She allowed her eyes to close, putting a hand to the side of her neck, feeling the pounding of her own pulse. She could spend ages trying to get the color of his eyes just right on canvas. Not gray, not brown, not dark or light. Like smoke rising from wood still too green to be burned. His face—now that, she could get exactly right. Bold slashes for his dark eyebrows, sharp angles for his high cheekbones, a decisive brushstroke for the perfect line of his jaw.
Now, if only there were a way to translate that accent to paints. She shivered just thinking about it. Even Sir Frederick couldn’t have captured that particular delight, talented as he was. She really, really did hope Colin came to call on her tomorrow.
Blowing out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, she pushed away from the door and made her way to one of the mirrors hung above a large bureau. It was a pleasant space, with golden light shimmering from the low lamps interspersed along the floral-papered walls. The air was warm and lavender scented, helping to calm her nerves after her little escape.
A sniffle behind one of the screens brought her up short. With three sisters, Beatrice knew the watery sound of someone in tears. She held still, listening carefully over the low strains of music filtering through the closed door. There, from the very back of the room, came the soft hitching of someone trying not to sob. She put her hand to her heart—she hated when others were hurting.
Softly, so not to startle the poor girl, Beatrice whispered, “Is everything all right?”
The cessation of noise was so abrupt, Beatrice suspected the girl had stopped breathing altogether. She turned and stepped closer to the screen. “Can I get you something to drink, perhaps? Or a cool cloth for your face?”
“Beatrice? Is that you?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Yes. Who is that?”
Fabric rustled before a woman with silky brown curls peeked around the partition. Beatrice blinked in surprise. “Diana! Whatever is the matter?” She instinctively held out her arms, and Diana stepped into them. She pressed her wet cheeks against Bea’s shoulder and shook with a quiet sob.
At a loss for what to say, Bea patted her back awkwardly, making the soft, soothing sounds she used to quiet her niece when Emma was fussy. She had barely seen Diana, the new Mrs. Rochester, since her marriage last summer. They had debuted together and had become fast friends, but they had lost touch by the end of the Season, after Bea’s father had become ill. Beatrice hadn’t even attended the wedding, since it was the same week as her brother, Richard’s.
At last Diana pulled away, sheepishly wiping her tears with her already damp gloves. Beatrice leaned forward to retrieve a linen from the bureau and handed it to the soggy Diana.
“Thank you.” She sniffled, dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose.
“Of course. Here now, let us sit down and be comfortable.” She led her to the plush pink settee pushed against the back wall. Once they were seated, Bea patted Diana’s arm. “Now, then, what on earth has you so upset?”
“I’m just such an idiot,” she said, twisting the square of linen in her hand. “I’m only coming to realize exactly how much of a fool I truly am.”
Bea clenched her jaw. She hated to hear someone speak so poorly of herself. She raised her eyebrows and said with great firmness, “You are not a fool, Diana Dow— I mean Rochester. You are a sweet, intelligent woman. I won’t have you saying such things.”
Diana flopped back against the cushions, expelling a humorless laugh. “What else would you call a girl who fell in love with a man who pretended to love her back, all in the name of obtaining her dowry?”
“Wronged, that’s what.” As she looked down at her friend’s pained expression, a fury started to build within Beatrice’s chest, pushing against her lungs and constricting her heart. Another lamb, fooled by a clever wolf. “Heinously so.”
Diana pressed her lips together and nodded. “That too. I wish I hadn’t been so terribly blind. And it’s too late now. . . .” She trailed off, lifting the handkerchief to her nose as she sniffled.
Blowing out a helpless breath, Beatrice dropped back against the settee as well. Between the tears and the rumpled skirts, it hardly mattered at this point if she failed to maintain proper posture. How on earth had her night degraded from the excitement of earlier to sitting on a tufted settee in Lady Churly’s retiring room, comforting a heartbroken newlywed?
She pursed her lips. It was a good question, actually. “So, did you only just discover the state of things tonight?”
Diana’s sudden laugh bordered on hysterical. “That’s one way to put it. It was fairly apparent before the honeymoon was even over, but it took me discovering him in . . . in the arms of another tonight for my humiliation to be complete.”
Beatrice gasped, her hand flying to her lips. “Good heavens! Oh, Diana, I’m so very sorry. Are you”—she looked for a delicate way to put it—“er, certain it was your husband?”
“Well,” she said, choking on fresh tears for a moment, “I was fairly certain it was him when he called me a silly cow and told me to go home without him—and for me not to expect him until sometime tomorrow.”
Beatrice saw red at her friend’s suffering. It didn’t matter that the horrible words weren’t directed to her. The fact that they were uttered at all, to any woman, made her furious enough to spit. “How dare he? Good Lord, the man doesn’t deserve the air he breathes, let alone having someone as lovely as you for his wife.”
Her friend’s sigh was deep and long. When she looked up, her red-rimmed eyes held defeat. “I have no one to blame but myself. If I had paid more attention, then maybe I would have realized that his regard was for my dowry, not the woman attached to it.”
Poor Diana. Her mother had passed away several years earlier, and her father seemed to have little regard for his only daughter. He had offered a fantastic dowry with the hope of marrying her off as quickly as possible. It was heartbreaking to think that some of the young ladies entering society as innocents had no true champion for them. Love for her own family welled in Bea’s chest. They may be annoying sometimes, but she could always count on them to have her best interests at heart.
“What can I do to help? Do you want to stay in one of our guest chambers tonight? I’m certain Mama wouldn’t mind.”
Diana shook her head. “No, but thank you. Mercy, I feel fool enough to have even told you in the first place. What must you think of me?”
“I think nothing different of you, my dear. Your husband’s sins are not your own.”
They both were quiet for a moment, two young ladies whose lives had diverged drastically after starting their first Seasons in nearly the exact same way. Beatrice thought of Mr. Godfrey and how another woman might not be as aware of his motives as she. If only someone could have warned Diana. What if someone had told her what to look for? It was just so heartbreaking that nobody was on her side when she needed it most.
Pushing off the cushions, Beatrice came to her feet, extending a hand to Diana. “Come, my dear. Let us get you tidied up.”
As she watched her friend wet her cloth and press it to her eyes to try to wipe away the evidence of her devastation, Bea clenched her teeth against the desire to find Diana’s cur of a husband and give him a piece of her mind. But it wouldn’t help. There was little she could do to help Diana now.
Bea’s gaze flicked away from Diana’s reflection and settled on her own. Would she have recognized Mr. Rochester for what he was if things had been different? She liked to think so. She was blessed with the ability to see things others overlooked. It’s what made her a good painter, as well as a good spy.