “this is not amusing. Your jokes are always clever, but this is just cruel.”
“I’m not trying to be clever or cruel,” Beatrice replied, wishing she could draw her cousin into her arms but seeing that Margaret did not wish it at present. “Uncle is in a great deal of trouble. He lost all of our money, yours and mine, and his. He thought he was going to increase our wealth with investments. He was wrong. It’doesn’t mean that he’s a bad person.”
“Of course he’s not a bad person,” Margaret burst out, even as her eyes shimmered. “He’s my father, and he loves me. He loves you, too. He’s always taken care of us—always assured that we were looked after.”
Margaret was shaking her head, horrified.