Beauty always promises, but never gives anything ~ Simone Weil

Chapter 2.

Beatrice Morton.

The spring sun was shining brightly through cracks in the drapes and awoke Beatrice with its glistening rays. She slowly rose from her bed, walking to the window flung the shutters wide open. Taking a deep breath she inhaled deeply of the fresh, chilly morning air. Placing her elbows on the window sill, Beatrice let her eyes soak in the beauty and glory of Derwen Goch. True, at this time of year it was little more than a vast muddy swamp, but to Beatrice it was as lovely as heaven itself. Even in the middle of slushy spring Drewen Goch Manor was a breathtaking sight. What a pity she had to leave it for so often for horrid, grey, smoky London.

"Red Oak Manor," she spoke the English name. "Soon the grass will grow and the leaves will bud and the wild cherry trees will blossom. And just when you will be dressed in your finest gown, Mamma will once more drag me away, unless I can somehow outsmart her. But it is unlikely. As cunning as I am, Mamma has schemes and brains to outsmart mine. She's had forty years to practice her wit, I've had but half of that."

It was a depressing thought, and one that put Beatrice in a bad mood. With a frown she turned from the window and returned to her bed. Argos was sprawled out on the sheet and she sat down and leaned against him, running her hand through his thick brown and white fur.

A knock sounded on the door and Beatrice called out in a lazy voice. "Who is it?"

"It's Amy, Miss Beatrice," a quiet voice replied.

Getting up Beatrice opened the door and let her little maid in.

"Good mornin' Miss Beatrice," Amy said in her thick cockney accent. She carried a pitcher in her hands and promptly set in on the stand near the ceramic bowl. Amy was small for her fourteen years, and rather on the skinny side of life. Her bright red hair was gathered up and out of her face and her bright blue eyes shone with joy. It was a joy Beatrice could never understand. No matter what the situation, Amy always had something pleasant to say and a smile to share. And this coming from a girl who had been raised in a poorhouse, you would think she would be sad and fore lone all the time. But then it was this very cheery attitude that had attracted Beatrice to Amy in the first place. Her smile was captivating and contagious, and despite the protests of her mother at such a low class girl, Beatrice refused to entertain the idea of anyone other than Amy being her maid.

"The day 'as long begun," Amy went on in her happy voice. "Mrs. Llewelyn was quite put aahht that ya 'ave only gotten up na. She said for me ter tell ya to go ter 'er as soon as ya 're dressed."

Beatrice rolled her eyes and began undoing her night braid. "I wish to wash, Amy. Will you arrange it?"

Amy nodded and ran off to get some water.

"Much as I love sleeping with you, Argos," Beatrice informed her dog, who continued to doze on the large bed. "You leave a scent on me that would cause Mamma to faint." Glancing over at the clock, Beatrice saw that the hands showed five past eleven. "Dear me, I've slept in late," she laughed. "No doubt Catie is pacing the flow of her room, waiting for me to wake up and tell her all about our time in London."

The door opened once again and Amy walked in with a large bucket.

"Amy!" Beatrice snapped. "Couldn't you have asked someone carry that for you?"

"Ooo, I've carried 'eavier in me life, Miss Beatrice," Amy laughed.

"I don't care what you carried before! It is not good for you to drag such heavy buckets. Give it to me."

Amy only laughed again and going to the back of the room fetched the large basin used for washing.

Once Beatrice had cleaned herself of the heavy smell of the dog she allowed to sleep with her, she slipped into her chemise and went over to the dressing table.

"Fetch me the brown riding habit, Amy." She said. "I plan to go out as soon as I have eaten."

"What of Mrs. Llewelyn."

"What of Mrs. Llewelyn?" Beatrice stated with an indifferent shrug. "Do you know if there any breakfast left?"

"There is. The cook left ya a plate." Amy replied as she opened the wardrobe and found the dress Beatrice wanted. "Do ya wish for me ter brin' it up 'ere?"

"Yes," Beatrice nodded. "If I dare go down Mamma will be at me in a second and confront me about those silly offers. I am in no mood to speak to her about my behavior in London today, and so I shall just avoid her.

"It seems ya always wish ter avoid 'er when we return from the city."

Beatrice laughed and nodded her head. "How very observant of you, Amy. Yes, Mamma and I are ever at odds when we return home. There is no avoiding it. If she wants us to get along she must stop pushing suitors down my throat!"

Amy helped her mistress into the riding attire, which following the recent fashion was shirt and a skirt with a waistband that closely fitted to the torso just under the bust. The rest of the skirt hung loose to her ankles with a train that would help cover her legs while riding. Straps over the shoulders made sure the garment would not slip off. Beatrice motioned for Amy to leave the jacket on the bed for now, she would put it on after she had eaten. Once Beatrice was dressed Amy took up the hairbrush and began to wrestle with the thick, black, curly hair that adorned Beatrice's head.

"I 'ope the pain aint too bad," she apologized in a timid voice. "These curls 're so very stubborn, and will not listen ter me. There is one good thing about them. You don't have to bother with the curling iron like Miss Catrin does."

"I detested these curls as a child," Beatrice sighed. "They cost me many tears, even now they seem to only bring me pain."

Amy put Beatrice hair up in a loose bun, pinning a few of the curls in the front.

"Ah, Miss Beatrice, ya really 're very pretty," she softly said, gazing at her mistress with admiration.

Young Amy spoke the truth. At twenty years of age Beatrice Morton was a beauty to behold. She was not very tall when it came to height, but tall enough to avoid being called short. As a child Beatrice had been frightfully skinny and clumsy, but with the coming adolescence she had blossomed and now her figure was elegant and graceful, having enough weight to avoid being called thin while remaining slim enough to keep from being called fat. Her skin was white and her face round. The large dark eyes, thick, long eyelashes, delicate nose, and red lips seemed to be carved out from porcelain. If a china doll could be given life, she would look like Miss Beatrice Morton. When she walked into a room, all other ladies were quickly forgotten. Young bachelors and middle aged gentlemen alike could only gaze at her in wonder and admiration. Beauty, grace, and charm had all been bound in one when it came to Beatrice, yet the belle of society cared nothing for her looks. In fact as time continued to pass Beatrice hated her loveliness more and more

"I often wonder what my life would be like, Amy, if I had remained as ugly as I had been when a child," she confessed to her maid. "I cannot help but think it would be a lot easier."

"Ah, Miss Beatrice, I kna mny girls 'oo would disagree wif ya on that matter. Everyone always says it is the ugly girls 'oo 'ave it 'ardest in life." Amy pointed out.

"Beauty comes with a price," Beatrice glumly replied. "If I had remained ugly, Mamma wouldn't be showing me off as one does a poodle, and she wouldn't be trying to sell me to the highest bidder."

Amy patted Beatrice's shoulder in sympathy. "I'll go get your breakfast, Miss. I can imagine 'a 'ungry ya mast be, for ya didn't take Tommy Tucker yesterday."

Beatrice cast Amy a disapproving look. "Amy, I was sure I had driven the slang out of you by now. It is not Tommy Tucker, it is supper."

"Sorry, Miss." Amy's face flushed a little red. "I sort of let it slip."

"That's alright," Beatrice smiled. "Go and get breakfast."

Amy nodded and skipped out of the room.

"So many girls wish they could be you, Beatrice," Beatrice quote the words her mother had spoken to her in the carriage yesterday. "Well," Beatrice retorted as she rose from the dressing table. "I would trade places with any of them. Let them live my life for one day, only one day, then we'll see how envious they'll be!"

From under her pillow Beatrice fished the thick book with the words The Odyssey printed on the binding. Settling down in her large armchair, she buried her nose in the wonderful world of mythology, a world filled with strange creatures, frightful monsters, and daring adventures. Amy brought the breakfast tray and set it on the table. Beatrice dismissed her and locked the door from the inside. Returning to her seat, she picked a little on the toast and jam and sipping her tea she resumed her reading. She didn't bother when her mother pounded on the door demanding to know why she continued to be such an insufferable daughter. Beatrice had long learned to completely block out her mother's voice. All she needed was a good book to take her away, away from her mother, away from society, away from her life, and away from the world. Take her to a place that was safe, a place where Beatrice Morton didn't exist.

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Picture in media section is Early Spring, near Trefriw, North Wales by Sir Ernest Albert Waterlow (I do not own the picture, found it on the internet, am using for no profit, non commercial use)