A Victorian Romance

by Steven Schechter

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: A Woman’s Heart

part 1

This is the man meant for me! If only we could go back five weeks!

Minutes into the intermission of Lucia De Lammermoor, while Lady Beatrice was looking over the downstairs audience with her opera glasses, her eighteen-year old heart suddenly jumped in her chest. She had found — finally found — Major Richard Griffith of the Queen’s Light Hussars, a hero of the battle of Mandalay and newly returned from Burma. She took a moment to calm herself. She considered the resources at hand. Beatrice’s father, Lord Arthur Belham, and her aunt, Lady Margaret, were engrossed in conversation with some military men who had stopped by to pay their respects to Her Majesty’s Secretary of War. Aunt Margaret glanced over at Beatrice with an expression that meant she expected her niece to join the conversation.

At the end of her first Season in London, Lady Beatrice Belham had discovered that all happiness depended upon winning the heart of a man she had met only once. There were more than the usual number of obstacles in her path, and time was running out. The social season extended from May to August, and many of the aristocracy would soon be leaving the city for their country homes. The Belham family, too, would be gone in a few days down to their country home in Buckinghamshire.

She wanted to think that Richard had gone to the trouble of seeking her out, having found her family’s plans for the evening in the Court Circular or The Owl. But if Richard had followed her breadcrumbs to the opera, he seemed at a loss for the next step. Halfway through the intermission, he stood in a tight circle of officers, hands behind his back, chatting amiably. The major was shy, she had heard it said.

“Papa!” There was nothing for it but to interrupt. “That young officer you are so fond of is downstairs, Major Griffith. Do you want to speak with him?” Her aunt raised her eyebrows, but her father sent his man down to summon Richard. In minutes, the young major would be standing only feet away.

Beatrice had fallen in love five days earlier — she put a heart on her calendar — when she accompanied her father to an award ceremony at the palace for the returning troops. Lord Belham and daughter sat in a place of honor in the balcony, surrounded by royal personages, as the heroes assembled on the parade ground below. One by one, the men came forward as their names were read, and the Queen — with her own hands — hooked the medal onto each man’s coat. When the Sovereign, bending forward over the balcony, solemnly draped the medal around his neck, there was no room in Beatrice’s heart for anyone but Sir Richard Griffith.

That Beatrice had accepted another young man in marriage only one month earlier, a rising star in Parliament, seemed to have no weight and barely occurred to her. Great congratulations were going on below, and she stayed close to her father as they descended to the milling crowd. She managed once or twice to catch Richard’s eye and, when she saw her chance, she walked directly up to him. On behalf of the women of England, she thanked him for his patriotism. It was over in a minute and as she walked with her father back through the crowd to their carriage, the feeling was just as they described it in the French novels she read. She floated over the ground, and everything was bathed in a glow. Other people seemed happier than usual somehow.

Now Richard waited patiently at the back of the box for her father to finish with his guests. Beatrice caught his eye and smiled, and he smiled in return. She put her hand out, forcing him to come forward to take her hand and formally kiss, brush his lips against it. “May I also speak with the hero?” she asked playfully. “I’m sorry for rushing off the other day. Papa was so busy.”

“Not at all,” said Richard. “It was such a pleasure to meet you.”

“The hero of Mandalay! Your name is on everyone’s lips, as I’m sure you know.” Beatrice was happy to see him blush. “My father has said that you could step easily into Parliament.”

“He is very kind to exaggerate.”

“On the contrary, I think all of London is within your grasp.”

After a silence, he asked, “Are you staying long in town?”

“I’m afraid we go back down on Thursday.” She added, “I will be at the regimental ball tomorrow evening.”

At the far end of the box, the military men were leaving as Arthur and Margaret moved over toward Beatrice and the major. “You two have met,” said Arthur.

Richard rose and made a small bow. “Margaret,” said Arthur. “Allow me to present Major Richard Griffith, of the Queen’s Light Hussars.”

She smiled. “Major, you have done a great honor to your Queen and country.”

“I want to hear every detail of that action,” Arthur said. “Tomorrow night, perhaps?”

“You are attending the ball, I trust?” Margaret asked Richard.

“The young ladies will be disappointed if he does not,” added Beatrice.

* * *

As Her Majesty’s Secretary of War, Lord Belham was official host of the regimental ball the following evening. An emergency session of Parliament, however, required that he miss the beginning of the ball, leaving Beatrice to give the little opening address he had written. Since Beatrice’s mother had passed, and since she was an only child, the role of hostess had fallen to her. “A great soldier,” she began, looking poised and very lovely, “is an inspiration to a noble life. Such are those whom we honor this evening.”

By 10:00 p.m., the ball was fully underway. The swirling couples were studies in color: women in elaborate gowns of chiffon, silk, and lace, trimmed with flowers. Officers in dress blue, tied at the waist with red sashes and pinned over their shoulders.

Richard Griffith had put in for the first waltz on Beatrice’s card and for another a short while later. He was not a practiced dancer, but he had been taught well in his youth and had a natural athletic grace. Beatrice looked up into his face as they danced, showing her delight with her smile and with the occasional subtle pressure of her hand.

“I wonder what you have heard about me,” she said. Richard only smiled, uncertain how to answer. “You haven’t so much as mentioned me to anyone, have you?” Albeit light and playful, Beatrice seemed to want an answer of some kind.

“The truth is... I wanted to keep you to myself a short while longer,” he said. “My little secret, you see.”

This seemed to please her. “I confess, I have learned a great deal about you.” She made it up as she went along. “They say that your mother and friends have set a hundred snares for you with the most beautiful women in London, but you always escape somehow.”

He smiled. “Now you are chaffing.” At 28, Richard Griffith had little experience of women. From boarding school through the military, he had lived in an exclusively masculine world, a close quarters of brothers bound by loyalty and obedience to a code. Beatrice had come to him out of the blue, uniquely and impossibly lovely, to seize his attention.

Across the way, Lieutenant Percy Hargill watched the couple from under the regimental flag of blue and gold. As Richard’s closest companion in the regiment, Percy had adopted Richard’s honor and reputation as a matter requiring his safekeeping.

Another officer sidled up to Percy. “My eyes must be deceiving me,” the man said. “Our major is dancing. And with a young lady.”

Percy nodded. “The War Secretary’s daughter. I think she designed to meet him.”

The waltz came to an end. Richard offered his arm and escorted Beatrice toward her aunt waiting on the sidelines. “Am I very selfish to hope for another dance?”

“My aunt forbids me to dance more than twice with anyone,” Beatrice smiled.

“Of course.”

“There is a wonderful portrait gallery upstairs,” Beatrice said after a moment. “I should be a terrible hostess if I allowed you to leave without seeing it. Shall I ask Auntie?”

* * *

The first painting Beatrice chose to show Richard was her way of saying to him, “This is you and I.” A medieval knight on horseback, sword in hand, gazing heavenward. Beside him was an angel embodied as a beautiful woman, ready to support and guide him on his sacred journey. “George Frederick Watts,” said Beatrice. “He’s very fashionable nowadays.” They gazed at the painting for several more moments before moving off.

“You are so quiet of a sudden,” Beatrice said, smiling. “Have I finally bored you?”

“Hardly that.”

“How selfish you are, keeping your thoughts to yourself,” she continued light. “Who knows when we might have a chance to speak again?”

A somber Richard managed a smile before Beatrice stopped in front of a painting.

“Here is another Watts, a favorite of mine,” she said. This one, too, had a chivalric theme: another beautiful woman-as-angel grieved over a mortally wounded knight. Beatrice read the title, “Beati Mundi Cordo. Blessed are the pure of heart.” They moved off again, Beatrice’s smile subtly expectant.

“A gentleman,” Richard began, “might want very much to speak to a Lady of his feelings... If their acquaintance were not so brief.”

Beatrice answered low. “A Lady might prize candor and honesty above all.”

They went on a few more paces before Richard turned to face her. “Then, with your permission...”

She nodded.

“You are the loveliest, most intriguing woman I have ever known... Your presence is... so sweet to me...” He paused. “I have no more words to express myself, only I love you dearly.”

She put a finger to her lips. Taking him by the hand, she led him to an alcove where they were shielded from view. She looked up at him, her voice soft. “Sir, be careful... Our eyes may deceive us sometimes.”

“But I speak from the heart.” Richard was embarrassed suddenly. “I have said too much, haven’t I? Forgive me.” He wanted to be alone for a few moments. “Would you care for something to drink?” he asked.

She nodded. As he passed by, she stayed him with her hand. “Your words are sweet to me, as well.”

When Richard was gone a few moments, Beatrice let out a deep sigh. She moved to a large mirror and fiddled with an earring for a few moments. Then she struck a pose, and rehearsed an appeal, sotto voce: “Papa, I am sorry, but I was mistaken. Surely something can be done... If only we could go back one month! This is the man meant for me!”

Relaxing out of pose, she seemed unconvinced by her efforts.

* * *

At the entrance to the main hall, a man placed a card upon the silver tray:

Mr. Simon Digby
Private Secretary to Lord Arthur Belham
H.M. Secretary of War

Simon Digby made his way through the congestion in the main hall leading to the ballroom. A youngish man of indeterminate age, with a fixed absence of expression, his was not a face one would notice in a crowd, save for an indentation under his left eye. The scar was the result of a childhood wound suffered when a nanny struck him with a turn screw.

He spent several minutes studying the crowd in the ballroom, then took the stairs to the portrait gallery on the second floor. Digby had been installed as Lord Belham’s private secretary only two weeks earlier, after Arthur’s man of ten years was called home suddenly to care for an ailing father. Arthur had acted quickly on a glowing reference from an old friend from Harrow days, a Timothy Quinn. Mr. Quinn had written to Arthur that Simon Digby was “sharp as a tack and a good man on all occasions.”

Digby spotted Beatrice and Richard at the far end of the gallery on a settee, smiling and talking. Fates do your worst, he mused to himself.

Richard was recalling his boyhood adventures in Scotland when he saw Beatrice’s face darken. “Please excuse me a moment,” she said. “I see my father’s new secretary.”

Beatrice set out to meet Digby. When they were close enough to speak, Digby bowed slightly. “Lady Beatrice. Your father—”

“Is my father here?”

“No, my Lady. I’ve been instructed to inform you: your father and Lord Beauton will be delayed tonight—”

“Everyone knows that, Digby.” She cut him off hard. “What is your business?”

Digby smiled. “You will find your father in good cheer tonight.”

“Never mind my father’s mood.” Beatrice’s face flushed in anger. “I would rather discover his mood for myself, without your unnecessary blabbing.”

Digby bowed again and regarded her pleasantly.

“I don’t care for these dutiful errands, Digby. I believe you know that.”

From where he stood, Richard could not make out what the two were saying. Momentarily, he saw the servant bow again and turn to leave. Richard waited for Beatrice to return, but as she just stood there, he was forced to go to her.

Her face was still flushed. “Is something wrong?” he asked. She shook her head, forcing a smile. “You seem unhappy.”

Beatrice sighed. “I don’t care for that man.”

Anger sparked in Richard. “I see. Has he offended you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t care to have him around me.” She affected a guilty half-smile. “Now you must think I’m horrid.”

“Not at all. I am sure you don’t intend to be cruel.”

“I do not.” Beatrice shook her head. “I want to be civil toward everyone, and he is helpful to Papa. But he is always at my elbow for some reason or other.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t understand,” Richard offered.

Beatrice shook her head. “I have told him very plainly to keep his distance.”

“He is out of place then. Perhaps I should have a talk with him.”

“Oh, no, please do not. It really is not worth your trouble.”

“Then you should speak with your father and have him dismissed.”

“Yes, I think I will.” She put her hand on his arm. “But it’s a trifle, really. Come, let’s go on.”

* * *

Digby had taken himself downstairs to watch the dancers, the trace of a smile on his lips.

Am I not an ass, to follow her and be insulted? I know it and can’t help myself. No matter. I’ll please myself with the sight of her at all opportunities, if only to spite her anger. Digby anticipated that Arthur’s arrival would be pretext for another errand to Beatrice. Time could not pass quickly enough.

* * *

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2023 by Steven Schechter