Read Online Dorothy Eden by Speak to Me of Love - Free Book Online
Authors: Speak to Me of Love
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Mrs Overton, wrapped in her familiar exquisite gauzy scarves, subtly patronising, reluctantly making the best of a bad bargain, was deliberately doing nothing to put Beatrice at her ease.
She’ll have to live somewhere else, ran the random thought in Beatrice’s head. It is my house now and I don’t intend to be patronised.
Shocked at her ruthlessness, she looked across at William, certain that he must read her thoughts.
But he was occupied with his meal. He looked a little flushed and weary. His cold was not better yet. A chilly Channel crossing hadn’t helped it. He had already made the observation that it had been selfish and unreasonable of Beatrice’s mother to summon her back, since her father seemed to be in no imminent danger of dying. He had travelled when he was not fit to do so, and although he remained kind and sympathetic, he had let her be aware of his mild displeasure that their honeymoon had been ruined.
But if William were disappointed that the consummation of their marriage was not to take place in a romantic city like Paris, Beatrice was still glad that it was to be in their own home and, most appropriately, in the old General’s bed.
In spite of her uneasiness at the dinner table, a strange violent joy kept ebbing and flowing through her. She thought that dinner would never end.
“Beatrice, whatever are you thinking about? I’ve spoken to you twice,” Mrs Overton said petulantly.
“I’m sorry. What did you say, Mrs Overton?”
“I was asking you if you had had time to shop in Paris.” Mrs Overton’s critical eyes rested on Beatrice’s dinner dress, another of Miss Brown’s choices, modest and perfectly correct, but definitely lacking in dash and style.
What did it matter, really what did it matter, since soon enough all her clothes, and those of her husband’s as well were going to be discarded, lying in an untidy heap on the floor…
“If you would like me to go on giving orders,” Mrs Overton was continuing in her high well-bred voice. “Beatrice! Are you listening to me? Just until you have time to settle down, of course, and have become accustomed to this kind of household.”
Nothing could have been more tactful.
“No, thank you,” Beatrice said uncompromisingly. “I will begin at once.”
She would have to go in to Bonnington’s tomorrow morning, and several mornings afterwards. The journey to the Edgware Road took about an hour by carriage. William must be persuaded to allow her to take the carriage.
But it was her carriage as well as his. Indeed, more hers than his, since she was now paying the wages.
“As you wish,” said Mrs Overton. Her good manners forbade showing any sign of offence. “But you mustn’t go on calling me Mrs Overton. Must she, William?”
“No, Bea, you goose.”
That slight upright little creature, delicately-boned, petal-cheeked, fading but still exquisite, a mother, a maternal creature? One could never imagine her having been swollen with a baby.
I’ll be broad, big-breasted, big-hipped, when I’m pregnant, Beatrice thought. Will William begin to love me then?
“Very well,” she said politely. “I’ll call you Mother if you wish. I hope you don’t mind me wanting to start giving the orders. I must learn, mustn’t I?”
“I understand perfectly,” said Mrs Overton.
There mustn’t be many more of these dinners à trois , Beatrice thought with her new ruthlessness. They simply wouldn’t do.
The General’s room caught the first light of the sunrise. Beatrice was awake early enough to discover this. She lay for a while watching the pencil of light at the window, then crept out of bed to draw back the curtains, but only an inch, in case she woke William. She had slept very little that night, yet felt deeply refreshed. She wanted to walk about the room looking at things, as wide-eyed as the schoolgirl who had once stood in the doorway staring at the old man in the bed.
This same bed, with the Chippendale posts,
Mrs Overton, wrapped in her familiar exquisite gauzy scarves, subtly patronising, reluctantly making the best of a bad bargain, was deliberately doing nothing to put Beatrice at her ease.
She’ll have to live somewhere else, ran the random thought in Beatrice’s head. It is my house now and I don’t intend to be patronised.
Shocked at her ruthlessness, she looked across at William, certain that he must read her thoughts.
But he was occupied with his meal. He looked a little flushed and weary. His cold was not better yet. A chilly Channel crossing hadn’t helped it. He had already made the observation that it had been selfish and unreasonable of Beatrice’s mother to summon her back, since her father seemed to be in no imminent danger of dying. He had travelled when he was not fit to do so, and although he remained kind and sympathetic, he had let her be aware of his mild displeasure that their honeymoon had been ruined.
But if William were disappointed that the consummation of their marriage was not to take place in a romantic city like Paris, Beatrice was still glad that it was to be in their own home and, most appropriately, in the old General’s bed.
In spite of her uneasiness at the dinner table, a strange violent joy kept ebbing and flowing through her. She thought that dinner would never end.
“Beatrice, whatever are you thinking about? I’ve spoken to you twice,” Mrs Overton said petulantly.
“I’m sorry. What did you say, Mrs Overton?”
“I was asking you if you had had time to shop in Paris.” Mrs Overton’s critical eyes rested on Beatrice’s dinner dress, another of Miss Brown’s choices, modest and perfectly correct, but definitely lacking in dash and style.
What did it matter, really what did it matter, since soon enough all her clothes, and those of her husband’s as well were going to be discarded, lying in an untidy heap on the floor…
“If you would like me to go on giving orders,” Mrs Overton was continuing in her high well-bred voice. “Beatrice! Are you listening to me? Just until you have time to settle down, of course, and have become accustomed to this kind of household.”
Nothing could have been more tactful.
“No, thank you,” Beatrice said uncompromisingly. “I will begin at once.”
She would have to go in to Bonnington’s tomorrow morning, and several mornings afterwards. The journey to the Edgware Road took about an hour by carriage. William must be persuaded to allow her to take the carriage.
But it was her carriage as well as his. Indeed, more hers than his, since she was now paying the wages.
“As you wish,” said Mrs Overton. Her good manners forbade showing any sign of offence. “But you mustn’t go on calling me Mrs Overton. Must she, William?”
“No, Bea, you goose.”
That slight upright little creature, delicately-boned, petal-cheeked, fading but still exquisite, a mother, a maternal creature? One could never imagine her having been swollen with a baby.
I’ll be broad, big-breasted, big-hipped, when I’m pregnant, Beatrice thought. Will William begin to love me then?
“Very well,” she said politely. “I’ll call you Mother if you wish. I hope you don’t mind me wanting to start giving the orders. I must learn, mustn’t I?”
“I understand perfectly,” said Mrs Overton.
There mustn’t be many more of these dinners à trois , Beatrice thought with her new ruthlessness. They simply wouldn’t do.
The General’s room caught the first light of the sunrise. Beatrice was awake early enough to discover this. She lay for a while watching the pencil of light at the window, then crept out of bed to draw back the curtains, but only an inch, in case she woke William. She had slept very little that night, yet felt deeply refreshed. She wanted to walk about the room looking at things, as wide-eyed as the schoolgirl who had once stood in the doorway staring at the old man in the bed.
This same bed, with the Chippendale posts,
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