Page 4 of Memories Made At Midnight

Mewing softly, Lancelot wound between her ankles before nudging noses with both dogs. Despite her massive size, Nala remained unerringly gentle with the smaller creatures.

“I know you’re hungry, my dears. I shall hurry.”

After securing an apron over her simple but pretty yellow gingham frock, Beatrice set about tending to her charges.

Beatrice resumed singing as she completed her daily chores, allowing her mind to wander to a time when she’d be free of this gilded prison. Except for eight extremely painful years spent in boarding and finishing schools, awful, humiliating experiences she preferred to put from her mind, Beatrice had never left Brighton.

She fully intended to rectify that once she gained her freedom.

Naturally, Nala and Teddy would accompany her. As for her other pets, she planned on hiring someone to care for them while she traveled from one splendid, warm location to another.

Surely, if she economized, dedicated herself to thriftiness, and invested wisely, her inheritance could sustain her throughout her life.

Wrinkling her forehead, she paused in sweeping the floor.

When the time came, she needed to find someone reliable and honest to help her invest her inheritance.

But who?

Would Reverend Dawkins know of anyone?

It couldn’t hurt to ask, but there was no rush. Neither was there any harm in educating herself on the matter, so that when she came into her inheritance, she would be prepared.

The door swung open, and she barely suppressed a gasp.

Once more, warning bells clanged louder than Notre Dame Cathedral’s.

Uncle stood silhouetted in the opening.

This couldn’t bode well.

Even at seven and forty, he presented a fine figure of manhood. Tall and slender, he turned many a woman’s head. Regardless, he gave no female more than a passing glance. He spent far more time on his toilet and appearance than Beatrice ever had, and she thought him a rather vain man.

Only once before had he ventured into Beatrice’s private domain.

Mouth turned down in disapproval, he raked his steely gaze over her, Hans, and the animals.

When had he ever spared her a kind word or a smile?

Hans sent her a nervous glance before edging toward the doorway. “I’ll see you this evening, Miss.”

Uncle stepped aside, and the child darted out, making good his escape.

Lucky soul.

Without preamble, Uncle Cedric announced, “I’ve arranged to have an artist paint a miniature of you, Beatrice. I’ve also purchased a gown worthy of your station for you to wear and have directed Millborn to style your hair.”

He gestured toward his own neatly combed, rich brown locks, distinguished gray peppering his temples.

“You shall wear my mother’s emerald and diamond parure set. I expect you to be ready at half of three when the artist arrives.”

As was his wont, Uncle Cedric gave orders. Never once had he inquired about what Beatrice might want or prefer.

Head canted, she tried to calm the trepidation storming inside her as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“What n-need is there for me t-to have a m-miniature painted?”

She didn’t fool herself into believing it was because he wanted a token to remember her by.