Beatrice hadn't slept particularly well. But she woke up with a clear head, and that was enough. She looked out her window. Dawn had not yet broken, and the sky was still dark, yet she could hear the hurried voices of the maids outside her room.
Getting out of her bed, she did not call for Lisa. Instead, she freshened herself up, and put on a thick shawl over her nightgown. Pushing open the door of the room, she walked towards the kitchen, accepting the greetings from the bustling maids with a simple nod.
The kitchen was already alive with activity. The head chef, Rolf, was barking instructions at the group of maids who seemed to have made some kind of mistake. The moment Beatrice stepped through the door, the noise dipped for just a second — a collective pause — before everyone found something very important to look at.
Chef Rolf recovered first. "Miss Beatrice." He wiped his hands on his apron and approached her with a slight bow. "Can I get something for you?"
"An apple along with something light would be alright. And...tea. Whatever is already brewing." She settled onto a stool at the far end of the preparation counter, pulling her shawl tighter.
She waited as they prepared the food, casually taking in her surroundings. The kitchen was warm and smelled of tea and potatoes.
On the far end, a boy was peeling vegetables. His movements were careful and practiced — the hands of someone who had spent years working with them. Zalek had been bathed and given proper clothes, his hair still irregularly cut but clean now. He looked less like a ghost of himself.
By the looks of it he had settled into the kitchen well enough. Though Rhonda, the new head maid, had told her otherwise — that the other servants kept their distance from him, deliberately so.
Rhonda herself appeared briefly at the kitchen doorway, exchanging a few quiet words with Chef Rolf before moving on — already managing the morning's household logistics with the kind of efficiency that came from having no room to fail. Beatrice had expected nothing less. Desperation had a way of making people reliable.
Her small breakfast was already prepared by the time she was led to the dining room. Chamomile tea, and apples cut into the shape of rabbits — a detail so unnecessary and precise that it almost made her smile.
She ate slowly, without distraction. The house was still waking up around her, distant footsteps and muffled voices beyond the walls. She had the quiet to herself.
By the time she set her cup down, her mind was already elsewhere.
Back in her room, she sat at her desk and opened the folder that she had been working through for the past two weeks — ever since Sir Brauss had delivered the estate papers the same evening she had asked for them. She had read them enough times now that the numbers had stopped being numbers and started being something else entirely.
She went through it one last time — not because she had forgotten anything, but because tonight she could not afford a single hesitation. Every figure, every contract, every output record from the mines and smithies needed to be as familiar as her own name.
When she finally closed the folder, the sun had fully risen outside her window.
A knock at the door followed shortly after. Lisa let herself in with the quiet ease of someone who had done so a thousand times before.
"Good morning, Miss Beatrice." She was already moving as she said it, pulling out towels, checking the water temperature with the back of her hand. "I've added the rose oil today. For the occasion."
"Hmm." Beatrice hummed and let herself enjoy the warm bath for the next hour.
She had five hours before the carriage left for the banquet.
The perfume from Greta had arrived two days ago. Beatrice had tested it the moment it came — one drop on her wrist, held up to the light like she was making a decision. It was exactly right. Bold without being aggressive, elegant without being forgettable. More importantly, it matched the dress perfectly. Not in the obvious way of complementing colours, but in character — both said the same thing without having to announce it.
The bath left her warm and unhurried. Lisa was already waiting when she came out, everything laid out in the order it would be needed. No words necessary — they had done this enough times to move around each other without instruction.
The white lace blouse went on first, high necked and long sleeved, the kind of lace that looked delicate but held its shape. Then the navy corset, Lisa's fingers working the fastenings from the bottom up, and Beatrice felt her posture settle into something more deliberate without trying. The gold detailing caught the light when she shifted her weight.
The skirt was last. Deep navy, layers of it, the underlayer running through with gold damask that only showed properly when she moved. The ruffled hem pooled slightly at the floor.
Lisa stepped back to look.
Beatrice looked at herself in the mirror.
Neither of them said anything for a moment.
A soft smile bloomed on Beatrice's face. The dress complimented her body. It made her neck look longer and head higher.
Lisa, quietly pleased to see the Young Miss smile at her own reflection, waited for her instruction.
Half-up braided styles were fashionable this season — Lisa had already been thinking it would suit the look. But something in the way Beatrice was studying herself in the mirror made her hold her tongue.
"A low chignon." Beatrice's eyes didn't leave her reflection. "Leave a few tendrils loose at the front. And the pearl pins — use those for the chignon."
Lisa nodded and got to work.
Her hands moved carefully, sectioning the dark berry hair, smoothing it back with practiced fingers. The loose tendrils she left deliberately — not stray, not accidental, but placed. Framing her face just so. The pearl pins caught the light as she set them one by one into the chignon, small and understated against the richness of her hair.
When she was done she stepped back without a word.
The effect was exactly what Beatrice had intended. She studied her reflection for a moment, turning her head slightly. The tendrils sat exactly where they needed to. The pearl pins caught the light without demanding attention.
It would do.
Content with the hair, they moved on. Beatrice settled back into the chair as Lisa worked — a light base, nothing heavy. A soft rose on the cheeks, subtle enough to look natural. The eyes got more attention; a deeper liner that made the green in them sharper, more deliberate. A neutral lip, just enough colour to finish the look without pulling focus from everything else.
Nothing overdone. That was the point.
By the time Lisa set her brushes down, Beatrice was ready.
She ate a light snack at her desk while Lisa tidied up around her, not tasting much of it. Her mind was already at the banquet.
A knock at the door.
"Miss Beatrice." Sir Brauss' voice, measured as always. "The carriage is ready."
She set down her fork, picked up her fan and her small evening bag, and followed him out.
Herrace was already waiting by the carriage. He was dressed in navy and gold — the same colours as her, different cut entirely. Whether that was coincidence or deliberate she didn't know. From the look on his face when he saw her, she suspected he was asking himself the same thing about her.
Neither of them said anything.
They got in.
---
It would take at least two hours to reach the Hodgson residence. Beatrice swayed with the carriage as it moved through the uneven roads, her stomach unsettled. Whether it was the ride or the evening ahead of her, she couldn't quite say.
She kept her eyes on the window, watching the scenery pass without really seeing it.
Herrace sat beside her in equal silence. She didn't particularly mind — he would have his own agenda tonight and she had no interest in his small talk. What bothered her was something else entirely. He had been too quiet these past weeks. No remarks, no pointed comments, no meaningful smiles across the dinner table. Nothing since the suitor list.
It all felt like an omen.
Her information on Herrace was frustratingly limited. Rhonda could only do so much — hovering too close to the Young Master would draw Sir Brauss' attention and that was a risk neither of them could afford. Beatrice knew the names of those who had visited him at the estate, nothing more. What he did outside its walls, who he met, what he was building, the information was still out of her reach.
The two hours passed in silence.
The Hodgson residence came into view as the carriage rounded the final bend — grand and unhurried in the pale afternoon light, its windows catching the sun, the entrance already lined with arriving guests. Carriages queued ahead of theirs along the gravel path, each releasing its occupants at the steps one by one.
Beatrice straightened in her seat.
This was it.