by Martha Keyes
Wrinkles appeared at the corner of Lady Purbeck’s eyes as she smiled at Kate’s words. Lord Purbeck blinked and walked away from the group. His wife gave only the slightest evidence of noticing his departure, her eyes moving briefly in his direction before returning to Kate.
“Anne is my little angel,” she said, tucking one of Anne’s stray hairs behind her ear. “But William has also been very complimentary, my dear, and he is not quite so generous with his praise in general. We are always so happy to welcome amiable company into the neighborhood, or back into the neighborhood, in your case.”
No sooner had she finished speaking than Lord Ashworth appeared at her side, slightly breathless. He kissed his mother’s and sister’s cheeks and made his apologies. He smiled at Kate and made his bow to her.
Her heart seemed to skip at the sight of him. It was better not to look at him. She curtsied without meeting his eye.
“My dear,” said Lady Purbeck, smiling at her son with affection. “We hear nothing from you all day, only for you to arrive quite out of breath and wearing what I can only assume is Spires’ special boot blacking on your face.”
She lifted a hand to his brow to wipe away the small streak of black, but his hand shot up to his hairline before hers. His fingers searched, and once they had found their mark, he pulled them away. The fingers were streaked with black.
Kate froze. She stared at the spot of black, fading into his hairline. She would likely not have noticed it, had it not been pointed out by Lady Purbeck. Now it was all she could see.
“Ah, yes,” Lord Ashworth said with a laugh. “How clumsy of me. Spires left out the blacking, and I set a hand in it, unheeding. I must have touched my face after. I thought I had cleaned it all.”
His mother wiped away what remained of the mark with her handkerchief. The loving gesture and the indulgent expression she wore made Lord Ashworth look like a little boy. It was an endearing exchange tainted by the circumstances under which it occurred.
Unless Lady Purbeck was an incredibly skilled actress, she was clearly unaware of the significance of shoe blacking on her son’s face.
During their conversation in the wagon, Lord Ashworth had seemed sympathetic, both to her and to Jasper Clarkson. Was it possible that it had all been an act? That he was actually complicit? And the connection she had felt with him only hours ago in the stables—had she fallen in love with a skillful deceiver?
Lord Ashworth turned to her, and his smile wavered upon seeing her face. To her horror, Kate felt her eyes begin to sting and then water. She blinked rapidly.
He put out his hand to her, his expression of concern pronounced, but she excused herself from the group on the pretense that she had something in her eye.
Kate had no particular destination in mind, only a determination to put distance between herself and Lord Ashworth. Such an emotional reaction to his suspected duplicity came as a surprise to her. It was, of course, possible that his story was true. But viewed in connection with the circumstances at Weymouth, it seemed too great a coincidence.
“Miss Matcham.”
She blinked rapidly to dry her eyes and turned toward the voice.
It was Simon. Arm in arm with a woman unfamiliar to Kate.
“Simon,” Kate exclaimed. “What a surprise! I had no notion you would be here.”
He inclined his head. “Aunt Agatha and Lady Crofte are friends. Miss Matcham, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Susan Graham. She has been somewhat of a companion to Aunt Agatha.”
He looked down at the young woman on his arm, and Miss Graham smiled shyly at him before looking to Kate.
Kate’s jaw slackened, leaving her mouth open slightly. They were in love.
Dinner was announced, and Kate stood dazedly until she was approached by Mr. Bradbury, offering his arm. She smiled weakly at him as she placed her arm in his.
Clara went in on the arm of Lord Ashworth, as Lady Crofte looked on with a satisfied smile. Clara shot a backward glance at Mr. Bradbury and Kate, her smile flickering for a moment at the sight of them.
Kate found herself seated at the low end of the table with Mr. Bradbury on her right and Simon on her left. Simon’s head was turned toward Miss Graham on his other side.
She looked to the head of the table where Lord and Lady Purbeck were seated nearest Lady Crofte and Sir Richard. They seemed a great distance away.
Lord Ashworth had his head down, speaking to the hunched octogenarian at his side who responded in a startlingly loud voice. Clara was to Lord Ashworth’s other side and seemed unable to resist frequent glances at Mr. Bradbury.
Kate had begun the evening in a humor that was a confusing mix between anger and despondency, but she knew she had a duty to carry on conversation. The niggling thoughts about what Simon’s newfound love meant for her she determinedly pushed aside for a time when she could put her mind to the problem. She smiled and talked, but her stomach felt tense.
Mr. Bradbury seemed to be in a distracted and somber mood. Having temporarily set aside her own concerns, she decided she would apply herself to whatever made him look so grave. Before long, she had successfully drawn him out and made him laugh. By dessert, she felt that they had come to a good understanding of one another.
Judging from the way his eyes frequently traveled to where Clara and Lord Ashworth sat, Clara occupied no insignificant place in his thoughts. From various casual comments Mr. Bradbury made, Kate seriously suspected that, absent pressure from other sources, he and Clara would have made a match of it.
Kate looked at Clara. She was talking to Lord Ashworth as his hands moved back and forth, cutting a carrot. From the way Clara’s eyes constantly flitted to Kate, Kate knew she was the subject of their discussion.
Lord Ashworth’s wrists rested on the table as his hands went still, the carrot left half-cut. He looked at Kate and then Simon and finally back to Kate.
Why was he looking at her in that way, as if seeing her in a new light? Her eyes shifted underneath his gaze, and her sleeves felt too tight. She turned toward Simon for something to occupy her, trying not to wonder what Lord Ashworth had just learned from Clara.
She leaned over to Simon. “Am I to wish you happy, then, friend?” The words were whispered. She didn’t wish Miss Graham to overhear.
He looked over at Miss Graham. She was occupied in conversation with the gentleman to her right. Simon leaned back toward Kate, matching her low tones. “I wished to speak to you on that subject. I would prefer to do it in private, but I don’t know that we will have opportunity.” He looked around and seemed satisfied that no one would overhear.
“First and foremost, I wish to say that, if you have had a change of heart or mind about—” he again glanced around the table warily “—what we last discussed….” He looked at Kate, and she nodded her understanding. “I hope you know that I am a man of my word.” He straightened himself in his chair.
Kate swallowed and put a hand over his with a grateful squeeze. She smiled at him and sighed.
“But?” she said. She schooled her expression into a teasing one. She couldn’t let him see the dismay she was feeling.
“But,” he said slowly. “Miss Graham and I have formed an attachment.”
Kate’s hand came up to cover her smile. She was genuinely happy for Simon. He deserved to love and be loved.
“Simon,” she said. Her eyes stared into his forcefully. “If you hesitate even a moment in offering for Miss Graham for my sake, I shall never speak to you again.” She let a smile break the gravity of her gaze. “Allow me to felicitate you.”
Simon shook his head. “I have not yet asked her. Nor have I received any formal indication from her that she will accept me.”
“The way she looks at you,” Kate said, “is the most positive indication I can think of.”
It was the same way Clara and Mr. Bradbury looked at one another.
It was decidedly not the way Clara looked at Lord Ashworth or the way that Lord Ashworth looked at her. But it
would be best not to put much stock in that observation. It was possible that they simply knew one another too well and too long to exhibit the obvious signs typical of more immature love.
And if that were true, surely Clara was aware that Lord Ashworth was involved in the free-trade. It was entirely possible that it would be seen as a benefit to her, given her love of all things French.
While she could understand the dire circumstances which sometimes led people to free-trading, she could never agree with the means used. Many who had taken to the trade as an act of rebellion against the tyranny of their government seemed to have created a new tyranny of their own; others sought only to further cushion their wealth.
All the while, innocents like Jasper Clarkson and Kate’s own father suffered the consequences.
She had been so sure that Lord Ashworth had been disturbed by Jasper’s situation. How she could have so misinterpreted and misjudged him, she was at a loss to know. And when she remembered telling him of her father’s death, something she had kept to herself for so long, she felt a flash of anger toward him.
Their eyes met once more at dinner, his looking a question at her; her own full of the confusion and betrayal she felt. Her eyes refused to hold his gaze.
When the men joined the women in the drawing room, Lady Crofte convinced Clara to play and sing at the pianoforte. Clara didn’t seem to be in the mood for playing and singing, but she capitulated. Kate had come to see that Lady Crofte’s requests were more like commands.
Kate stood at the back corner of the room, admiring Clara and enjoying the expression of unalloyed admiration which Mr. Bradbury wore as he watched her play and sing.
She became aware of Lord Ashworth standing at her side. He held a teacup and followed her gaze.
“Ah yes,” he said, stirring his tea. “It’s bellows to mend with Bradbury.”
Her smile faded, and his own followed suit as he noticed her change in demeanor. He lowered the cup from his mouth, his expression bewildered.
“Miss Matcham,” he said in a low voice, “have I done something to upset you?”
She looked at him for a moment. He seemed genuinely perplexed. Had she wronged him in her assumptions?
With the genuine concern she saw on his face, she needed a reminder of why she felt hurt and betrayal. Her eyes moved to his hairline. Or had it truly been just a bit of shoe blacking?
No, his strange and suspicious behavior in Weymouth, his choice of inn. It was too much coincidence.
She shook her head and looked away. If she were to speak, she would say something she would regret or, heaven forbid, succumb to her emotions.
He persisted, “How have I come to be in your bad graces? You must know that not for the world would I offend you.”
Kate felt eyes on them and noticed Lord Purbeck staring at them from the other side of the room. His eyes held no humor, and his jaw was clenched.
“Please,” she said with a weak attempt to smile for the eyes watching, “no purpose can be served….” A lump formed in her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, moving away from him toward the tea tray. She poured herself a cup of tea, willing her hands to stop shaking so treacherously.
She couldn’t remember the last time her emotions had threatened to overcome her in public. Much less twice in the same evening. She owed it to her hosts to remain at the party until the guests left, but she spent what was left of the evening flitting from one person to another to ensure that she had no chance to interact with Lord Ashworth.
Her feelings toward him had become bewilderingly complex, and she had no desire to converse with him in front of other people without time for reflection. Only then could she decide what her comportment should be toward him.
She seemed not to be the only one whose enjoyment of the evening had suffered. As Clara rose from the pianoforte, she was approached by Mr. Bradbury. Clara raised her chin defiantly and passed by him without a word. Mr. Bradbury stood still, his cheeks reddening.
Kate watched Clara who, reaching the tea table, looked briefly over her shoulder at the man she had just slighted. Whatever Clara had wished to see, the sight of Mr. Bradbury’s back to her caused to raise her chin high a little higher and make her way over to Lord Ashworth.
* * *
By the time Kate reached her bedroom, exhaustion made her eyes dry and her eyelids heavy. Thoughts rushed around in her head despite the haze of fatigue enveloping her.
“I don’t like what this place is doing to you, Miss,” Lindley said with a darkling look as she helped Kate out of her dress.
Kate sighed. “And you so certain that leaving London would be just what I needed.”
Lindley lifted her head. “That was before I knew what type of place this was, Miss. I don’t hesitate to tell you that I don’t like it at all. And I don’t believe Lady Hammond would approve if she knew the half of it.”
“Good gracious, Lindley,” said Kate, turning to her maid in disbelief. “Whatever could she disapprove of?”
Lindley seemed to balk, looking at her mistress with a searching gaze before returning to the task at hand. “Never you mind, Miss. It isn’t my place, and I beg your pardon for forgetting myself.”
Kate’s eyes narrowed. “No, no, Lindley. That won’t do. You will tell me, if you please, what you meant.”
Lindley paused with Kate’s night cap in her hands. Kate looked at her expectantly, and Lindley rubbed the strings between her fingers absently, finally breaking the silence to say, “There is quite a bit of talk below stairs, Miss, and though you know I don’t hold with servant gossip or listening at doors, I’ve seen my fair share of strange goings-on as well.”
Kate’s expectant expression had morphed into one of barely concealed impatience when Lindley mentioned talk below stairs, but upon hearing that her maid had witnessed things herself, she swallowed the rebuke she had been about to give.
She didn’t want to encourage Lindley in gossip about the family who had received her into their home, but Lindley was not the type to listen to or relay frivolous tales from the servants.
“Go on,” she said in a cautious voice.
Lindley looked hesitant. “Perhaps what they say is true, Miss, and ignorance is bliss.”
“Perhaps. But I’m afraid we will not know in this case. You will explain.”
Lindley sighed and pursed her lips, “Just that there are goings on in this house that aren’t what I’d call respectable, Miss. Not to mention the matter of you being brought here under false pretenses.” She hung up Kate’s dress.
Kate’s brows knitted. “What false pretenses?”
Lindley looked at her with an amused smile. “Well, Miss, it would seem that her ladyship and Miss Crofte were under the impression that, in inviting you to Wyndcross, they were welcoming quite the heiress. Evidently they hoped to make a match of it between you and Mr. Crofte.” Lindley’s shoulders shook with laughter until she saw Kate’s face.
Kate’s eyes were wide and round, glazed over. Her mind, already full to the brim with conflicting thoughts, reeled at Lindley’s words. Images from recent memories flashed through her mind. Things which had confused her began to make sense, and things she thought she had understood suddenly took on a different hue and meaning.
She had been flattered by Lady Crofte’s initial benevolence toward her. Lady Crofte had been very attentive during her stay, and though Kate had always suspected that her hostess’ kind demeanor was somewhat tenuous, she had tried to disabuse her mind of such unhandsome suspicions.
However, the past few days had gone further to prove than to disprove such suspicions, as Lady Crofte’s demeanor shifted from attentive to something nearer contempt.
Kate had been at a loss to discover the cause, and, consistent with her practice of believing the best of everyone, had attributed it to her hostess being in a bad humor. But coupled with both Lady Crofte’s and Clara’s past attempts to throw Henry and Kate in company together, and Henry’s own stiffness toward her—no doubt rebellion
and resentment at being forced to court her—it made sense of so much that had perplexed Kate.
When had Lady Crofte’s kindness begun to wane?
Kate remembered the breakfast parlor where she had received her mother’s letter.
“Miss!”
Kate looked at Lindley. Her maid wore a concerned expression.
Kate turned the conversation to less fraught avenues before dismissing her maid for the night. She lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling, arms extended to each side, her palms up.
Now that she had a moment to herself, she couldn’t even decide where to begin. What was most pressing? Trying to understand the Croftes’ motives? Sorting through her thoughts and feelings in regard to Lord Ashworth? Deciding her future now that both an inheritance and marriage to Simon had disappeared from the equation?
More than she had realized, Simon had been her safety net. Knowing that he would gladly marry her, that he would care for her, had been a constant which had kept her from succumbing to despondency over her situation. Her options were now employment or continuing to hang upon her stepfather’s sleeve.
The sacrifice of some of her own dignity seemed inevitable no matter which route she chose.
22
When Kate awoke the next morning, her eyes opened to the ceiling above. It was the same view her eyes had closed to, and her arms were still outstretched. Her mind jumped instantly to the point where it had left off when sleep had mercifully overtaken her just a few short hours before.
Her feelings toward Lord Ashworth should have the least bearing upon her decisions, but they refused to be ushered from the forefront of her mind. Even in the moments where she successfully pushed Lord Ashworth to the side to address other concerns, she found herself at an utter loss.
While the information she had gleaned from Lindley had initially brought enlightenment, upon further inspection, Kate found herself with just as many questions as answers.