“Nothing at all?” asked Catherine desperately.
“Only rest and time. The tonics will build up his strength. You must prevent him from taking exercise and see that he is not disturbed by any bad news.” Seeing Catherine’s horror, Dr Flint gave an encouraging smile. “Take heart, Miss Sharp! I have every reason to believe that it is only a passing weakness. These illnesses are troubling, but not overly dangerous. And your father is in very good spirits, considering.”
“But what can have caused all this?” asked Catherine, though she hardly dared listen for the answer. “What has brought it on?”
“It could be any number of things. It could just as easily be nothing at all. It is impossible to say for certain, Miss Sharp. You should not worry yourself unduly. It is not contagious, it is not likely to have been caused by something he ate or some activity he performed. Only time will tell if it will recur once he has recovered. In the meantime, you must try not to be too concerned. An excess of worry will only bring you pain.”
Catherine nodded, although inwardly she felt the pains of her guilt still more keenly than before. She had not done her part to keep bad news from her father’s ears. In fact, she had been the cause of it.
When the doctor had left and the house was quiet for the night, Catherine sank into her bed with an exhausted sigh. It had been the longest of long days.
Sleep eluded her. She lay staring at the ceiling, the events of the past week churning over in her mind. Always, inevitably, Harry’s face swam into her thoughts. She could not stop thinking about him.
Did she want a repeat of the kiss? Was she really so wanton?
Try as she might, she could not bring herself to be horrified with what she had done.
It seemed ridiculous now that only a short time ago she had been weeping with fear at the prospect of marrying Mr Hinton. That danger had now receded so far that she could barely remember it.
Her thoughts were all of Harry. The warm touch of his hand. The way he had cried her name when she entered his house in a state of panic. What did these things signify?
Catherine must have slept, but she took no rest from it. Her waking thoughts and her dreams intermingled into a vast and bottomless confusion. It was all Westbourne – the Hall, the title, the handsome and frustrating Duke.
What she felt was not love. It could not be. It was distressing, confusing, and entirely too much like madness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Harry waited out two days before summoning his steward and instructing him to take care of the household business for a while. His master was going to Devon.
Two days of drinking with Kirby, visiting his acquaintance who were too polite to mention that they had been gossiping about the Duke only seconds before he stepped into their drawing rooms, and two days of prowling the grounds of Westbourne Hall restlessly wishing that Catherine were close by.
This was worse than when she had been locked away in her sister’s house. At least then he knew that she was near. He had been able to leave her the gift by the riverbank. He did not even know if she had received it, but when he went to check on it he found it gone.
His mood took a turn for the irritable. Even his aunt took note of it, and amused herself with dire proclamations about his health and his state of mind.
His mother took him aside the morning that he decided to leave. Things had not been quite right between them since he accused her of indifference to his failed marriage to Juliana. Harry had not recovered his spirits enough to apologise, and his mother had avoided raising the subject. Remorse was plain on her face each time he looked at her – so he chose not to look.
“I hear that you intend to go away for a while,” she said gently. “Am I to suppose that you are going to Elmston?”
“It is the only way to ensure my happiness, mother,” said Harry. His mind was not on the conversation; he had been in his room directing his valet on what to pack when his mother called him away.
“I would like to give you some letters to take to my friends there, if I may.”
“Certainly.”
“Harry,” sighed his mother, touching the lock of dark hair that was continually falling across his eyes. “What am I to do with you? I only ever wished you happy, you know that. Sometimes happiness comes from affection. But what is the use of affection without money? Money accounts for everything in life. Our food, our warmth, our servants, our shelter. You are still too young to understand the evils of the world. It can be cruel to those who lack for position or wealth – terribly cruel.”
The lines on her face showed all the pain of a long life of troubles. Harry recalled that she had grown up in a family much like Catherine’s – constantly fearing that their small funds would not be enough to see them through. Then, just as she thought she had found her salvation in his father, Mr Marsden had turned out to be a wastrel and a drunk.
Yes, his mother had suffered. Longer and more bitterly than he. Harry was overcome with a rush of affection towards her. She had stayed so kind and good despite it all – and yet here he was, sulking over the agony of a few short days and causing pain to everyone around him!
“I am sorry, mother,” he said, embracing her to her great surprise. “I will be better, I promise. I need the influence of good women in my life – you and Miss Sharp both. I am all at sea without you.”
“You will be a wonderful husband to her, my dear,” said his mother, smiling fondly. “Now, let me finish writing my letters and then be off without delay. I expect you to come back fully prepared to be a bridegroom.”
“Ha!” The idea of a wedding had seemed poisonous in Harry’s mind for so many years. Now, he began to think on how it might be a happy occasion, with him and his Cathy at its centre. “I hope you are disposed to plan a wedding, Mother. Mine will be the most lavish the ton has ever seen. I intend to treat Miss Sharp better than a wife has ever been treated before.”
“Resolve to treat her kindly,” suggested his mother. “That is all you can do, my dear son. Be kind, and happiness will surely follow.”
She went off smiling to her desk.
Harry felt a twist of inward pain. He knew that it had not occurred to his mother that Catherine was not already in love with him. She was the sort of mother who believes all the world is in love with her children.
He waited only enough time to dash off a quick missive to his brothers in London, informing them of the most recent developments before the ton gossip reached their ears, and then he was in his carriage and away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Catherine’s father had made a considerable recovery over the past two days. On the first day of her visit, he was well enough to sit up in bed and feed himself some gruel. On the second day, she was awoken by the thumping of his cane as he marched up and down his bedchamber. It took all the efforts of herself and Robson to persuade him to lie down again.
By the afternoon, he was sitting up in the chair in his study, a little fatigued but thoroughly bored by his long sojourn in bed. Catherine sat beside him and read from their little stock of books in an effort to keep him still.
“Hmph! I could use some new reading material,” he grumbled, reaching for his cane and dislodging the shawl his daughter had tenderly wrapped about his shoulders. “Come, Cathy, let us go into town and look at Mr Hawkins’s bookshop. It is not far and the fresh air will do me good.”
“Under no circumstance are you to leave that chair,” said Cathy fondly. Mr Sharp was not yet strong enough to put up much of a fight. “Now, where were we? Ah…”
It should have been a time of the utmost pleasure – quiet hours spent in her beloved father’s company, reading together from the books they both loved. But there was one thing – a large and awful thing – which as yet had been left unspoken between them, and that was the subject of Catherine’s future.
If Mr Sharp had received Harry’s letter asking for Catherine’s hand, he did not mention it. Cathy herself did not dare bring up the subject for fear of ups
etting her fragile father. Thus her transgression hovered in the air between them, an unspoken and shameful thing.
For this reason, they were both completely unprepared when Robson announced that the Duke of Westbourne was calling upon Mr Sharp.
Harry at the front door! Catherine’s heart froze in her chest. She had not yet had time to consider her feelings towards the Duke. She did not know what she wanted to say to him – in front of her father, no less!
“My father is not at home to visitors,” she said quickly, before Mr Sharp could respond. “He is too unwell to see anybody. Really, Robson, you ought to have told the Duke as much at once.”
Robson’s eyes slid nervously to Mr Sharp. “Pardon me, Miss. I thought that, perhaps, under the circumstances…”
“Bring him into the drawing room,” said Mr Sharp, pushing himself to his feet. “I will see the boy. Young Harry Marsden a Duke! It stretches the imagination.”
“Papa, please do not speak to His Grace,” begged Catherine. “You will only upset yourself –”
“Why? Is there some reason I should expect him to upset me?” Mr Sharp lowered his craggy eyebrows. “Or are you angling to go and speak to the young ruffian yourself?”
Catherine had no answer for that. She merely lowered her eyes and was grateful that Robson averted his gaze from her blushes.
“I will tell him you are not at home, sir,” he said. Mr Sharp moved to protest, but instead sank back onto his chair with a great sigh.
“Ah! It’s for the best, Robson. Do tell the Duke the reason I am not able to see my visitors, and entreat him to call again tomorrow.”
“Certainly not tomorrow,” interrupted Catherine. “Two days at least, Papa.”
“Very well. Though if you intend to keep me trussed up like a plucked chicken for two more days, Cathy –”
“Don’t distress yourself, Papa. If you are much recovered by tomorrow I’ll allow you to take a walk in the garden,” said Catherine with a half-hidden grin. Mr Sharp made as much of a show of vexation as he could manage.
So Harry was sent away disappointed! Catherine wondered how he would take it. He had certainly come to Devon with the sole purpose of speaking to her father – and of seeing her.
The terms on which they had parted had been friendly enough. That thought alone made Catherine frown. Was friendly really all she could wish for in her future husband? It had seemed so much better than the awkward agony of Mr Hinton that she had not considered what her true hopes and dreams were for her marriage.
Mr Sharp was soon tired enough to take to his bed. Catherine saw that he was settled in and then turned to the pile of correspondence which had built up over the course of his illness. There were one or two personal letters for her father, and these she set aside. Several letters of business, which she opened and perused. Her father had long ago trained all his daughters in the necessaries of maintaining a house and its finances. It was an unusual attitude to take towards his female offspring, but in the absence of a mother the education of the three girls had unfolded exactly according to their father’s particular quirks. And he would not have useless women for daughters. He had raised them to be independent-minded and strong – something he no doubt rather regretted now that Agnes had married herself to a penniless parson and Catherine had flung herself into the arms of a roguish Duke while engaged to another man.
The thought of her mother gave Catherine a moment’s pause. If she were to marry Harry, she might in the fullness of time become a mother herself. She felt something sadly lacking in her own experience on that subject. Her own mother had died when Alice was born, and the difference in age between them was not great enough that Catherine remembered much of her mother’s love. The whisper of a soft voice soothing her to sleep after a nightmare, the clean and floral scent of her embrace – these little fragments were all that remained.
Catherine felt more than prepared to embark on the adventure of marriage. She was, after all, nearing her twenty-fourth birthday. But motherhood was something quite different. She had seen the strain Agnes had suffered when taking on the responsibilities for her sisters that a mother should rightly bear. How would Catherine cope under such a strain herself?
It was yet another thing to add to the list of disquieting imaginings that accompanied her picture of life as Duchess of Westbourne.
The remaining letters were addressed to Catherine. One was from her aunt in London, inquiring curiously about the truth behind the rumours of scandal which had already spread through the ton. Mrs Riley was Mr Sharp’s younger sister by some years, and was closer in age to his daughters than to him. She had always been a close confidante of the Sharp girls. Catherine felt a pang of guilt that she had not written sooner.
Reading between the lines of Mrs Riley’s letter, Catherine picked up on an indirect invitation to go and spend some time secluded in their house on Polbrook Street. True, the Season was beginning to enter its full swing and London life would not be tranquil, but if she needed some respite from the strictures of life with Agnes or the disapproval of her father, the offer was there.
The second letter was from Miss Hendrington. Catherine glanced it over without truly reading it. She supposed she should have been glad that her new friend – if friend was the proper word on so slender an acquaintance – had not thrown her off entirely after witnessing her disgrace. It boded well for the future, and for other, dearer friends she had run the risk of scandalising.
Her mind was too full of Harry and their uncertain future together to concentrate. She set the letter aside, deciding to read it later when she was not in such a state of shock. She wished very much that her father’s recovery continued speedily. If she did not discover his opinion of her match tomorrow, she would likely go mad.
There was but one option open to her while her father was abed.
She would go to the Duke himself and discover exactly what he had written in his letter. She would apologise for her rough behaviour at their parting, and hope he had forgiven her.
It did speak well that he had chased her all the way to Devon. As Catherine made her preparations to go out she could not restrain herself from a secret smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
According to his calling-card, Harry was staying at his family’s old residence in Helmsley Grove. It was but a short distance from Catherine’s house and a breezy, pleasant walk which took her through the park and close to the cliff tops. She could not resist making a short detour to take in the view from atop her beloved craggy cliffs.
The curve of the bay spread out on either side, shining in the sunlight like a bejewelled necklace laid out on a lady’s dressing table. Although the sea was choppy and scattered with white foam, the sky was barely touched by clouds. To Catherine’s eyes the wild scene was perfect. Only with the wind whipping at her face did she feel truly at home.
She was feeling much brighter from the exercise when she arrived at Harry’s house. Her spirits were lifted and her worries seemed all blown away. How could anything at all go wrong on such a glorious day?
She was shown in to Harry’s drawing room, where he received her with great surprise and a pleasure which showed in the high colour of his cheeks. “Cathy! You should not have come. Though I am very glad to see you – very glad indeed.” He stopped just short of embracing her, perhaps recalling that they had not parted on the most intimate terms. “Can your reputation withstand a visit to a gentleman alone? There are no ladies here that you can claim to be calling on.”
“Oh, my reputation!” Catherine actually laughed. “It is very odd of you to have a care for my reputation now, after all that has passed between us!”
“Am I not to think of every little thing when it comes to the happiness of my future bride?” asked Harry, smiling. Catherine was distressed to hear him refer to her so.
“Do not call me that yet, Your Grace. Nothing is yet settled. It has been days now since our – our indiscretion – and no engagement has been announced. I am afraid th
at my reputation is already beyond repair.”
“I have done all I can to remedy it. I called upon your father this morning, but –”
“Yes, I know. Please do not imagine that he refused to see you out of any ill will. At least, I do not think he bears ill will towards you. He has been bed-bound these past few days and is not at all up to company. Least of all company which might…inflame his emotions.” She did not say temper. She was still hoping for a cordial agreement between her father and the Duke.
“How selfish of me!” cried Harry. “Here I am, so caught up in seeing you again that I did not even enquire after your father’s health! Tell me, how is he? I hope it is not very bad.”
Catherine tried to speak with as much cheer as she could muster. “It is a complaint of the heart. I was very frightened to hear it, but Dr Flint does not think it terribly serious.”
“That is good to hear.”
Catherine studied Harry’s countenance closely as they spoke. She was looking for signs – she did not quite know of what – for any symptom of distrust within his face, disgust with her, or regret at the situation he found himself in. There seemed to be nothing, but she was no great reader of men.
Harry looked at her with the same earnest brightness he always had. Though their conversation was as easy and sincere as she remembered from their youth, there was no more to it than that. She felt quite certain that Harry felt the same way towards her now as he did six years ago. She was a dear friend to him.
That was good. No-one would throw off a dear friend under such circumstances. And yet… Was it wrong to have hoped for more? Catherine could not imagine how Harry might appear if he were truly in love, but she felt certain it would both look and feel different from the charming and expressive young gentleman to whom she was accustomed.
“Will you tell me what was in your letter to Papa? I fear I shall find no rest until things are resolved between us. As yet he has given me no indication of his thoughts, and I cannot bear to touch upon the subject while he remains so weak. Dr Flint gave clear instructions to keep him from extremes of temper.”
The Duke Suggests a Scandal Page 10