by Cheryl Holt
She was so ignorant of the ways of amour that she’d naively thought he’d meant every word he uttered. She’d thought they would convene in London in two weeks so they could figure out how they would be together forever.
What had he thought? He’d probably intended to wheedle and flirt until she let him ruin her. She was just desperate enough that she might have relented.
Gad, but wasn’t she a fool? Wasn’t she a gullible idiot? She wanted to die! She wanted a hole to open in the floor so she could drop into it and vanish.
Priscilla was clutching his arm in a proprietary manner, and she was scowling from him to her. “I’d planned to introduce you,” she said, “but are you two acquainted?”
“No!” they both insisted much too vehemently.
There was an awkward silence, and Catherine was the first to regroup and shake herself out of her stupor. “Ah…when I glanced up, I assumed he was someone I knew from London, but I was mistaken.”
“Oh.” Priscilla was already bored with whatever else Catherine might have added. “Kit, this is the lady’s companion I told you about. Her name is Catherine Barrington.”
“I don’t recall you mentioning a companion,” he tightly replied.
“That’s because you never remember anything I tell you,” Priscilla complained. “It’s so annoying.”
He ignored her. “Hello, Miss Barrington.”
Before Catherine could respond, Priscilla explained, “She’s my chaperone while I move through the busy weeks toward the wedding. Catherine, this is my betrothed, Kit Stanton.”
“Hello, Mr. Stanton,” Catherine managed to spit out. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet you face to face.”
“It’s good to meet you too. How are you enjoying the country?”
“Bolton House is beautiful, and it’s wonderful to be out of the city for a bit.”
There was another awkward silence, and Catherine’s sense of disorientation was growing by leaps and bounds. She was so dizzy she could barely stay on her feet.
“Priscilla, would you excuse me?” she inquired. “I’ve spilled champagne on my skirt and shoes. I should clean up.”
“I suppose you’ll have to,” Priscilla churlishly huffed, “but you’re always flitting off when I need you.”
“I apologize. I’ll return shortly.”
She whipped away and strolled out, but the minute she was in the foyer she dashed up to her room. She crept in and quietly shut the door, not that there was anyone nearby to observe how she acted.
She’d been lodged in a small suite at the rear of the mansion, one that might have been provided to an unlikable mother-in-law or some other unappreciated person. She suspected—had it been Priscilla’s choice—she would have been sharing a bed with the housemaids, but the housekeeper had graciously shown her to the isolated suite.
Initially, she’d been peeved at being so far from the Bolton family. It required extra tromping on stairs to fetch shawls and bonnets as she danced attendance on Priscilla, but considering what had transpired down in the parlor she was pathetically relieved to be able to hide away in the deserted wing of the residence.
It was almost as if the housekeeper had figured she’d be happier if she had a private space all to herself.
She staggered through the sitting room, anxious to reach the bed and lie down before she fell down, but she was so besieged that she couldn’t make it all the way. Her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, stunned, astonished, and aggrieved beyond measure.
In all her days of living, she’d never suffered such a hideous incident. Not even when she and Sarah had been at school and the headmistress had informed them that their parents and Hayden had died. The news had seemed separate from them, as if it had happened to a stranger.
She’d counted on Christopher. No, no, not Christopher. Mr. Kit Stanton. She’d counted on Mr. Stanton. She’d believed he would change her life. She’d started to hope again, to dream again, but it had all been a sham.
What was she to do now?
She couldn’t continue to work for Priscilla, that was certain. She had to get to London as quickly as she could. If she packed her bag and sneaked off, how long would it be until her absence was noted?
She would have to purchase a ticket on the mail coach, but how much would it cost? She doubted she’d brought enough money to pay the fare. But she had to speak with Mrs. Ford to learn where Sarah was employed. Sarah was her twin, and whenever Catherine was distressed the need to be with her grew at an alarming rate. Yet if she fled from her post without warning or notice, how would Mrs. Ford react?
Catherine had never previously given her a spot of trouble, but Mrs. Ford wouldn’t tolerate drama or upheaval. Would Mrs. Ford drop her and refuse to represent her in the future? If so, how would Catherine find another job?
The situation was terrifying, and she was so dreadfully sad she couldn’t think straight. It wasn’t a good time to ponder any important decisions.
The air was cold, no fire lit, and only a single candle burned on the dresser. She should have put on her nightclothes. She should have blown out the candle and climbed under the covers, but she was in a state of shock. She had no idea what would occur in the morning, what would come next.
She managed to grab the quilt off the bed, and she tugged it over herself, achieving a bit of comfort from the worn, stitched fabric.
A memory surfaced of Mr. Stanton down in the parlor. He’d claimed he didn’t recollect that Priscilla had hired a companion, but had he been aware and deliberately trifled with Catherine anyway? Was he that despicable? That debauched?
And what about Libby Markham? She’d lived with the Boltons for years. Surely she knew the identity of Priscilla’s fiancé. Surely she knew he never should have been flirting with Catherine. Had Libby plotted with Mr. Stanton to humiliate Catherine? Had she enjoyed watching Catherine disgrace herself?
Why were people so cruel? Why would anyone hurt Catherine as they had hurt her?
She huddled under the blanket and began to cry.
* * * *
“You look awful.”
“I feel awful.”
Catherine flashed a tight smile at Priscilla, but didn’t expound. She’d spent the night on the hard floor, and she was shaky and unsteady, as if the world was suddenly spinning too fast and she couldn’t keep up.
She hadn’t packed a bag or sneaked away. By dawn, she’d been calmer and more in control of her unruly emotions.
There were scant options she could utilize from where she was currently located, and they were scheduled to stay in the country for a week. It was already the second day so she had five more days to endure. She could tolerate any grueling circumstance for five days.
Mr. Stanton didn’t seem the type of fiancé who would dote on Priscilla so Catherine would likely see him just a handful of times. She would devise ways to avoid any socializing.
Most especially, she could never let him find her alone. As her affection for him had proved, she was entirely unable to shrewdly judge another person’s character. She was positive he would want to explain himself. He’d ooze false remorse over how he’d tricked her, and she could practically predict the rationalizations he would invent.
Once she was back in town, she would immediately call on Mrs. Ford and demand to be reassigned. She would allege that Priscilla’s fiancé had taken an inappropriate fancy to her—which was true. Mrs. Ford always warned her girls about the dangers of that very sort of dilemma, and she’d be allowed to quit her job with no penalty.
At the moment, she was in the dining room, sitting at the table with Priscilla and Gertrude. They were finishing last-minute invitations and reviewing food and beverage lists for Gertrude’s birthday party on Saturday.
“What are our plans for the afternoon?” she asked Priscilla.
“I had intended to visit Kit so I can decide on the changes I’ll make to the house, but he told m
e I can’t come today. He has meetings with his tenants so he won’t be there.”
“That’s too bad,” Catherine lied. If Priscilla insisted she tag along, she might drown herself in the lake out behind the gazebo.
“I ought to just show up anyway,” Priscilla petulantly said. “After all, it will be my home in a few months. Why should he get to prevent me from visiting?”
Catherine tamped down a reply, and Gertrude scolded, “If Kit told you it’s not convenient, then you won’t stop by. I won’t hear anymore about it.”
“I didn’t say I was going to do it,” Priscilla snapped. “I said I ought to. It would serve him right for his refusing to oblige me.”
Gertrude clucked with offense. “You have to alter your attitude with regard to Kit. He’s a mature, independent man, and he’ll never behave as you’re expecting.”
“He’d better start accommodating me or I’ll have Father speak to him.”
Gertrude snorted. “That’s a conversation on which I’d like to eavesdrop. I’d like to see Kit’s face as your father tells him how he should treat you.”
Priscilla was weary of the topic, and she waved it away. “Your complaints are irrelevant, Gertrude. He wants me to come on Sunday so I will.”
Catherine couldn’t bear to listen to them talk about Mr. Stanton. Every time his name was mentioned, it was like the prick of a knife piercing straight to her heart.
“Would you excuse me, Priscilla?” she asked. “As you noticed, I’m not feeling very well this morning.”
Gertrude studied her. “You’re a bit green around the gills. I hope it’s not catching.”
“Would the two of you mind if I return to my room? If there are more invitations to complete, I can finish the stack later on. I think if I took a nap, my condition might improve.”
“I don’t pay you to be sick,” Priscilla scoffed, “so no, you may not loaf in your room.”
“Fine,” Catherine murmured, and she forced a smile. “I’m happy to remain here with you.”
“Actually,” Priscilla said, “I’d like you to walk into the village for me.”
“Walk…to the village?” Catherine mumbled.
“Yes, the baker there makes the most delicious little finger cakes, but he won’t give our cook the recipe. You could get a dozen of them for me.”
“Couldn’t you send a footman?”
“I could, but I’m sending you instead.”
“Then I’d be delighted to go.”
Gertrude interjected herself into the discussion. “If she’s not well, Priscilla, maybe she should lie down.”
“The fresh air will be beneficial,” Priscilla responded. “When she returns, she’ll be good as new.”
Gertrude was about to defend her again, and Catherine rose to her feet. “Don’t worry about me, Miss Bolton. I’m sure Priscilla is correct and the fresh air will enliven me.”
“The baker will know what I want,” Priscilla said. “Have him put the charges on Father’s account.”
“I will.”
“And don’t dawdle please. I’ll need you in an hour or so. We’re having a picnic tomorrow, and you have to help me pick what to wear.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Catherine fibbed.
There was no task more thankless than watching Priscilla try on clothes. Catherine had excellent fashion sense, yet Priscilla wouldn’t heed her advice, and she’d quickly learned not to offer it. Priscilla simply liked to be flattered, and Catherine was awful at playing the part of sycophant.
She strolled out, relieved to have the opportunity to absent herself for awhile. She was anxious to clear her head, to grapple with her wild swings of emotion.
It was a beautiful summer day so she didn’t bother with bonnet or shawl. She marched down the lane to the main road, and shortly she arrived in the village. She easily found the bakery and was glad to discover the baker had Priscilla’s cakes. If he’d been sold out of them or if he hadn’t baked them that morning, it would have been dangerous to show up at Bolton House without them.
She tarried, in no rush to be back, and she was curious about the shops. She enjoyed peeking in the windows at the merchandise. She snooped as long as she dared, and as she left she realized she was much better, the jaunt being as beneficial as Priscilla had insisted it would be.
She was at a bend in the road when she heard a horse approaching from the other direction. The rider sounded as if he was in a hurry, and she scooted over so she wasn’t run down. But as he cantered into view, she froze, her equanimity vanishing in an instant.
She remembered Priscilla once mentioning that Mr. Stanton’s property was just down the road from Mr. Bolton’s estate, but Catherine had never asked how far that distance might be. Apparently, it wasn’t far at all.
Mr. Stanton saw her the same moment she saw him, and he jerked on the reins. Her first inclination was to turn and flee, but before she could move he leapt to the ground and stomped over to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Shut up, Mr. Wakefield. Or is it Mr. Stanton? Which mode of address do you prefer?” Then she held up a hand. “Wait, wait. Don’t apprise me. I couldn’t care less.”
He and his horse were blocking her way so she whipped away to head for the village. There had to be a place where she could hide until she could be certain he was gone, but he grabbed her arm and yanked her around.
“My surname is Wakefield-Stanton. My Christian name is Christopher, and my nickname is Kit.”
“How nice for you,” she snidely said. “But I don’t care.”
He was still gripping her forearm, and she wrenched away.
“I didn’t know you were working for Priscilla,” he said.
“A likely story.”
“I didn’t know!”
“It appears, Mr. Stanton, that you expect us to confer about this situation. If that is what you assume, then I must inform you that you are stark raving mad.”
“You have to let me explain.”
“I…I…have to?” She was sputtering with affront. “Tell me where it is written that I must suffer through your justifications. For I am positive there is no rule in the world that would force me to listen to you.”
“You seem angry.”
“Angry! Mr. Stanton, you have no idea.”
“I don’t want to marry her,” he claimed, “but I have to. I need her money.”
“You sound like every cheating husband in history.” In a sing-song voice, she taunted, “My wife doesn’t understand me. My wife and I lead separate lives. I don’t love her.” She scoffed with derision. “Spare me your pathetic bachelor’s drivel.”
“I told you I had to wed for money!” He was exhibiting a bit of temper himself. “I don’t have any choice.”
“You told me you were starting to search for a bride. I believed you, and imagine my surprise as I discover you’re engaged and will be married in a few months. Or is it weeks now? How soon is the wedding? With you being such a devoted swain, I’m sure you’re counting down the days.”
“I’m not making excuses for my conduct.”
“Really?”
“I’m just so sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” She paused, then said, “I take that back. I think you are sorry. Sorry you got caught. Sorry your scheme unraveled. Sorry I learned who you actually are so you can’t push me into disgrace.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
“Weren’t you? Seriously, you can say that to my face? It seems to me we were a step away from me ruining myself for you.”
“I wasn’t planning any such thing!” he hotly declared.
She ignored him and continued with her rant. “I would have been debauched and dishonored, but unwed and perhaps left with a babe in my belly. What would you have been? Oh, that’s right: a husband, marching down the aisle with his rich bride. Pardon me if I don’t have a lot of sympathy for you.”
She
whipped away again, and he snapped, “We’re not finished. Don’t you dare walk off.”
She should have kept on, but her rage was burning at an even higher temperature. She whirled around. “Mr. Stanton, you are not my father or my brother or my fiancé. You will not boss me.”
“Stop calling me Mr. Stanton.”
“It is your name, sir. Goodbye.”
“You can’t leave. Not until we’ve hashed this out.”
“Hash what out? What on Earth can you suppose we should discuss?”
“I’m so fond of you.”
“Shut up, Mr. Stanton! With each word you utter, you grow more foolish.”
“I have to fix this. Please tell me how.”
“You can’t, and if you presume you ever could you’re deranged.”
He extended his hands, palms out in a gesture of supplication. “Calm down, Catherine.”
“It’s Miss Barrington to you.”
“I won’t call you that. Not after what we’ve meant to each other.”
“What we’ve meant?” She thought the top of her head might blow off. “I am returning to Bolton House—before I do something rash.”
“I’m coming by later. We’ll talk again.”
“We most certainly will not,” she huffed. “And I must notify you that your fiancée is expecting to visit your home on Sunday so she can begin to assess how she’ll remodel after she’s your wife.”
“She’s not remodeling my home,” he mumbled, providing blatant evidence that he didn’t know Priscilla at all. The girl had already picked out sample swatches for the new wallpaper.
“She’s demanded I accompany her,” Catherine spat. “So hear me and hear me well. You had better convince her that you don’t want me there, for if you don’t and I have to go with her I will buy a pistol and shoot you in the middle of your cold, black heart.”
She spun away and stomped off. He shouted to her several times, but she didn’t glance back. She hated to quarrel and never did. Her wounds were too raw and too recently inflicted, and her affection for him hadn’t had opportunity to wane. She’d been too enticed by him, and if she gave him the slightest opening he would play on her sympathies, and she was defenseless against him.