All of them were stunning ocean pictures with great ships, making her think of voyages to far off lands, something she had never been able to do. And she had so much to do that she probably never would.
During the day, she went to her usual meetings, whether it be to her foundations in the East End or meeting with friends to discuss what next move they could take with the Ladies’ League of Rights.
In the last several days since becoming the Duchess of Blackheath, she had also spent time learning about the various necessities of a duchess, with which her butler, Forbes, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Marshall, were assisting her.
They were patient and a veritable font of information.
Mrs. Marshall was a wonder, for she did seem to know everything about the duke and every previous generation.
The housekeeper had taken her through the house on a grand tour, filled with pride, as if every family member on the wall was connected to her personally.
They’d paused before portrait after portrait, battle scene after battle scene. Mrs. Marshall had regaled her with tales of war-minded dukes who toppled rebellions and duchesses who had lent their support to political upheavals, artists, and a surprising number of young scholars.
Many of whom had gone on to various academies and then proceeded to shake up the world order.
Perhaps she was joining a tradition rather than starting a revolution.
When they came to a portrait of an absolutely striking woman dressed in the highest fashion of the previous century hanging in a place of pride in the grand ballroom, she gasped aloud.
Mrs. Marshall had hesitated, then smiled sadly. “She is lovely, is she not?”
Lovely? Yes. But there was an intensity and intelligence to the lady that shook Beatrice to her core. The eyes were so intensely dark, she felt as if the portrait might suddenly come to life and the lady would join them in conversation.
The woman looked so much like William it was almost frightening.
“Who’s this?” she asked Mrs. Marshall, though she had an idea.
Mrs. Marshall folded her elegant hands before her black bombazine gown. “That is the duke’s mother, Your Grace.”
“His mother?” she breathed, comprehending. The resemblance, intensity, and intelligence now made perfect sense.
“Yes, Your Grace. That’s correct.” Mrs. Marshall’s eyes widened slightly as if she was gauging Beatrice’s reaction. “I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”
And she had.
Everyone had.
There was no one in all of England who had not heard of The Bolter.
Though she would never use such an appellation herself.
Beatrice let her gaze linger on the picture of Sylvia, Duchess of Blackheath, and wondered what had made her choose a life abroad away from her children.
Love.
Or at least that’s what she’d been told.
Legend had it that she’d had a torrid affair with an officer.
Duchess Sylvia had not been able to bear separating from her lover, and she had run away with him. Away from her sons, never to see them again.
She wondered at the power of such passion that could make anyone do such a thing.
Had her husband’s father been so unpleasant and impossible, keeping his boys from her? Or had the power of love truly been so strong that she’d been willing to abandon everything, including her sons?
The law of the land made children the property of the husband. And she hated that her husband’s father had not allowed his mother to come back into his life. But such was the way of things in England.
A husband punished a wife who left him by ensuring that she never saw her offspring again. And for a duchess to run?