Page 5 of Under a Dancing Star

CHAPTER THREE

“I don’t think it went that badly at all.”

My pronouncement is met by a groan from Mother, who lies prone on the chaise-longue.

The dinner party has limped miserably to its polite conclusion, salvaged only by Mother’s over-bright chatter. After she kicked me under the table, I became mutinously silent. Once the obligatory after-dinner brandy had been drunk by the men, and the ladies had forced icy, polite conversation in the parlour, the guests all made rather hasty exits into the night and Father disappeared to his study to smoke cigars “in peace”.

“Copulation,” Mother moans, one arm flung across her forehead. The word hangs so dramatically in the air that I have to smother a laugh, turning it into a cough. “You said copulation in front of the vicar. I’ll never hear the end of it. He’ll work this into Sunday’s sermon and everyone will know why, and somehow it shall be all my fault that you behave outrageously and talk so improperly. Honestly, Beatrice, how could you? It’s completely inappropriate for a young woman to discuss those … those sorts of things. Especially in polite society.”

“Oh, well, it’s not as if the vicar doesn’t know what the word means, for goodness’ sake,” I say stoutly. “He and that horrible wife of his have two equally horrible children, so they must have done it at least twice.”

“Beatrice!” Her horrified tones come from between the sofa cushions.

“And it was in an educational context,” I continue. “I was simply trying to explain…”

“Yes, that’s quite enough of that,” Mother snaps, drawing herself up to a sitting position. “I do not wish to relive the conversation.” She glares at me. “This is the final straw, Beatrice. I’ve had all I can take of you behaving like a hoyden, scandalizing our neighbours, scrambling around the countryside in a complete state, collecting creepy-crawlies in jars and stuffing your head with Latin – and goodness only knows what those books are about, given the sort of conversation you find appropriate for the dinner table…”

I have to contain another nervous wave of laughter at the idea of my scandalous Latin reading. (As if I don’t know about the questionable romance novels she keeps hidden behind the plant pots in the greenhouse. Now those have been illuminating reading.)

“Well, I am sorry,” I say, feeling the sharp sting of regret that always inevitably follows my bad behaviour. “I know it was wrong of me, but I just couldn’t help myself. I mean, really, Mother, Cuthbert?”

She regards me in icy fury. “Cuthbert Astley was your last great hope, my girl!” She waves a finger dramatically in my face.

I snort derisively, even though a cold hand clutches at my heart at the desperation in her voice. “Cuthbert Astley is not likely to be described as anyone’s great hope, Mother, last or otherwise.” I keep my tone deliberately light.

“Oh, that’s just like you, Beatrice,” she exclaims, and I hear real worry in her voice. “You’re so pleased with yourself, but what will become of you when your father and I aren’t here to look after you?” She sniffs, pulling a rather crumpled white handkerchief from behind one of the sofa cushions.

I sink down on to the ground beside her and take her hand. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you worry, but honestly, I don’t think a husband is the answer. I could get a job, like I talked about…”

It’s Mother’s turn to snort now. “A job,” she scoffs.

“Well, why not?” I say. “I could join a profession. Plenty of women work, doing all sorts of things.”

“Not women in your position,” Mother says firmly, and she rubs her forehead tiredly.

I know that she would never understand my desire to work. Or even to study. The thought of studying, of going to a university to learn, perhaps even about science or medicine, from real experts, is a sudden ache in my chest, and I press my hand there for a second, as though trying to contain the feeling.

I haven’t even tried to talk to my parents about it. I know they wouldn’t approve, and it’s not as if I can afford to go anyway. Somehow, I can’t bear to have them dismiss this idea as they have done my others – it feels too precious.

“Please, darling, do stop teasing me,” Mother continues, oblivious to my train of thought. “You know my nerves can’t stand it.” And she begins to cry again, real tears which make me feel awful.

“Now look what you’ve done, Beatrice!” Father booms from the doorway where he has appeared. He crosses to Mother’s other side and takes her hand. “This is all your fault.”

His words are like a match to the kindling, setting something big and angry inside me alight. “You two are clinging to some ridiculous version of the past,” I snap, out of guilt as much as anything. I jump to my feet. “There’s a whole generation of young people out there who are changing things and living exciting, modern lives, but here we are, living in this mausoleum. It’s like time has stopped here and I can’t stand it!”

“Stop being so hysterical.” Mother’s voice is shrill. Clearly there’s only one member of the family who is allowed to have nervous episodes.

“I’m not being hysterical!” I say, taking a deep, shaky breath and trying to speak more calmly. “But you two are trying to raffle me off like some prize-winning mare without any consideration for what I want…”

“We are trying to do what is best for you.” Father’s face is turning an interesting shade of puce. “Not that we get any thanks for it, and God forbid you actually honour your family and our history. There have been Langtons at Langton Hall for over FIVE HUNDRED YEARS!”

Normally, I would simply nod and think about something else while he spouts on about the family honour, but right now, suddenly, I have had enough. I have been hearing this for my whole life and I am sick of it, sick of the weight of Langton Hall and its legacy, sick of the generations of history bearing down on me. It’s as if I can feel the walls of the house pressing in, cutting me off from the rest of the world.

“I know that there have been Langtons at Langton Hall for over five hundred years.” I am close to tears and I try to steady my voice. “But you must see that even if I went along with your plans and married some wealthy, inbred aristocrat to prop the estate up, then – well, then I wouldn’t be a Langton any more.”

“But you’d be able to keep the place going,” Mother says.

“You’d keep the Langton bloodline alive!” Father’s voice is hushed, as though he is describing something too sacred to approach at a normal volume.