THE BEAUMONT ROSE

By

Wendy Tardieu

© copyright August 2005, Wendy Tardieu

Cover art by Kat Richards, © copyright August 2005

ISBN 1-58608-595-6

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

The Will.

Lark Haven was in a state of chaos. The huge mansion, three stories and trimmed with beautiful gardens, was usually peaceful, reserved and in order. Colleen Beaumont’s twentieth birthday had finally arrived, and the ball to be held in its honor. The invitations had been sent and the dresses had been delivered. The delicious banquet meant to feed the many guests, however, had yet to be completed. While the kitchen staff labored over an endless array of dishes and desserts, the servants worked to decorate the entire first floor with banners, streams of ribbon and garland. Maryann, Lark Haven’s head housekeeper, and stewardess to the Beaumont sisters since before their mother’s unfortunate death, was put in charge of the festivities. This, of course, meant the production, planning and orchestration of the most long-awaited party of the year. The windows of the mansion were like holes in a giant anthill, and anyone who glanced inside could see the mad motion of its inhabitants.

Colleen Beaumont placed a lump of sugar into a teacup, sighing with irritation at the noise that polluted the morning. She could have been a portrait--yellow doll-like curls swept up into jeweled pendants and a satin gown spread out about her in embroidered waves. She was the oldest Beaumont sister, heiress by tradition to the immense fortune her father guarded with vehemence. She was also beautiful, admired by all eyes that rested on her. Unfortunately, her family name carried with it whispers of greed and malice, her father renown for the strict and offending manner that kept most of her would-be suitors at a distance. For this, Colleen was affectionately known as The Beaumont Rose, a coveted treasure waiting to be picked at the price of her father’s protective thorns.

Alice was the youngest, as lovely if not more so than her sister, but heiress only to the Lark Haven estate. Colleen was two years her senior, and the two looked hardly related. It could be seen in the mouth, perhaps, the same deep pink color and rosebud shape of the lips, but Alice’s features were far more demure and melancholy. She had the face of a sad fairytale queen, the eyes gray-blue like a storm cloud and always wandering. Her hair, a softer, more butterscotch blonde than her sister’s, was tied high with blue satin ribbon, the ringlets pouring out from the top. She was restless as usual, affected by the burden of the servants.

She flinched as she heard a dish crash, her gaze drifting anxiously to the house. The morning patio tea-time was a ritual she did not consider her favorite, preferring the piano or her books to busy herself, instead. Colleen and her company of debutantes offered very little entertainment other than mindless gossip and senseless complaining. For any means by which she could escape it, she kept a vigil.

“She was a stone,” said Colleen of her sister. “Alice wasn’t even anxious about meeting Her Highness. Imagine! Bored and indifferent at her own coming out,” she remarked, and stirred her tea. “I was exhilarated at my own, and weeks beforehand.”

“At least now that you both have had your debut,” said Linda, Colleen’s friend. “Alice can attend all of the parties. Why, this will be your first,” she said to Alice, who took a moment to realize she was being spoken to.

Alice stared at her untouched tea, her eyes fixed in the very boredom Colleen described. The girls seemed to wait for any kind of response.

“Alice,” Linda called.

Alice’s gloved hands, once neatly folded in her lap, clenched at the sound of another shattered dish and a loud reprimand. She looked up, concerned.

“My poor sister,” laughed Colleen. “No doubt she wants to help our servants deliver my birthday party rather than sit in the morning sun and drink only the finest tea in London,” she remarked.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Alice said finally, and stood from the table.

The summer air was medicine to her as her black shoes met the stone walk leading into the garden. To be moving! The relief of escape from idleness and ridiculous whining broke upon her, and she took a deep breath. The tree branches hung low over the walkways, and the wind stirred them to dancing over her head. Maple seeds spun down in front of her like pixies, and the sun ducked behind a cloud. She walked quickly, as a commotion could be heard not far away. The back door to the kitchen came into view near the mansion’s atrium, and the most wonderful smells carried from it.

Suddenly, the door flew open, smoke and steam bellowing after. A cook, coughing profusely and waving the smoke away, hurried outside with a charred pheasant on a platter. He set it on the walk and continued to fan it with a kitchen rag.

“Anthony!” called Alice, and rushed toward him.

He looked relieved to see her and took a moment to catch his breath. “Alice,” he said, and shook his head. “It’s madness in there. I was so busy looking after three other dishes that I forgot,” he explained, throwing a hand at the blackened bird on the ground.

“Perhaps I can--” Alice began, but was interrupted by fierce muttering and a tall, weary-faced woman who came out after Anthony.

Lynette, the head cook and Alice’s long-time confidant, stopped short at the sight of her. Nearly fifteen years older, and one of Lark Haven’s most burdened employees, Lynette had prepared thousands of meals for the Beaumonts, and this banquet was the most stressful of them all.

“Alice, go back to the patio, I beg you,” Lynette said, pointing in the direction of Colleen and her friends.

“I can help,” Alice returned.

“No, you can’t,” Lynette answered, snatching the rag from Anthony. “Maryann will be out to fetch you to go get dressed any moment,” she said.

“I can roast another pheasant,” Alice countered.

“Alice,” Lynette argued, and looked at her evenly. The same ritual had ensued a hundred times. “Maryann would have a fit if she knew and she has enough to worry about. She doesn’t even know you can cook and that, in itself, could break her heart.”

Lynette hurried back into the kitchen. Anthony and Alice exchanged glances, and the two followed her inside. The clinking of pots and pans was overwhelming, and the steam warmed the kitchen like a furnace. Alice maneuvered through the sea of cooks and dishes, passed tables laden with puddings, fruits and mixed creams.

“Lynette, I beg you, don’t send me back. Colleen’s mewling borders on revulsion, and Maryann might just roast herself if the pheasants and desserts aren’t finished,” Alice reasoned as she followed her.

“Alice Beaumont,” Lynette sighed and turned to face her. “What am I to do with you? Why can’t you be content with tea and crumpets and keep yourself out of trouble?” she implored, taking Alice’s face in her hands. Lynette paused for a moment, and glanced briefly around. “As long as you stay out of sight, you can make the entire feast,” she declared, and both women went to work.

Elsewhere in Lark Haven, one room, secluded near the east wing and behind the study, harbored not the happy dissonance of preparing for a celebration, but a dismal responsibility long overdue. Nicholas Beaumont fixed his perpetually exhausted features on Albert Millstone, his trusted lawyer and advisor since before his daughters were born. He heaved a great breath as Albert drew a quill pen and ink from his bag. Nicholas sat in a ruby velvet chair, taking comfort in its loyalty in supporting his withering frame. Albert cleared his throat nervously and began to write. He spoke aloud:

“Herein begins the official documentation of the Will of Nicholas Henry Beaumont, aged seventy-three on March eighteenth, eighteen hundred, sixty-eight.” said Albert in a shaky tone.

Sunlight poured in through a crack in the draperies and onto Nicholas’s hard, vexed frown. It had become known that he was near his end. Albert scribbled for a brief moment and looked up with apprehension. Nicholas sat like a stone guardian at the steps of a castle. He had the mansion and the sum of ninety thousand pounds to offer his daughters and his sister-in-law, Matilda. Albert had already recorded that Matilda receive twenty thousand pounds, which would surely update her meager but content lifestyle in a country cottage. As to Nicholas’s wishes regarding the mansion and the rest of the inheritance, Albert was both bewildered and shocked.

“You’re certain that this is your wish Mr. Beaumont?” he once more pursued, his pen hovering over the parchment.

“You’ve known me too long to be so daft, Albert.” Nicholas growled.

“It would be breaking a tradition that has lasted five generations, and I just --”

“I know the tradition!” Nicholas interrupted. “And I’ll be damned to hell if I let it destroy my family. I’ve tortured Colleen by delaying her coming out until she was nearly nineteen. Since then, I’ve rejected all of her suitors, knowing well their intentions! Now that Alice has been introduced, it can only get worse.” Nicholas clenched his fists and looked away. He took a breath, collecting himself. “This way, I can release Colleen without fear that her inheritance will be compromised. Tonight, my house will be filled with dozens of young men bent on seducing my daughter for the pleasure of my fortune,” he began, then sneered. “The one who captures her will be livid with fury when I die, and he discovers that he chose the wrong one,” he said. “His own greed will punish him.”

“But what about your daughters, Sir,” Albert inquired, nearly pleading. “Their happiness is at stake.”

“Their happiness!” Nicholas laughed. “Have I not provided them with every desire, every girl’s wish? Pampered by this fine house and doting maids and you whine of their happiness!” he continued. “Colleen will get what she has always wanted - a husband to boast of and my mansion to call her own. I fear that Alice’s disposition will not do well to grant her a husband, and as it seems, she will be content without one. This way, only a Beaumont will spend a Beaumont’s money. My Alice is wise and practical, and I know that her expenses will not be on bonnets and chocolates.”

Albert was silent. He looked away from the figure of the decaying old man, and stared down at the parchment that was to seal two young girls’ fates. He dipped his pen in the inkwell, and complied.

“The sum of the remaining seventy thousand pounds hereby willed to the youngest daughter, Alice Beaumont. The Lark Haven Estate and all the holdings within hereby willed to the eldest daughter, Colleen Beaumont,” he said aloud as he wrote.

He scribbled more, clauses that further protected the girls, then painted the bottom of the parchment with his signature. Albert plucked the paper from the mahogany desk and brought it to Nicholas. Nicholas glanced up at him in resolution, and took it from his hand. He read over it, his wrinkled lips turning upward in a malevolent grin, and signed the bottom with a shaking hand. Albert moved to take the paper up once more, but his arm was violently arrested.

“Take care,” Nicholas whispered gravely up at him. “This is to be the most securely kept secret. It must be as we arranged, an iron box with one key that you alone possess. Only after my burial will the box be opened. Do you understand me?” he hissed, his grip strong for a man approaching death.

Albert swallowed, and his heartbeat quickened. “You have my word, Mr. Beaumont, that your wishes will be carried out precisely,” he answered firmly.

Nicholas squinted an eye, and let his arm go. Albert backed carefully away, and brought out a small, gray box, iron and shining like a knight’s shield. He rolled the Will into a scroll and placed it in the box as Nicholas watched. Albert closed it tight, and slipped the key into the pocket of his coat.

“Very well. It is done,” said Nicholas.

* * * *

The oven door came open, and the most perfectly browned pheasant peeked from inside. Alice leaned over to pull it out. Her amber hair was damp and fallen, and her cheeks were red from kitchen heat. The only thing unspoiled was her dress, and she grinned wholeheartedly at her own efforts, oblivious to what exertion had done to her appearance. Lynette chuckled briefly, and took the pheasant from Alice.

“If your mother could see you now,” she laughed, and placed the third pheasant on the table to be sauced and dressed.

“Maryann is coming!” cried Anthony, bursting into the huge, busy kitchen. “From the parlor, to check on dessert,” he announced breathlessly.

Lynette’s eyes widened, and she tossed Alice an alarmed stare. Alice repeated the gesture. The servants present began to hide the evidence that Alice had been there, a routine they seemed to have mastered. One picked up the three pheasants and hovered over them as if he had just begun saucing them. Lynette quickly swept up the pair of white gloves that had been tossed on a table. Another door opened, and Alice was nearly propelled through it. The gloves were thrust into her hands, and Lynette nodded at the patio. The door was promptly shut, and it was then that Alice finally realized she was once more outside.

Maryann entered the kitchen. She was short and stout, but commanded the respect of royalty. Short of bowing and curtsying, the kitchen staff treated her as such. She waltzed in with head and shoulders high, her chubby cheeks forming a strict frown. Her eyes shifted left to right in investigation, and she neared a bowl of strawberry mousse. She took up a small spoon and tasted it, smacking her lips in full scrutiny. The staff waited, and Lynette gave them all a reassuring nod behind Maryann’s back. The frown turned up into a delighted smile.

“A fine creation,” she commented. “The pheasants are dressed?” she asked.

Lynette stepped forward. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Wonderful. Our guests will be well fed today,” she said. “Prepare the banquet table,” she finished, and exited the kitchen.

Alice made her way down the stone walk, and resigned herself to a thin, white swing, gently rocking back and forth. Her shoes barely touched the ground, which was covered with fresh green grass and tufts of red and yellow flowers. She smiled to herself. She could hear Colleen and the other girls giggling not far away, and was grateful she wasn’t near them. Solitude is indeed serene, she thought. Maryann’s voice suddenly pierced her contentment, and it seemed to be calling for her. Unfortunately, Maryann knew exactly where to find her. Alice took a breath and stood from the swing just as Maryann rounded the corner into the garden.

“There you are, child. Whatever are you doing here? Why aren’t you with your sister? You must get ready for the party soon,” she said, ushering her toward the patio. “Come away from there now, and don’t forget your gloves.” she added, turning back to sweep them from the swing. “I honestly can’t fathom why you remove them in the first place, it’s only fashionable to wear--”

Maryann stopped in her tracks, staring down at the long, white gloves with fury.

“What is it?” Alice asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me, it smells a trifle like strawberry mousse!” Maryann exclaimed, holding one of the gloves up to Alice. A pink stain had made its home in the palm, most likely when she had moved the tarts aside to set the pheasant down. Alice’s gray-blue eyes opened wide. “You were in the kitchen!” Maryann concluded, shaking the glove at her.

“Please, I was only trying to--” Alice attempted, but faltered in her defense.

“Your father shall hear of this!” Maryann declared, and took Alice by the arm.

It was only moments later that she found herself staring at the dark oak of the den’s large double doors. She could hear Maryann relating the crime in a faint voice behind them. Then, they opened. The room was warm, and smelled of cigar smoke and shoe polish as she entered. Her father waited inside. She had re-fashioned her hair and dabbed her flushed face with a handkerchief, but the signs of labor were still about her. She tried to look sullen. Her father could usually read her expression, and if her face was bright and content, he would know she’d been hard at work. Maryann stepped out. The doors closed, and father and daughter were alone. Mr. Beaumont squinted one eye and made a grumbling sound. She knew he was angry, but not surprised. She had been overall successful in keeping her kitchen ventures quiet, but this was one of the few times she’d been found out. Alice stood in the center of the room, awaiting her reprimand with a sense of acceptance. He motioned her forward.

“Alice,” he said, shaking his head of thin gray hair. “I have made you most comfortable in our estate?” he asked her.

“Yes, Father,” she answered, hands placed behind her back.

“I have worked all my life to be sure my daughters never have to lift a finger for their own sake, never to wash a dish or sew a hem, and here you are,” he continued, and stood from his chair with the help of a long, brown cane. “There are thousands of people in the world who must work and slave for what they eat and who they marry, toil to feed their children, and here you are,” he said. “You are not a servant.”

“No, Father.”

“You are not a maid or a cook.”

“No.”

Mr. Beaumont approached his daughter and stared down at her. She felt as if she was an incomplete masterpiece, and her father was the unsatisfied artist.

“Why must you behave like one? Why can you not enjoy the luxuries that I have worked so hard to grant you?” he asked.

Alice looked up at him, her storm-colored eyes sad and filled with both duty and longing. “Forgive me, Father,” she began remorsefully. “I am grateful for my blessings, but I find the leisure to which young girls of my station are assigned both idle and unpleasant. It makes me quite restless and at times I suppose I don’t know what to do with myself,” she said, then her tone changed. “Sometimes I even feel envious of the staff. It is such a delight to help them achieve something. Every day they have something to be done, something to be accomplished. All the while I dread the wasting of every passing hour,” she finished.

Mr. Beaumont seemed on the verge of rage, but she saw that something quieted his mood. He smiled suddenly.

“So like your mother, Alice,” he said. “Never gratified by sitting in one place for long. To her, this house was more a prison than a sanctuary,” he related, his smile suddenly fizzling into his usual severe frown. “Labor is for servants, not for you,” he said, his grave tone returning. “And deception is for thieves. Don’t let me hear of this again. Maryann works hard to make a debutante of you and I suggest you yield to her. You are dismissed,” he concluded. Alice turned to the door, but her father’s voice arrested her. “Your sister’s birthday party is this evening,” he reminded. “I know you abhor these frivolous gatherings, and, until tonight your age allowed you to avoid them. Employ your eloquence. Make our guests feel at home.”

“Of course, Father,” she said, and left the room.