“Yes,” Beatrice was murmuring, “I see you as the greatest Young of them all. This house will be yours, Howard. I see it.”

“There are too many others ahead of me in line,” he told her, kissing her neck.

“It will be yours,” she promised.

She was unbuttoning his shirt now, slipping her hands inside to caress his chest. Howard leaned his head back and moaned in pleasure. Beatrice was very good at taking the lead in their lovemaking. She pressed his hand to her lips and sucked each finger into her mouth.

“Someday will you marry me?” Beatrice asked, her black eyes locked on his. “Make me mistress of this house?”

“Of course, of course,” Howard promised, feeling the hardness swelling in his pants, the urge to have her, possess her.

She kissed him then. Deep and full. He pressed himself down on top of her, unbuckling his belt and lifting her long skirt in nearly the same motion.

“Make love to me, Howard,” Beatrice purred.

But suddenly there was a scraping of wood. The door behind them was opening.

“So this is what has been going on,” a deep voice echoed through the alcove.

Howard spun around. His father stood there glaring over them in his nightshirt.

“Papa,” Howard uttered, standing awkwardly, his loose belt dangling in front of him. Beatrice let out a little shriek.

“Go to your room,” Desmond Young commanded the servant girl. She quickly pulled her dress back down and scampered out of the alcove. Her frantic footsteps rushing down the stairs echoed through the house.

Meanwhile, his father’s eyes never left Howard’s face. Even with his own eyes averted, the young man could feel them burning holes in his skin.

“This is not how I raise my sons,’ Desmond Young finally intoned. “No son of mine takes up with a scullery maid.”

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

“Meet me in the study,” the older man said, turning and heading back down the stairs.

Howard sighed. He fastened his belt, buttoned his shirt. He had thought he’d been so smooth, so quiet, sneaking up here to meet Beatrice several nights a week. But clearly his father had noticed something. Desmond Young was a very shrewd man. Very little got past him. Howard had been a fool to try.

Trudging into the study, he faced the somber patriarch sitting at his desk.

“She is pretty,” Papa said. “I will grant you that. But those French girls…they are all witches. They will cling onto you, and expect much in return for their kisses.”

“I won’t see her again, Papa.”

“That is for certain. I know her kind, Howard. She will trick you. She will use you. She will try to get her grubby hands on our money. That is what she is after, son. Your bank account. Not your heart.”

Howard knew that wasn’t true. Beatrice loved him. He was certain of that. But to dispute his father was futile.

“And if I find you with her again, Howard,” the older man added, “I will cut your allowance by half, and the trust that is waiting for you will be reduced. I will take a third and give it to your brother Douglas. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I have your word?”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

“Go to your room then.”

He didn’t sleep. In the morning, he came down to breakfast with dark circles under his eyes. Beatrice, carrying the plates out from the kitchen, noticed, and cast him a look from under her dark lashes. After the meal, she passed him in the hallway.

“I need to speak with you,” she whispered.

“It’s not possible,” he said quickly. “My father will be watching with an eagle eye. We cannot see each other anymore.”

“But you must talk to me!” Beatrice insisted, her voice rising. “You must! What I have to say can’t wait!”

“All right,” Howard said, anxious to keep her quiet. “Twenty minutes. In the barn.”

She nodded, scurrying away.

Howard stewed as he wrapped a scarf around his neck and slipped into his coat. Winter was coming on fast this year. Already they’d had their first frost. Heading outside, he could see his breath fog up in front of his face. What was so urgent that Beatrice needed to tell him? He began to wonder if his father had been right, if she would do everything she could to cling to him.

In the barn, Clem was feeding the horses, pitching clumps of hay into their stalls with his pitchfork. Howard told him to run along, that he wished to be alone. But when Beatrice came in after him, Clem cast a suspicious eye over his shoulder.

“He’ll tell my father that he saw us here,” Howard fretted.

“I can take care of Clem,” Beatrice said. “He’s a simple man, not right in the head. But he’s in love with me. He’ll do whatever I tell him.”

“Then tell him to keep quiet.”

“I shall.” She tried to smile, to connect with Howard’s eyes. “Oh, my love. Your father will have to accept us now.”

Howard sighed and looked away. “It’s impossible. He’s not a man who changes his mind.”

“But he will-he must!-when he hears that I am carrying his grandchild.”

Howard spun around to look at her.

Beatrice smiled. “It’s true, my love. I am pregnant.”

“No,” he uttered.

“Yes! Oh, please, you must be happy!” She patted her belly. “I know it will be a son. A son-born of our love!”

Howard turned away from her.

If I find you with her again, Howard, I will cut your allowance by half, and the trust that is waiting for you will be reduced. I will take a third and give it to your brother Douglas.

“I…I can’t marry you,” Howard stammered.

Beatrice’s eyes grew wide. “But you must! Otherwise I’ll be ruined!”

“I…I’ll find some way to get you money. You can go away. Far away.”

“No! I love you, Howard! I love you!”

He rushed out of the barn, unable to think. The air slapping against his face was cold as he ran along the cliffs. Below him the waves crashed in a frothy spray against the rocks. He could smell the salt. He had an urge to just jump over the cliffs, crashing into the sea beyond, letting the tide take him wherever it might.

Over the next few days, he avoided Beatrice as much as possible. He knew her parents were dead, that she had noplace to go. For a fleeting second he wondered if maybe he should marry her, if maybe his father would indeed melt when he learned she was pregnant. But sitting in the parlor with his brother Douglas and sister-in-law Ruth, hearing them describe the assets that Ruth had brought with her to the marriage, Howard knew that Beatrice Swan would never make an acceptable Young bride. Taking out his bankbook, Howard calculated that he could pull together a hundred dollars and send Beatrice to Bangor or maybe even Boston. He’d follow that with regular monthly payments. She’d have to accept that.

“I’m not going to destroy my future for some scullery maid,” he said out loud, looking at himself in the mirror.

But Beatrice wouldn’t leave. She wouldn’t take his money. She insisted that she loved him and that she would never leave. When she began to show signs of her pregnancy, the household began to whisper. One night his father summoned Howard into his study.

“What do you know about Beatrice’s condition?” Desmond Young asked.

“Nothing, sir. The child is not mine.”

He could see that his father didn’t believe him. But the patriarch seemed pleased with what would be the official family line. “We will keep her on,” he pronounced. “As Christian people, we cannot cast her out for her unfortunate sin. We will keep her with us, where she cannot be the subject of gossip and innuendo.”

There were nights when Beatrice’s sobs echoed up from the basement and through the house. Howard’s brothers smirked in his direction. Nothing had ever been admitted, but it seemed everyone knew, even Howard’s mother, who nonetheless presented a placid demeanor. An elaborate pretense was maintained. No one ever commented on Beatrice’s pregnancy. She got bigger and bigger, but no one ever said a word.