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e said, trying to keep her tone placating. ‘Didn’t you want to see things in London?’
But he was simply screaming now, and there was nothing, seemingly nothing at all that could reach him. She did not know what to do, or how to proceed. And Briggs was only sitting there grim-faced, staring straight ahead.
‘William,’ she tried again, moving forward.
And was met with a short slap on the hand, directly from William, who screamed again, ‘I can’t.’
It didn’t hurt, his slap, but it shocked her, and she drew back, clutching her hand.
Briggs leaned forward, plucked William up and held him in his arms, his hold firm, but not harming him in any way. ‘William,’ he said. ‘You may not hit. Ever.’
‘I can’t. I can’t.’
‘William,’ Briggs said.
‘I’m not William.’
And neither of them said anything after that. They simply let him scream. Until he tired himself out, with only thirty minutes to spare before they arrived in London. The town house was lovely. But she could barely take it in. Or the excitement of being in London. She was too enervated by everything that had occurred on the ride. By how badly she had miscalculated. No wonder Briggs was so protective of William. No wonder he had been concerned about taking this journey. It was not because he hadn’t wanted to take it on board. It was because it was devastating to watch William unravel in that fashion. And she hadn’t realised it. Of course she hadn’t. She had not listened.
Not really.
She had been so certain that she knew best, and she had been wrong.
William had drifted to sleep by the time they got inside, and it was Briggs who carried the limp little boy up the stairs. He said nothing to Beatrice, and she could hardly blame him.
‘Your Grace.’ The housekeeper in London, Mrs Dinsdale, put her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder, as if sensing her distress.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
‘You will find a lady’s maid waiting for you. You may go and get freshened up for dinner.’
She dreaded it. Dreaded sharing a meal with Briggs. Of course he never shared meals with her out at Maynard Park. So perhaps, he would not do so here.
She was escorted to her room and introduced to the maid, and a collection of dresses she had never seen before. She was wrapped in something lovely and soft, a beautiful mint-green gown that scooped low, with no fichu to provide coverage for her bosom.
Her hair was arranged in a complicated fashion, with a string of pearls draped around her head like a crown.
How lovely she looked to take dinner by herself.
She went downstairs, her heart thundering madly, and predictably found the dining room... Empty.
‘Might I take dinner in my bedchamber?’ she asked one of the attending servants.
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ the man said.
She went back upstairs, and there she sat, looking quite the prettiest she ever had, in solitude.
Dinner was beautiful. And far too extensive for only her, but she ate her way through each course all the same. Mackerel with fennel and mint, roasted game, and pickled vegetables. Followed by a lovely tray of colourful marzipan, which she found she overindulged in.
She did not stop eating until her stomach turned.
And then she had her maid undress her, take her hair down, and put the pearls back in their box. And she looked in the mirror and found that she had become Beatrice again. Just her usual self, with nothing of any great interest about her at all. And she felt exceedingly sorry for herself.
You should feel sorry for William.
She did not understand. But then, he was a child. It was likely he did not have the ability to connect the fact that the journey was what was going to take him to those places that he longed so to see. If he could not endure a journey such as this, how did he ever hope to reach Italy? But these were all things a seven-year-old could likely not reason, she told herself. But it did not make her less frustrated.
* * *
