Silence settled over the room, his eyes still fixed on her. He watched her for a reaction, and was slightly surprised when she remained silent before him, unmoving and unblinking.
Breathing softly, he glanced down at the will and continued, "He is to do with all that is mine as he pleases. For as long as Lady Atkins shall remain under the control and use of Lord Camden..." Noah paused, heat climbing rapidly up the side of his neck and setting his entire face on fire as he considered Oliver's choice words; control, use. Oliver spoke of Lady Atkins like nothing more than a piece of furniture to be owned, a thing to be exploited—a mistress.
Noah didn't dare raise his gaze to the woman who was being forced to endure such humiliation as he continued, "She shall receive a weekly stipend of four shillings. Upon the refusal of Lady Atkins to these conditions, she is to return to her father empty-handed, and what is mine in property and real estate must be given to the full control and ownership of Lord Noah Bleiz, Marquess of Camden."
Noah was breathless by the time he finished reading the will; breathless and utterly speechless, and the silence of the room echoed his sentiments. For several excruciating seconds, he stood stunned, unsure of what was expected of him. Surely this was a cruel joke, surely Oliver couldn't possibly mean what he wrote! Perhaps there was a codicil somewhere, something to counter the ridiculousness of this will!
Movement on his left caught his attention, and raising his gaze, he was stunned to find Lady Atkins rising to her feet. The hem of her dress settled on the wooden floor as she turned to him. Her eyes, devoid of emotions stared blankly at him.
"Will that be all, my lord?" Her voice was firm and unwavering, confusing him. Why didn't the absurdity of the will render her speechless like it had done to him?
Unable to force his lips apart long enough to respond, he nodded once.
"Very well, you must excuse me." She unclasped her hands from before her and turned from him.
He watched her make her way to the exit, his head spinning.
"Where are you going, Lady Atkins?" he blurted, gaining her attention. She paused by the door, her back tensing as she turned around slowly.
"To prepare my things, my lord."
"You wish to leave?" he asked, confused.
"I do not wish to be controlled, to be used; to be your whore!" she spat out the last word like it was poison, a small frown creasing her brows as she spoke.
"Beatrice!" her father reprimanded, springing to his feet. Noah didn't have to look at him to know he was in agreement with Oliver's will. He would give his daughter over to be exploited by a complete stranger for a few shillings weekly.
Lady Atkins stood boldly before Noah, her steady gaze holding his as she ignored her father.
She was a stubborn and egotistic woman. It was stubbornness that hardened her jaw and creased her brow. It was pride that kept her shoulders straight and her chin up in the midst of utter humiliation. She might have been lacking of many things—of grace and beauty—but her pride was the one thing she possessed; it was also the one thing Oliver sought to strip her of. It was the reason for the will. Oliver was making her choose between a humiliating lifestyle as Noah's mistress and a life of ravaging poverty.
For her pride, she chose poverty.
"I must beg Your lordship's indulgence for one more week to take what is mine and to leave," a small smile pulled on the sides of her lips, "empty handed," she finished, turning to exit the room.
**
Forcing one foot after the other up the stairs to her bedchamber, Beatrice slammed the door behind her and sank to her knees. She leaned back against the door, a hand pressed to her chest as she fought to force air through her constricted lungs.
Don't cry, she scolded, shaking her head to stop her tears from falling. You cannot cry. What use was there in crying, what solution would her tears proffer? Tears would do nothing but weaken her and she desperately needed her strength today.
Pushing her weary body off of the floor, she rose to her wobbly feet and crossed the room. The weight of Oliver's will settled on her shoulders, weakening her as she perched on the edge of the bed. It wasn't that his will surprised her, for she knew her husband had been capable of cruelties much worse than the stupid will. Still, his decision to pass her over like a piece of furniture, nearly broke her. It tore at the last inkling of self-worth she had managed to salvage through those six torturous months of being his wife.
She thought of Lord Camden, his authoritative voice commanding the attention of the room as he read the will. She saw him glance up often to look at her, perhaps to see her reaction to the will.
Unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her breakdown, she sat placidly before him; a façade of wholeness, fashioned to conceal a broken woman. She listened to will, bearing her humiliation in silence until he was done reading. Then, certain she would breakdown if she didn't leave the drawing room immediately, she had risen to her feet and made to leave the room when Lord Camden's question stopped her.
Heaving a silent breath, she mustered what was left of her courage long enough to face him. It was then that she saw it; the resemblance with Oliver; the same curly raven hair, the same finely chiseled jaw and naturally pouted lips. The two men towered over her, an intimidating presence. The two men beheld her with disdain.
Oliver knew his death would bring her freedom—both financially and mentally—and he could not stand the thought of his wife being free. Even in death, he sought to keep her imprisoned by a man who was just like him. And in that second, Beatrice knew she could not endure to be under the control of a man who was exactly like her dead husband. She would bear the hunger and the homelessness, but she would be free.
Rising to her feet, she reached for the button of her dress, pausing when the sound of the door opening drifted to her.
She turned to the door in time to find her father entering the room. The sight of him caused her stomach to churn.
"Beatrice," he called, crossing the room.
"Mr. Hobbs," she murmured, refusing to call him 'father', for he was never truly a father to her.
"Ya'll go daahhhn wite this minute and agree ter the bloomin' terms of Lord Atkins's will," he half barked, his eyes hard, the smell of alcohol assaulting her nostrils as he neared.
She shook her head, defying him. She would not obey him this time like she had spent her entire life obeying him. It was his fault she was in this mess!
Turning her attention back to her dress, she began taking it off.
"I will do no such foolishness," she said, just as the dress slipped to the floor.
"Ave ya gone mad? ya 're wida a damn penny ter your name, the marquess is your only 'ope!"
"No, Mr. Hobbs, the Marquess is your only hope!" she hissed, turning fully to him. "Certainly it is too late to pretend to care anything for me!" He didn't care for her, he cared for nobody else but himself. She was nothing but his means of earning a fortune; when she was a child, she stole for him, and when she was too old to steal and not nearly as lovely enough to gain the attention of a rich fool, he cursed her for it... Until he returned home one day with the 'good news' of a man willing to marry her, and for the rest of her life, she would live to regret her marriage.
Turning from him, she pulled the strings of her corset, releasing it as it slipped to the floor.
"And perhaps I agree to this madness, surely the Marquess is much more honorable than agreeing to the possession of his cousin's widow," she scoffed.
"The Marquess will not fail ter 'onor the wish of his dead cousin."
"Then he shall bed me for honor?"
"He'll put a roof o'er your head for honor."
Tired, she shook her head and sat on the bed. "I shall never concede."
"Put food in your belly, clothes on your back!"
"And coins in your purse, Mr. Hobbs! I shall not concede to being your sacrificial lamb!" She rose to her feet, disgusted. "I shall no longer sacrifice what I hold dear in order to please you! I shall not sacrifice decency, honor, conscience and love for your insatiable desire for money!"
Fury dented his features, his thick brows furrowing as he covered the small distance between their bodies, his nose nearly kissing hers. He clenched his fist, silently threatening her, and for a second, she shrank back, the memories of damages those fists could cause filling her mind.
Releasing a shaky breath, Beatrice swallowed. "I shall not, and you shall not threaten me with your fists for I'm no longer a child who is under your control," she said, managing to keep the fear from her voice. "It shall be considered assault if you lay a hand on me."
Uncertainty flashed through his blue eyes, and slowly, he uncurled his fists.
"Ya cannot survive on your own."
"I'll work! A foreign word to you, seeing as all you do is scheme your way through life."
"And what will you do?"
"Perhaps I shall find work as a governess, a maid, a nanny..." It was for Oliver's pride that Beatrice had been educated after their marriage.
"And who'll hire ya, Beatrice? With all the rumors going on around town?"
Beatrice felt her heart sink as a result of her father's announcement. What rumors? Surely he was jesting, surely he only meant to frighten her?! Who would speak ill of a woman in mourning?!
The ton!
Speaking ill of a woman in mourning was beyond cruel, but Beatrice was unfortunately not only a woman in mourning, she was a peasant in mourning.
"What rumors?" she asked, knowing it would not be anything pleasant, yet curios.
Something sparked in Mr. Hobb's eyes, something sinister, something that told her he would derive pleasure in the information he was about to pass. She watched him, deciding then that she could never go back to living with him. She would die before she is under his roof again.
"Murder, me dear. ya 're accused of killin' your husband," he finished, satisfaction filling his eyes as the blood drained from her face.
Her heart sinking, something warm touched her cheek and afraid she'd break down before him, she hurried from the room and down the stairs, grief consuming her until all she was sinking to her knees on the wooden floor and weeping into her hands.
She was truly ruined.
Copyright © 2021 Lily Orevba All rights reserved.
Small reminder to please vote.