Page 2 of Memories Made At Midnight

Not if Uncle Cedric and other stodgy peers had their imperious way.

Fortunately, Beatrice had the means to rescue wounded and abandoned animals and nurse them back to health. Those who could survive and thrive on their own, she released into the wild. The rest became dear friends and companions, every bit as loyal as Esme Dawkins and Charlotte Hawthorne.

Esme, the eldest daughter of Reverend Ellison Dawkins, the vicar of St. Nicholas Church, and Charlotte, the only granddaughter to widowed Mrs. Clementine Halsey, didn’t care about Beatrice’s occasional stutter. Nor did they judge her about being born on the wrong side of the blanket, something she had no control over. Their unconditional acceptance and love kept her stoic and determined. They even helped with her menagerie from time to time.

Unlike Uncle Cedric.

The haughty curmudgeon disapproved of Beatrice’s interest in nursing animals.

In truth, he disliked everything about her: that she was his sister’s illegitimate daughter, Beatrice’s tendency to stumble over her words when she felt anxious or nervous, her shocking hair color, (his critical opinion, not anyone else’s), her lack of suitors, and mostly her imposition upon his bachelor lifestyle these past two decades.

Even her name, Beatrice Blossom Carina Fairfax, vexed him—particularly her middle name, Carina. As her uncle had pointed out time and again, her mother’s affair with a married Italian man was scandalous enough. But giving Beatrice an Italian middle name that meant ‘beloved’ only added insult to injury.

Uncle Cedric’s long nose twitched, and his once handsome features became even more stern whenever Beatrice’s friends addressed her by her nickname, BeBe.

’Twas what Mama had called her, and Beatrice didn’t give two flicks of a lamb’s tail if it annoyed her uncle into apoplexy. She would not give up the moniker. In that small way, she rebelled against his inflexible strictures. However, in her mind, a riot of recalcitrant thoughts, entirely unbefitting a docile, biddable young woman, tumbled continually about.

How shocked and appalled would Uncle Cedric be if he had any notion of her mutinous musings?

It was a small wonder he permitted Beatrice her pets. But then again, her animals kept her occupied, and away from the social events they received invitations to.

She was no fool.

Beatrice knew full well her name on an invitation was obligatory, not a genuine desire for her presence. She was an undesirable from her birth, to her unpopular coloring in a world of golden blondes and sable brunettes—not to mention her propensity for clumsiness.

Tending her animals also meant she wasn’t in the house and underfoot, exasperating Uncle Cedric at every turn. And as she used her allowance from her trust fund to finance her littlehobby, as he called it, he couldn’t squabble about the expense of her venture, either.

Only two and a half more years—when Beatrice reached her fifth and twentieth birthday—and the bulk of her inheritance would be hers. She could—and would, by Jove—leave her stern and unloving uncle’s house. At last, she would be free of his censure, dark glowers, cutting retorts, and haughty disdain.

As a child, his callousness and contempt had frightened and discouraged Beatrice. She tried—desperately and pathetically—to earn a smile or a kind word. However, she’d long since stopped trying to gain his approval—an impossibility because of her mere existence, and she’d come to accept that fact without rancor.

In truth, she was past the age of majority, and at two and twenty, she could leave Highbury House now. But how did a respectable woman with few useful talents (even fewer that made her employable) and a lack of available funds, survive in a world which required both until she came into her inheritance?

No, Beatrice would continue to bide her time and steer clear of Uncle Cedric as much as possible, ignore his ever-increasing frequent and bold suggestions that she should marry (men weren’t exactly lining up to court her), and plan for the day when she was free to make her own decisions.

A refreshing breeze bearing the faintest tangy tinge of the sea caressed Beatrice’s face and bare arms. The mild wind flirted with the few remaining purple crepe myrtle blossoms and Persian silk pink pom-poms.

Beatrice had eschewed a bonnet and shawl in favor of soaking in a few glorious rays of sunshine. Soon enough, England’s gray, dank, and cold autumn and winter would be upon the coastal township and she would be glad she had indulged herself.

How she longed to travel to milder, warmer climes.

She lifted her face skyward—half in defiance and half in satisfaction.

What were a few more freckles?

Besides her strawberry-blonde hair—far more berry than blonde—nature had seen fit to pepper her body and face with reddish-brown spots. How cruel the other girls at school had been, poking fun at her freckles, pretending they might catch a disease from her.

Lifting her boxy nose, Nala sniffed the air.

Fluffy ears raised, Teddy followed suit before issuing a single woof.

The dogs sensed it too—something was afoot.

But what?

Tingles zipped up Beatrice’s back.

Every warning instinct she possessed silently screeched within her.

Caution. Danger. Peril.