by Anne Gracie
"Excessive, stubborn, stiff-necked pride."
"Excessive. . .er. . .pride?" he exclaimed stiffly. "I don't know what you are talking about."
He could feel the knowing blue gaze boring into him and clenched his teeth. She was referring to her offer to finance him, made when he'd first returned to England. He had refused it in no uncertain terms then and was damned if he was going to give her the satisfaction of discussing it now.
"The two situations have nothing in common." He ignored the disbelieving arch of her elegantly pencilled brows. "In any case, what has her situation to do with me?"
"The girl intends to hire herself out as a maidservant."
"What?" His voice thundered. Kate had mentioned it earlier, but naturally he hadn't believed her. For a gently born girl to seriously consider such a thing was unheard of, particularly if she had other options.
"That's utterly ridiculous!" Aware of his revealing over-reaction, he lowered his voice. "She can't be serious. What's the chit playing at?''
"Of course it's ridiculous," said his grandmother, "but I do believe she means it. She intends to earn her own way. When I first met her she took me for her new employer."
"Well, then, if she is so determined to ruin her life, what can you do?" he said in a show of indifference that deceived no one.
Lady Cahill smiled the sort of smile which had always made her family uneasy in the past. Jack watched her suspiciously.
"I intend to provide her with the kind of position she says she wants."
"As your maid?" Jack was incredulous. "I must say, Grandmama, that seems rather shabby to me—"
"Not as my maid," the old lady interrupted. Jack's eyes narrowed, dark suspicion forming even as she spoke. "As yours."
"Mine!" he exploded. "I'm damn—"
"As your housekeeper, I should have said," continued his grandmother imperturbably. "It's as clear as daylight to me that you need someone to prevent this house from crumbling into complete barbarism, and you have told me yourself that you are not willing to waste your money employing anyone to do it. I, however, am not prepared to allow a member of my family to live in such a disgraceful state. And you must admit this admirably solves the two problems."
"I'll admit nothing of the sort!" he said angrily. "I won't tolerate such unwarranted interference in my affairs, Grandmama!"
"So you don't wish to help the girl?"
"Help her? To social ruin by employing her as my maid. . .housekeeper? I don't think—"
"No, Jack, you don't think. Naturally I will send some respectable woman to act as her chaperon. And I'm not considering any ordinary terms of employment. I intend to put this to the girl: if she will consent to run your household for six months, turn it into a gentleman's establishment instead of a ramshackle place where a lady cannot even get a cup of chocolate to break her fast, then I will consider—and, what's more to the point, so will she—that she will thereby have earned my sponsorship for a season in London. She can keep her pride, you can live like a moderately civilised human being and I can introduce Maria's gel to society."
Lady Cahill sat back and regarded her grandson with some satisfaction. "And, in the meantime, it will give me some time to have someone look into the matter of Kate's finances. I cannot believe that she's been left completely destitute. So, she stays here while I organise things. And setting this house in order will keep her nicely occupied, so that's settled."
"It is not settled."
"Jack, if you say no to this scheme, it will mean the end of that girl, for I tell you she is as stubborn and foolish as you are and she tells me she will not accept charity from me, or from anyone else."
Jack met her level glance.
"Ah! Dammit!" He slammed his hand down on the table in frustration.
His grandmother smiled. She reached up and patted his chin. "I knew you'd agree with me in the end."
"I don't," he snapped.
"But you will have her here."
“It is the most ridiculous, ill-considered, inconven-ient and damnably outrageous scheme I have ever heard of!"
"Good, then you'll do it!" nodded his grandmother complacently.
He glared at her and clenched his hair with his fingers.
"Yes, all right, you leave me no choice, though without doubt I should be clapped up in Bedlam for agreeing to it!"
"Don't be silly, boy," she said, suddenly businesslike again. “Now send that man into the village to tell my coachman to come and collect my baggage. Oh, and before you do fetch young Kate here. I'll just explain to her what it is you want her to do."
"What I want?" he began. Fortuitously, he noticed the provocative glint in his grandmother's eye. "Yes," he said, goaded, "you do that, Grandmama," and strode from the room, slamming the door after him.
"And so, my dear Kate, you can see that my grandson's domestic circumstances are in a shocking state and yet Jack has no one to see to the smooth running of the house." Lady Cahill applied a delicate wisp of lace to a wrinkled eyelid to emphasise her distress.
Kate became thoughtful. Lady Cahill had not resumed her arguments in favour of taking Kate to London with her and presenting her to society. Kate felt equal measures of disappointment and relief at that. A very small part of her, the wild, rebellious, frivolous part of her that her father had tried so hard to crush, wistfully longed for the prospect of a London season. Kate ruthlessly suppressed it. It was too late for all that.
An idea occurred to Kate. This could be her chance. Her domestic skills might once more be the saving of her. With Lady Cahill's backing, Kate might be able to carve herself a niche in this household and earn herself a home, a living, some security.
"Ma'am," she said hesitantly, "if you wish. . .I mean, if you think I am suitable. . .I could become the house-keeper here."
"You, child? Don't be ridiculous! You couldn't possibly act as my grandson's housekeeper!" said the dowager spider to her youthful fly.
"Indeed I could, ma'am. I'm young, but I've had a great deal of experience. I was my father's housekeeper for many years. And it would be a better position than I would be likely to find elsewhere." Kate fought to keep the eagerness out of her voice. “I would take good care of your grandson, and you could rest assured that I was safe and in a secure position."
Lady Cahill tapped her finger thoughtfully on the small table in front of her, then grimaced at the dust it had collected.
"Faugh!" she exclaimed in disgust. "This place is a disgrace! And you think you can improve it, do you?" She looked at Kate. "It won't do, you know."
"Ma'am?" said Kate, a worried pucker between her brows.
"Oh, I don't doubt you could do the job," she added, seeing Kate's readiness to argue the point. "But I could not possibly pay Maria Delacombe's daughter a wage!" She made a wage sound like some unspeakable insult.
Kate's heart sank. She could not survive without money.
"I must confess, however, that I'd worry about my grandson a lot less if I could be sure someone sensible were here to look after him. "Tis bad enough he will never ride again— that I must accept, as he must. . ."
Kate frowned. Jack's limp was bad, to be sure, but she had observed it closely. It seemed to her no worse than Jemmy's limp had been. . . Perhaps— Lady Cahill's voice cut into her thoughts.
"But allow him to sink into sloth and misery I will not." The old lady looked at Kate speculatively. Kate held her breath.
"All right, Kate Farleigh, I'll strike a bargain with you. You work here as my grandson's housekeeper for the next six months without wages. At the end of the six months you come to live with me in London and I'll present you to society."
Kate blinked at the old lady in surprise. It was a magnificent offer. Too magnificent, she realised slowly, and utterly impossible. She opened her mouth to refuse.
"Well, child, what do you say? Do I rest easy tonight, knowing my grandson is in good hands, or not?'' Lady Cahill touched Kate's hand gently, confidingly.
"My dear, I know that living with an old woman like me in London isn't what every young girl would want, but I do like a bit of youth about me. You'd be doing an old widow a great favour."
A lump in Kate's throat threatened to choke her. She had never thought to find such kindness again. It was almost too much to bear. Yet she could not take advantage of the old lady's ignorance.
Lady Cahill had made the offer without knowing the real reason why Kate could never enter society, would never be able to marry, why no decent man would have her. Kate would have to tell her, explain once and for all. And afterwards she would no doubt have to leave and return to the life she had planned for herself before Lady Cahill's well-meaning interference.
Chapter Five
"Lady Cahill," said Kate, "I do thank you, but your offer is made in ignorance of my circumstances. If I were to accept, you would surely despise me once you learned the truth. And society would condemn you or think you a fool to have been so taken in."
When Lady Cahill saw the look on Kate's face she bit back the pithy comment she had been about to make on her complete indifference to society's opinions on anything.
“May I ask why, child?''
Kate was very nervous. She didn't want to tell Lady Cahill, didn't want to lose her affection and her respect. But there was no choice. The story would eventually come out—it always did. Better to get it over with, instead of having the threat hanging over her.
"I am not regarded as fit for marriage," said Kate at last.
"Will you tell me why, child?"
"It's a long story," said Kate. "When my brothers, Jemmy and Ben, went to the war on the Peninsula, my father and I accompanied them. I've spent the last three years living with the army."
"Child. How dreadful for you!" Lady Cahill looked appalled.
Kate shook her head. "No, ma'am, it wasn't at all. In fact those three years, while the boys and my father were alive, were the best years of my life."
Lady Cahill made a shocked sound of disbelief and Kate smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid it's true. I. . .I've always been a bit of a hoyden, you understand, and I found the life suited me—much better than at the vicarage. I was never lonely and. . .and my father valued me as he never had before." She looked down at her hands. “You see, when my mother died, Papa blamed me—she died giving birth to me."
"But, child, that was not your—"
"Oh, I know, but Papa could never see that. . . You said I had my mother's eyes. . . Papa was a good man, but when he looked at me all he could see was my dead mother. . .so he never looked at me. Never.' Kate choked on the word.
"Oh, my dear. . ."
“But somehow, on the Peninsula, things changed. Perhaps, with death and danger all around us, everything else faded into insignificance. I don't know. . . And because, in such a difficult situation, comfort comes to mean a great deal. . ." Kate looked at Lady Cahill. "I became quite a good housekeeper, you see. And hot food at almost any hour, a warm, dry place to sleep and clean clothing mean a lot to men at war. . ."
She sighed. “They truly needed me and I was happier than I have ever been in my life. . .until poor Ben was killed at Ciudad Rodrigo. . ." She fell silent for a moment, then continued, "And then everything fell apart at Salamanca."
Lady Cahill frowned. Jack had been wounded at Salamanca.
As she spoke, Kate's hands unknowingly began to pleat the stuff of her skirt in tiny, deliberate folds. "Last July, our army was retreating from the Douro River, back towards Salamanca—you may have read of it; the newspapers hate it when we retreat. The French were close behind us. At times they were even parallel with us and so close that you could see them through the swirling clouds of dust." She gulped.
"Jemmy was hit in the chest. . . We got him on to our cart. . .but with all the dust and confusion we fell a long way behind."
She turned the wad of pleated skirt over and methodically began to unpleat it. Her voice was flat, bleak. "Then Papa was hit. In the stomach. I. . .I managed to get him and Jemmy away to a deserted building. It was half destroyed, but at least it was shelter. . . Jemmy died the first night. . .Papa lasted two more days. . . I had a little laudanum and at least I. . .I was able to ease his passing. . ."
Lady Cahill leaned forward. “You poor child—''
"I didn't remember anything after that. . .until more than a month later." She straightened her skirt with shaking hands, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I awoke one morning and found myself in a French camp. An officer, Henri Du Croix, was interrogating several recently captured prisoners—English prisoners. I had no idea how I got there."
She shivered and continued, "It was the most terrifying feeling. . . Later, I learned that the officer, Henri, had found me wandering after Salamanca. I had been wounded—on the head." Her hand crept unconsciously to the scar almost hidden by her hairline. “Apparently I was unable to remember my name or anything, although he knew, of course, that I was English. I became his prisoner. . .and his mistress."
Kate flushed at the small sound from Lady Cahill. She could not look at the old lady. Her hands began their intricate pleating again.
“I discovered that for the last month I had lived with him, slept with him in his tent. . ." Kate swallowed in embarrassment, and forced the words out ". . .living as man and wife." She flushed a darker rose colour and added, “I know it was true—I remember it. You must not think he was a totally wicked man—in his own way, I think he was fond of me. . .but I swear to you I did not realise what had happened until a month after Salamanca. . .when it was too late."
She took a deep shaky breath and continued, determined to get it all out in the open. “In Lisbon afterwards they called me the Frenchman's whore. . .and a traitress."
Lady Cahill made a shocked sound.
"Traitress, because I'd tended the wounds of French soldiers. I have some small skill with injuries, you see. And though they were the enemy I see no wrong in what I did. They were only men, like our men—tired, hungry, in pain, and longing to be with their loved ones, not fighting this dreadful war. That part, I do not regret. . ."
She shrugged, her eyes downcast. "So, now you know."
The material of her skirt was crushed and twisted. Her voice rose again in distress. "But I did not consent to be Henri's mistress—he told me he was my husband and I believed him. I found a ring on my finger, though I did not know how it got there. I could not even remember my own name at the time, and so I believed him! He was very convincing. He said I was his English wife. I never knowingly—"
"Hush now, child! Do not distress yourself. I don't doubt your word," interrupted Lady Cahill
Huge, swimming grey-green eyes regarded her doubtfully.
"Oh, tush, child," the old lady said gruffly, patting Kate's knee. "As if I did not know you are the soul of honour."
Kate inhaled, a long, tremulous breath. Tears trembled on her lashes. "Then you are very singular, ma'am, for few others believed me. They thought me a wanton, a liar, a traitress."
“Lud, child. Anyone with a grain of sense could see you are none of those. As far as I am concerned, you did nothing wrong. And I respect you for tending their wounded. Tell me, how did you return to English territory?''
“Well, as I said, my memory came back to me when Henri was interrogating English prisoners—perhaps it was the sound of English being spoken that caused it to return. It took me a day or two to find out what happened and make my plans to escape. Then I stole a horse and rode into Allied territory. It was not difficult to pass from behind the French fines—a woman is not so suspect as a man." She flushed. "But you see why I cannot possibly enter society, or marry."
"I see nothing of the sort," said Lady Cahill. "There is no reason for anyone to know of this—''
"It is a matter of public record," said Kate regretfully. "I returned to the English forces almost six weeks after my father's death. Naturally I was interviewed, in case I was a spy. Some of the officers who interviewed me didn't belie
ve I'd lost my memory. Others were only interested in what I could tell them about the French. It was supposed to be kept secret, but when I reached Lisbon everybody there knew the worst," she concluded bitterly.
There was a long silence. "It is not mere wilfulness or false pride preventing me from seeking a husband, you know," Kate added. "Ever since I was a little girl I've dreamt of my wedding day, waited for the man whom I could love for ever. . .and played with other people's children, preparing myself for the day when I had children of my own." She smoothed twisted fabric with unknowing hands.
"I have put this dream away. . .but not of my own volition."
Lady Cahill opened her mouth to argue, but Kate continued, “In Lisbon I received a taste of what would face me if I ever again tried to enter society. Ma'am, I was shunned, reviled. . . even spat on—by English ladies, some of whom I'd regarded as friends. . ." Her throat swelled and tightened, remembering whispers and sidelong glances, prurient curiosity and outright hostility.
“And men whom I thought I knew, whom I thought were decent Christian gentlemen, tried to touch me, made obscene suggestions." The Frenchman's whore—she was fair game.
"Even Harry. . .my betrothed. . ." Kate shuddered. Harry's eyes had run over her body in a way they never had before. The realisation had entered Kate's heart like a blade of ice. He was no different from the rest.
"It was unspeakably vile. . .and I could not bear to face it again." She looked wearily at Lady Cahill. "That is why I cannot accept your very kind offer, why I cannot seek a husband or go about in society. I could not bear to meet someone who knows what happened."
She tried to smile. "It is not so very bad, you know. I cannot miss what I've never had. I've not had the sort of upbringing that other girls have. And I'm young and healthy and—'' she wiped her eyes ''—generally not such a dreadful watering pot. If I could only find a position as a children's nurse or companion. . . You could help me with that, could you not?"
Lady Cahill was deeply moved. Kate had been badly wounded, she could see that. There was no point in pushing her to agree to any plans at present. She was still too vulnerable to risk her heart and her hopes again—she needed time to recover. Lady Cahill would help Kate, but not to a position as a children's nurse. No, if an old woman had any say in the matter, Maria Delacombe's child would have her dream. She reached out and took Kate's hand in a tight grasp.