“I am not much for dancing, I’m afraid,” Avebury said. He bowed.
Catherine watched as he moved off into the crowd, eventually easing himself into a seat guarded for him by the blushing girls, who seemed very much in awe of him. As the music struck up again, she smoothed her dress over her legs, feeling her useless limb, twisted and bent, through the lush pink fabric. Her eyes tingled. She tasted salt tears in the back of throat, and was immediately ashamed. She had not cried in a very long time. Why now? “Neither am I, Captain Avebury,” she said softly. “Neither am I.”
For a moment she felt bitterly sorry for herself. The missed opportunities. The cruel looks, whispers, comments. The discomfort of servants when they had to wait on her. The sheer force of will that made it possible for her to have any kind of life outside the walls of her home – it exhausted her.
But here I am, she reminded herself. I am here. And I am in control. I will not let myself fade out of sight because of a single withered leg. I will not. I will not let Papa hide me away – not now, and certainly not after he is dead.
She was jolted from her musings by Melinda’s hand on her elbow.
“Dearest,” Melinda said in a low voice. “We will need to leave, and do so as quietly as possible. If I send for a footman, there will be a disruption. Do you suppose you could lean on me just until we are outside the door? Papa has sent the coach for us.”
“Leave? Why—”
Melinda wasted no words. “Your father, Catherine. You must go to him immediately.”
Catherine drew back. She saw Melinda’s concerned expression, and felt her own face stiffen. “Is he dying?” She said the words with such coolness that even Melinda was shocked.
“Catherine, you must go to him.”
“Is he dying?”
“He is near the end.”
“Then I will go. But if he is not dying, I will turn around and head home. I have no need to see him more than once.” She rose, placing as much of her weight as she could on the arm Melinda proffered. “Let us get this over with.”
As she limped heavily out of the room, she cast one last, regretful look over in the direction of Captain Avebury and his friends. She was sorry to have misled him into thinking that she was Miss Claverton, and not Lady Catherine Claverton. She wished she could have stayed to explain herself.
But Bath was a small town. They would meet again.
Chapter 2
When Jocelyn managed to turn around, it was to find she had gone. The golden-haired vision in pink hidden in the window seat had disappeared, as if she had been a spectre, a phantom from his imagination and his deepest dreams.
His heart sank.
She did not know him – no one knew him. But, after a few minutes of observation, she had guessed more about him than anyone normally discovered. And perhaps she had guessed still more – he wanted to know what her beautiful blue eyes had seen. Perhaps she was a ghost indeed. Or perhaps a fortune-teller, like the Oracle at Delphi.
Jocelyn tried not to grimace at the tittering of the two girls next to him. It was beginning to grate, the constant giggling. He neither liked nor disliked Lieutenant Forster, who had latched onto him as soon as he had stepped ashore and was anxiously awaiting to hear whether he would finally receive his first command. When Forster explained he had promised to accompany his younger sister to Bath, Jocelyn thought it seemed as good a place as any to sit and think about his fate.
He had thought he would go to London, where he could keep an ear on the news from the Admiralty and pick up any rumours that he was being sought. He almost laughed bitterly but caught himself just in time. The soprano began to inexpertly negotiate a trill and the girls giggled again. Sooner or later, someone would come in search of Jocelyn Avebury. And then the ugly truth would emerge.
But he held a half-hearted belief that he could hide, that he could outrun his pursuers. He wasn’t trying too hard to evade them. He hadn’t changed his appearance or rid himself of the uniform. The uniform – ah, that was the one source of any pride he had ever possessed. He had offered up his life time and again for the sake of His Majesty’s uniform. And not once had God seen fit to accept the sacrifice. He had been returned, sent back over and over again, to the life that he had been given.
For a price, he could leave his London agent and hire one who was more adept at avoiding the law. Then no one would be able to track his movements through watching how he disposed of the vast amounts of prize money he had acquired over the years. But he’d spent barely a penny of it. Money, it seemed to him, was a largely useless commodity: it would never buy honour, or bravery, or truth. And, if you were on the run, it followed you and made it possible for the law to find you. So he had considered handing his business affairs over to a shady lawyer in Portsmouth. He had also considered fleeing to the West Indies, or to the Americas. But it all seemed pointless. The good admiral had tried to do him a favour, but it was only a matter of time before the truth became known. And, had the admiral known the truth, he would not have wanted to stick his neck out for Jocelyn.
Applause was breaking out. He stretched his legs and hoped that the concert had reached its end.
“… splendid,” Forster was saying something. He nudged Jocelyn in the ribs and winked.
“Is it over?” Jocelyn asked.
“Lord, I hope so.” For a moment, they sat, surveying the crowd. The musicians made no move to pack up their instruments, but began tuning and polishing again. Forster groaned.
“John, we are so thirsty. Would you fetch us some lemonade?” Miss Fanny Forster addressed her brother, then leant over to catch Jocelyn’s eye. “Are you enjoying yourself, Captain Avebury?”
“Very much,” he replied. “I’ll go with you, Forster.” He caught the look of disappointment that flashed over Miss Forster’s face, but extracted himself from the chair with relief. The chairs were too small – or his legs were too long. He followed Lieutenant Forster to the refreshment table.
“Bath always has these insipid entertainments,” Forster muttered under his breath. “But it’s the only place that m’father would allow Fanny to come to without Mother.” He cast a disgusted look about the room. “It’s no wonder.”
Jocelyn took a quick look at the high-necked, modestly cut garments on the ladies around him. His mind turned to the vision in pink. Miss Claverton’s gown had been cut quite low, he realised. The exquisite lines set off a porcelain complexion and a long, lovely throat adorned with pearls.
Those blue eyes.
He sipped at his lemonade idly.
“… deathbed.”
“How positively dreadful.”
“But you know they haven’t spoken in years.”
“Yes. He was …” The voice behind him dropped, and he only heard a faint mutter that sounded like “crueller beyond imagining.”
Jocelyn tried to move out of the way. The two conversants elbowed forward appreciatively. Then his ear caught the word “Claverton.” He paused.
“Certainly she will be quite wealthy. But the title will die with the earl. There were, apparently, sons from the earl’s first marriage, but none of them live. Lady Catherine is his daughter by his second wife and they had no other children. It was a disappointment: he needed sons.”
“Pity. No wonder he hated her so much. If only she had been a boy! Such an ancient title, reverting to the Crown.”
There was an unkind snort. “I imagine Lady Catherine won’t suffer.”
“Oh, no! But to have one’s father despise one – it isn’t to be wished for. Even with all the money in the world.”
Jocelyn had heard enough. He pushed through the crowd, away from the table. Lieutenant Forster was chatting with an attractive, dark-haired young woman whose scowling mama stood by protectively. Naval men were not in favour here, apparently.
So Lady Catherine Claverton. Daughter of an earl.
And – like himself – alone in the world.
Chapter 3
Catherine rapped
on the roof of the carriage. The lurching eased, then stopped.
“My lady?”
“Do not push the horses so,” Catherine said sharply. “I will not have them ruined.”
“Yes, my lady.” The door shut. Catherine could feel the wide-eyed gaze of her maid upon her. Never mind. Perhaps others felt differently when rushing to the side of a father on his deathbed. She, however, preferred the company of her horses, and she controlled her stables with an iron fist. No horses would give themselves up for the sake of the Earl of Delamare. She leant back in the comfortable darkness.
The maid nodded off again. Clara was a country girl without the finesse society considered necessary in one who was lady’s maid to the daughter of an earl. But she was stout and honest, and did not flinch when her mistress needed to be lifted or required other assistance in the bath or in her dressing room. No, there were no dignified London dressers for Catherine – the ministrations of her rustic helpers would do very well. She usually travelled with her companion, the London-bred Miss Lydia Barrow. But for this particular task, she preferred the company of as dumb and innocuous a servant as she could find.
She, Catherine Claverton, was in control. She might be a cripple, but she would not be dominated. Not by her father, not by her servants, not by society … Catherine ticked her potential masters off on her fingers. She smiled briefly. There was a confrontation ahead of her, to be sure. She did not relish the thought of it, but avoidance was only a temporary solution. It would have to take place.
She hoped her father was already dead and she would be spared the unpleasantness of actually speaking to him. The discussion would still have to happen, but his man of business would be a less unpleasant substitute.
These were not well-bred thoughts. Catherine chided herself as another grim smile curled her lip. But that Delamare’s daughter thought them was his own fault. He had banished his only child to a solitary life on a distant estate – but had given her a tremendous gift by doing so.
Freedom.
She answered to no one.
Another girl would, perhaps, have sorrowed at the open disdain of her father. Another girl would, perhaps, have been afraid for her position – after all, the earldom was reverting to the Crown. Another girl might have feared for her safety: with no husband and no father to protect her, hungry men lurking behind every corner would reach sticky fingers for her gold.
At least she had no fear that any man would have designs on her virtue. She smiled into the darkness. “I fear nothing,” she said aloud. Startled at the sound of her voice, she glanced at the maid who slept on. She would have to watch herself. The next few days would be filled with tension. She could not break. She would not allow it.
Catherine dozed off and on but, even as she drifted, she was aware of the pace of the horses. She calculated they would arrive at Albrook early in the afternoon, although they could have made the journey in much less time had it not been for her concern about the horses. But she knew this concern was somewhat artificial; her true concern was for herself. With the change in her circumstances, how would she keep the control she had of her world?
However, when she finally caught sight of the grand Tudor façade, her heart constricted in spite of her determination to master herself. Albrook – the prison of her childhood. She hated every stone in its foundations, every blade of grass in its sweeping expanse of lawn. As a child, she had plotted its destruction, wishing for strength, for an army. But, as a cripple and as a girl, her means were limited, her friends few.
Stern faces greeted the carriage as it drew up: the housekeeper, the butler, the usual gathering of upper servants. Clara got out first and, once on the ground, she turned and extended her arms for Catherine. Two footmen started to move forward, but Clara stopped them with a sharp word. Her mistress descended, leaning on her for support.
No one spoke.
A gentle spring breeze ruffled through the wisps of hair that slipped over Catherine’s ears and about the sides of her face. Ah, springtime at Albrook. How well she remembered the damp fecund smell of the earth, the sheep droppings, the rotting leaves of last year’s summer.
“My lady,” the butler began. “We are—”
“Take me to my father,” Catherine interrupted. She spoke as loudly as she could manage, and her words seemed to ricochet off the sandstone of the portico. She saw the butler pause, glancing at the housekeeper as he did so. Catherine addressed her next.
“Is he awake?”
“No, my lady,” the housekeeper said.
“Is the doctor here?”
“He has just left, my lady. He will return this evening, and wishes to wait on you at that time.”
“Very well.” Clara had sent the footman for a chair, which she made comfortable with a cushion and a shawl before helping her mistress into it. There was a chilly silence. Catherine leant back. She looked from one stony face to the next. These people, she thought, have never bothered to treat me with even the formal courtesy my title deserves. When the earl is dead, you will all lose your livelihoods. And I won’t be a bit sorry.
She almost smiled. But, instead, she nodded at the footmen and they gently lifted the seat and carried her inside.
In truth, she could have walked in on her own two feet having learnt over the years how to overcome the ugly, lumbering limp that the Albrook servants surely recalled from her childhood. She could walk tolerably well now, compared to those sad days. But she preferred to enter the doors of this prison in such estate as she could arrange, the better to remind her jailers that she was not the shy young girl whom they had treated as a weak-minded invalid.
She was carried into the library, which surprised her, but she recalled that it was the one room where the fire was kept stoked at all times, even in the spring and through much of the summer. Certainly no such effort had ever been expended on the nursery where she had spent most of her long lonely hours. The footmen lowered her chair, and Clara set about assisting her with her hat and shawl, while bidding the footmen to await Lady Catherine’s pleasure outside the door – she would wish to be taken to her father shortly
A tall man with a long thin face hurried into the room. He held out his hands, and Catherine reached forward eagerly to grasp them. Beaseley had aged tremendously since she had seen him last, the skin on his hands grown more papery and wrinkled and his grey hair thinning and showing more of his scalp than she remembered. In spite of herself, she felt her heart moved by his devotion to the family. Beaseley had made the difference between a life of privation and shame and the independent existence she currently enjoyed. It could not have been easy, walking the line between the rage of his employer and the suffering of a child.
“Lady Catherine! I beg your pardon, for I have only just arrived. I hope you are in good health?”
“I am, thank you, Mr Beaseley. Pray, tell me what news?”
Beaseley shook his head. “I am sorry to say that the news is not good.” He paced restlessly as two young maids brought in the tea tray. Clara dismissed them and set about pouring the tea.
“Clara,” Catherine said, “you may leave us. Do not wander far. I will need you shortly.”
The door shut behind her. For a moment, the only sounds were the crackling fire and the baa-ing of distant sheep. Catherine looked around the room. It had not changed at all. Soon, she would leave this room, leave this house, never to see it again, and it would be a burden lifted from her heart. There would be no necessary public demonstration of respect, no dutiful acknowledgement of her family. The Clavertons of Albrook would simply cease to exist. Yes, she herself was a Claverton, but – and here her lips twisted in an expression of disgust – she would do her best to rid herself of the association as effectively as they had rid themselves of her.
If she could change her name, she would.
Albrook could fade into the history books, as far as she was concerned. She could imagine weeds taking over the elaborate formal gardens, rust stains under leaking windows, and th
e chapel – with its generations of dead Clavertons buried under the floor – abandoned and silent. She could imagine paying a visit, preferably under gloomy grey skies, just to see this place die. It was unfortunate that she would not live long enough to see the buildings tumble down onto their foundations.
She shook herself a little. It was a strange daydream, but one she had enjoyed off and on for years.
“I trust that you have just come from London, Mr Beaseley?”
Beaseley was staring out of a corner window, absently stroking his flyaway hair. He turned, startled. “I beg your pardon, Lady Catherine?”
Catherine laughed. “Come, Mr Beaseley. What occupies you so? We have known of my father’s illness for these past four years. I am sure nothing you could tell would shock me! Is there some new trouble in his business affairs?”
Beaseley shook his head. “No, my lady. That is … that is … it is … As you know, there are no heirs to the earldom. The title will revert to the Crown. And you, of course, are the last Claverton. Most of the family assets will come to you. Certain properties belonging to your late mother will also come to you, as well as monies that …” His voice trailed off.
“I’m not interested in Albrook,” she replied. “Close it up, do with it as you wish. I will stay at Wansdyke.”
Beaseley bowed.
Catherine sipped her tea. Beaseley was a kind man. She had known him all her life. He had eased the transition to living with her governess at her mother’s country property near Bath all those years ago. He had made sure she was never short of funds, and had left her to handle the matters of her household on her own, with no interference from Albrook. Were he a different sort of steward, he could have made her life quite difficult and unpleasant. He might have refused to speak with her directly, or have required that she appoint a manager of her own. But he had known her mother, and he also knew how to handle the earl. But Beaseley was not all-powerful.
The Portrait Page 2