“Do you?” she asked, trying not to feel downcast.
“Most definitely,” Maggie said honestly, patting Beatrice’s hand atop her forearm. “Few have the courage to live with as much passion as you.”
“That’s one way to put it.” She sighed.
Beatrice was deeply grateful for the fashion of the era, for she could take great strides across the path along the Serpentine. But a few years ago, women were veritable prisoners in massive underskirts and contraptions, massive wigs, and gowns cut in such a way a lady couldn’t even raise her arms above her shoulders.
Why had they tolerated such things?
But in this new, promising era, her stays were light, and her skirts were voluminous but free-flowing from the belt under her bosom. She felt far freer now than she had when as a child she’d been forced to wear mini versions of the costumes ladies had worn.
She drew in a fortifying breath as she rushed along the shining waters of the Serpentine. She was most glad that so many had decided parks were a vital part of London life. She did not know what she’d do without trees. They were like wise old friends. Especially in London’s bustle.
She gave her affable cousin a grateful smile. Margaret always brought sound judgment and good advice. She was truly grateful that her cousin was so staid, though sometimes she wished she was a bit more passionate about the current state of the world.
But if she was honest, such passion did come at a cost. While many people enjoyed Beatrice’s antics, if she truly allowed herself to speak her mind, they often gave her looks as if she had grown another head or turned into a veritable Medusa. She was most decidedly not Medusa. And she’d found one gentleman’s comparison to that Greek terror quite offensive. She could not turn men to stone with a single glance.
Though such a thing could have proven most useful on several occasions.
She smiled to herself, thinking of Blackheath. He did not seem intimidated or offended by her passion. Still, he was typical of politicians who insisted they were changing things—as they did nothing.
She groaned. He was so promising—but that promise was frightening. She’d been disappointed so many times.
And he had a strange air of perfection about him, as if he was untouchable, as if he would never allow anyone past his carefully crafted facade of the ideal duke. She wondered at that need to appear so…well, perfect. It seemed exhausting. And she wondered if anyone knew who the real man behind the duke was at all.
“I cannot believe you are marrying into that family of obtuse men,” she burst out.
“My dear,” Maggie chided gently as she turned her pretty face to the sun. “All men are obtuse to some degree, and one must simply get on with it and find ways around it.”
“That sounds most tiring,” Beatrice replied.
“Are you not tired of all your railing at the state of the world?” Margaret asked without judgment.
“I do not rail.” She paused. “Well, perhaps I do a bit.”
Maggie laughed gently. “Indeed, you do, cousin, and I adore you for it. But no matter which track we choose, it will be full of challenges. I hope you will allow me to choose mine without too much difficulty.”
She let out a large huff of a breath, frustrated now with herself. She had no wish for Maggie to feel judged. “Of course I shall,” she assured sincerely. “I believe that we should all have the ability to make the choices we so desire, and I would never stand in your way.”
She swallowed, drawing herself up, knowing what she needed to say. “Kit is very handsome and very intelligent.”
Maggie beamed. “Indeed, he is! We shall go through this life together hand in hand.”
“As long as you walk by his side and not two paces behind him”—she squeezed her cousin’s hand—“I shall have no trouble at all.”
“Can you imagine that as soon as the banns are read, we shall marry?” Maggie’s eyes lit with anticipation. “That is but four weeks!”
Beatrice could imagine, and she had some trepidation, but she could not speak of it to her cousin. So instead, she said, “I shall sing praises to you lovebirds at all hours if that is what you desire, for, cousin, I do not wish to cause you anything but joy.”
“Thank you, Beatrice,” Margaret replied. And then she gushed, “It shall be a grand wedding, I think. All of London will be there.”
“Is that what you want?” Beatrice asked, surprised. “For all of London to be there?”
If she ever wed—which, of course, she never would—she would want a small ceremony in some little church where only the people who loved her could bear witness to her vows.
“I think so,” Margaret ventured before she nibbled her lip, a very old habit. “I’d love everyone to feel as happy as me, including you, Beatrice. Don’t you think there’s someone that you could possibly ever—”
“No,” Beatrice cut in, alarmed at that line of thought. “I shall never marry.”