by Anne Gracie
Best to have it over with quickly. He hated long goodbyes. And he did not know how much longer he could stand that look on her face without hauling her into his arms. But the last thing Kate needed was to be tied to an embittered cripple. With this fortune she had a glittering future ahead of her, a future he would have no part in.
"Then shall we all agree to meet in the front hall in, say, half an hour to make our farewells? Good." He nodded to the astounded observers and left the room.
"What a splendid fellow!" said Mr Phillips after a moment. "Such decision, so masterful! I'm sure he was an excellent officer. He is more like his grandmother than I realised."
The travelling chaise jolted and bounced along the road; Mr Phillips had bespoken rooms at an inn in readiness for the return journey and he was anxious to reach their destination before dark. Kate hung on to a strap, staring out of the window, oblivious of the passing scenery, the state of the road and her companions in the vehicle. She felt utterly wretched, desolate, shattered. Tears dripped unheeded from her eyes.
When Harry had abandoned her, she'd thought she could never be hurt so terribly again. She was wrong. This was a thousand times more painful. Harry she had loved with a schoolgirl's light-heartedness—Jack she loved with all of a woman's heart and body and soul.
It was her own stupid fault—she had allowed herself to care, to hope, to dream, and now, as she had told herself a thousand times would happen, all was in ashes.
He despised her. The man she loved despised her.
She'd gathered up her courage, told him all about Henri, about Lisbon, hoping against hope that it wouldn't matter to him. Oh, she hadn't expected him to renew his offer to marry her, not really—though her foolish heart had hoped a little. No, she knew it was impossible. The most she had hoped for was that he would finally understand why she didn't wish to go to London with his grandmother, why she would never be on the marriage mart. She'd hoped he would let her stay, let her live in his house as long as she could. . .
But he'd heard her story and the very next morning he'd ordered her belongings to be packed.
He hadn't been able to rid himself of her polluted presence quickly enough, had bundled her into the coach without so much as a by-your-leave, had given his farewells as if she were a complete stranger. He hadn't even looked her in the eye then, but had murmured goodbye in a voice devoid of emotion.
Kate bit her lip, tasting blood as she recalled the way he had taken her hand in the lightest of touches, fingers barely meeting as if he couldn't even bear to touch her. Francis at least had bowed over her hand, kissing it lightly, as he had that first day—he, apparently, still thought her a lady. Kate supposed that Jack had not yet enlightened him.
It was almost impossible to reconcile herself to the change in Jack. Only twenty-four hours previously she had woken in his arms. Even sleeping, his powerful arms had held her possessively, cradled her gently. She savoured the memory: the taste of his skin, the rough delight of his stubbled cheek against hers, the tremulous excitement of her body spread full length on his. The glory and the wonder of that secret, stolen kiss, the tentative tasting that had blazed into passion. And then, when he'd opened his eyes, those blue, blue eyes, and smiled that wonderful, crooked smile of his— “Morning sweetheart'—it had been one of the most beautiful moments of her life.
At that moment she'd known—had believed—in the deepest part of her heart and soul that she loved him and that, miracle of miracles, he loved her in return. Her lonely, battered heart had at last found safe harbour. She had allowed herself the momentary dream that this was how she would wake up every morning for the rest of her life. . . "Morning sweetheart."
Oh, how she wished it could be so. . .but wishing was futile, racking her body with empty, echoing pain. It was not to be. She'd known it, deep down; she'd never believed otherwise. Like a hungry child, knowing herself doomed to a life of starvation, she had risked all to snatch at a morsel, knowing she'd never taste such nectar again.
Was it that which had made him reject her now? Her behaviour in the cottage? Did he think that the Lisbon gossips were right about her? What irony. She had never in her life felt wanton except with Jack Carstairs. But how was he to know that?
Being kidnapped once could be seen to be an accident. But twice? First Henri, then Jeremiah. A half-hysterical giggle rose in her throat—thrice—even his grandmother had kidnapped her. She clearly attracted such attention. Of course he would blame her.
The cruelty of his denial burnt into her heart now like acid into flesh. . .but she could not yet regret her moment of foolishness, her taste of bliss. Would it have been easier in the long run had she never known his embrace? she wondered. Perhaps. But now her dreams had substance to sustain themselves through the long grey years ahead.
The past was an ocean of pain; the future lay before her. Kate contemplated the thought. One day at a time; that was the way to go. First she must endure the rigours of "the Season'.
Endure? No, she decided. There would be endurance enough to come; if there was pleasure to be had, she would have it while she could. She would make the most of her opportunities, experience the best that society could offer her. Sooner or later her secret would be out and she would have to leave town in disgrace, but it could not hurt her if she did not let it. Forewarned was forearmed, after all.
She would make no friendships here that she could not bear to be severed. She could build that much ice around her at least. She would not allow herself to think of this as anything other than a temporary treat. That way, when the time came to leave, she should be able to do so, if not without regrets, then without pain.
She could never be hurt as badly again. By the time she reached London, Kate silently vowed, her armour would be well and truly in place. When the time came, she would disappear quietly, none the worse, to take up her life elsewhere. At least this time, with a substantial income at her disposal, she would not starve.
Not for food, anyway.
She focused back on the scenery flashing by, becoming aware that her hands were very cold. Fishing around in her small travelling bag, she pulled out a pair of gloves. Kate looked at them. They were a very large pair of gloves, well-made leather, worn and soft, fur-lined. A gentleman's gloves. Only yesterday Jack had noticed how cold her hands were and had given her his gloves to wear. She must have forgotten to give them back to him.
Small frozen hands slipped into the big furry gloves, taking comfort from the size, the scent, the warmth of them. She rested her cheek in one gloved hand; the other was cupped against her heart. She leaned against the hard corner of the travelling chaise and closed her eyes. Finally, cradled in Jack Carstairs's gloves, Kate slept.
"Quiet, ain't it?" murmured Francis. He glanced across at his companion. Kate had left almost a week before, her face white and set, her eyes tragic. Since that day, Jack had spent his time furiously riding about the countryside, pushing himself to the absolute limit, galloping recklessly as if invisible demons were pursuing him. And in the evenings he got silently, determinedly drunk.
Francis had accompanied him in all things, understanding Jack's need to purge himself of the excess energy, to tire himself out, to blot a certain woebegone little face out of his memory, to try to drown his guilt. For a time at least.
"Got something to say to you, old man. Don't think you'll like it. Going to say it anyway." Francis drained his glass.
Jack glanced at his friend in disgust. "You're foxed."
Francis nodded. "Probably. So are you," he said. "Still going to say it."
"Well, for God's sake just spit it out, then, instead of rambling on."
"All right, then. Think you did the wrong thing. Shouldn't have forced her to go."
Jack swallowed the contents of his own glass and slammed it down on the table at his elbow. "Oh, God, not you too. As if it isn't bad enough, the whole household looking at me as if I'd taken the girl out, slung a brick around her neck and dro
wned her in the river. Damn it all!" he exclaimed. "It's for her own good! Not a blasted Cheltenham tragedy. . . Anyone would think I'd sent her off to her own execution!"
"Well, you just might have, old man," said Francis, after a pause.
Jack swung round in his chair. "What the devil do you mean by that?"
Francis didn't answer immediately. He got up and poured another measure of brandy into both glasses. He caught Jack's eye. "Planning to get us both stinking drunk," he said. "Tell you something in strictest confidence, old chap. Delicate matter. Concerns Kate."
Jack frowned. “If you mean what happened to her on the Peninsula, I know about it."
Francis nodded thoughtfully. "Told you in the carriage, didn't she? Thought that was it when I saw your faces that day."
"So full marks for observation," muttered Jack sourly.
"Brave little soul. Very painful to bring that sort of thing up again." Francis added, "Probably frightened that you'd despise her, too."
"Despise her? Despise her?' Jack's voice was angry. How could anyone despise Kate? "What the devil do you mean?"
"Not saying I do," interjected Francis pacifically. "Not saying anyone should. On the contr'ry. I'm talkin' about what she thinks. Thing is, it damned well looked like you couldn't wait to get rid of her. Less than twenty-four hours after you find out she's been. . . sullied. . . by a Frenchman, you bundle her out of the house. Girl probably thinks you do despise her. What else is she to think?"
Jack whitened. "She wouldn't. . .she couldn't. . ."
"Nothing to indicate she don't," said Francis quietly. "Didn't exactly make it clear to her, did you? Threw her out, not to put too fine a point on it."
"But I. . ."
"Oh, yes, I know what you were about, but did she?"
Jack groaned and clutched his hair in anguish.
"Expects to be despised, you see. Happened before. Lost her betrothed for that reason. Not saying that was a bad thing, mind you—chap wasn't good enough for her. He'd known her all her life, childhood sweetheart sort of thing. Didn't stop him despising her after the scandal. Fellow called off the wedding on account of it. And most people thought he did the right thing."
Jack groaned again. "I didn't know. . .didn't think. . ."
“Thing is, the story got out and all the cats got stuck into her in the most appalling fashion."
"My God."
"Things some of them said to her would make your hair curl. Ha! The gentler sex! Bitches carved young Kate up in the most vicious and cold-blooded fashion, and all the time with the sweetest smiles on their faces. Held her to be a traitor because she nursed wounded French soldiers. Claimed she went with them willingly. Called her a whore behind her back. . .and a few said it to her face. And all with such smiling politeness and seeming sweetness. . . I tell you, Jack, it almost put me off women for life. The gentler sex." He shuddered.
The beautiful, hypocritical face of Julia Davenport appeared in Jack's mind. "I know just what you mean," he muttered grimly. The two men sipped their brandy. The flames danced in the grate.
"Thing is, same thing could happen in London. Some of the tabbies in Lisbon last year are bound to be in London now. Even if they aren't, you know what women are like for writing letters. Bound to be someone who knows the story. Come out sooner or later, I'd say—just a matter of time."
Jack was too appalled to speak. He felt as if his stomach had dropped out of his body. Oh, God, no wonder she'd looked as if she was going to an execution; she would have an axe suspended over her head the whole time she was in London, and it was only a matter of time before it would fall.
Jack groaned and clenched his fist. There was a snap as his glass shattered in his hand. Francis sat up, exclaiming at the blood dripping from Jack's fingers. Jack waved him aside impatiently.
"Going to London," he said. "Can't leave her to think that— Oh, shut up, Francis, what's a damned scratch? I'm off to London in the morning. Are you coming with me or not?"
"Oh, absolutely, old man, absolutely."
Chapter Sixteen
Your young protégée seems to be doin' rather well, Maudie."
"Thank you, Gussie," replied Lady Cahill. "I couldn't be more pleased with her if she was my own daughter."
Lady Cahill and several of her cronies were doing what they called "taking tea and cakes'. The tea trolley was laden with dainty cakes and elegant little savouries. Steam curled languidly from the spout of the teapot, and each lady sipped delicately from a fine eggshell-thin teacup. The sherry decanter was half empty.
"Charmin' gel, quite charmin'." The speaker, wearing an enormous feathered turban, reached for a fourth crab-and-asparagus patty.
Lady Cahill beamed. Kate had taken to her new life like a duck to water, hadn't put a foot wrong. Lady Cahill had, at first, been rather anxious lest Kate reveal herself as a true scholar's daughter—it would be fatal for her to gain a reputation as a bluestocking.
However, to Lady Cahill's pleased surprise, Kate had proved to be almost as delightfully ignorant as any anxious sponsor would wish her protégée to be. She seemed to take more pleasure in a visit to the Pantheon Bazaar or Astley's Amphitheatre than she did in an afternoon at the British Museum or a viewing of the archaeological sensation, Lord Elgin's Marbles. She knew nothing of famous thinkers, writers or philosophers. Her conversation was not weighted with dull pronouncements from weighty tomes, and she was in no danger of frightening gentlemen by spouting screeds of poetry at them. It seemed that the only topics on which Kate was knowledgeable were horses and the Peninsular War—and since the ton was full of horse-mad military gentlemen that was not held to be a disadvantage.
Lady Cahill basked in her protégée’s praise.
"A sensible, well-bred, pretty-behaved gel, Maudie. Poor Maria would have been delighted to see how charmingly her daughter has turned out."
The others nodded.
Kate's success was only to be expected, Lady Cahill told herself complacently. Kate was a sociable girl, and a sympathetic listener. Moreover, a life of ordering her father's household and her experience of having had to adapt to extraordinary conditions had given her an indefinable air of assurance, taken by many to be a sign of good breeding.
And, from having spent most of her life in male company from all walks of life, she was neither shy nor coy nor odiously missish with the London gentlemen she met. She seemed to listen as happily to the dull military pronouncements of an elderly general as to the stammering confidences of a young man in his first season or the practised compliments of a rake.
Lady Cahill's granddaughter, Amelia, had introduced Kate to her more dashing set, made up largely of young fashionable matrons. They had noted her elegant, modish appearance, her mischievous sense of humour, her quick wit and her complete lack of interest in their husbands, and pronounced her to be a sweet and charming girl.
* * *
"Very popular with the soldier laddies," said one elderly lady waspishly, holding out her teacup to be refilled.
"And you know why, Ginny Holton, so you need not sneer!" snapped Lady Courtney. "You know perfectly well what that dear sweet girl did for my Gilbert."
The others nodded. Lady Courtney's grandson, Gilbert, had barely set a foot outside his home, until Miss Farleigh had teased him into going about in society with her, apparently oblivious of the awkwardness of his missing arm and the ominous black eyepatch.
“Told him he looked like a wonderfully sinister pirate and that it would help protect her from unwanted attention." Lady Courtney wiped her eyes.
"And then she told him that he must not blame her if they were mobbed by young ladies because he looked quite disgustingly romantic, and, while she knew him to be odiously stuffy, other girls were not as discriminating as she. . . And he laughed—my boy actually laughed—and consented to take her out. He hasn't looked back since."
"Yes, shame on you, Ginny," agreed another elderly lady. "If Maudie's Kate is popular with m
ilitary gentlemen, it is not to be wondered at. You are only being uncharitable because your Chloe is without even a sniff of an offer! A pity to be sure, but no reason to snipe at others!"
It was true. Kate's unselfconscious attention to the wounded had done her no disservice in the eyes of the more fortunate of the military. The polite world soon noted that little Miss Farleigh had a court of large, protective gentlemen, led by Mr Lennox, and Sir Toby Fenwick and other military types, who seemed equally delighted to fetch her a glass of ratafia, escort her to the opera, take her driving in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour or depress the pretensions of any too assiduous suitors.
There were many of these, as word of her inheritance had leaked out. She was being courted by several gazetted fortune hunters, as well as men of substance and position.
Lady Cahill sat back in her chair as the talk turned to more general topics. She was almost satisfied. One factor, however, was missing from the equation. She hoped he would bestir himself soon and get himself to London before Kate was snapped up by some fashionable fribble who didn't deserve her.
"What do you think of this, miss?" The maid held an elegant spray of artificial flowers to Kate's hair and looked enquiringly at her new mistress in the mirror.
Kate stared. She almost didn't recognise herself. Her hair had been cropped in the latest style and feathered curls clustered round her face, doing amazing things to her appearance, things Kate would never have dreamed possible. For the first time in her life, she felt elegant, and, though the Reverend Mr Farleigh's daughter knew it to be an immodest thought, almost pretty. The new face and hairstyle were enhanced by the gown she was wearing—a soft shade of green that brought out the colour in her eyes and minimised the slight unfashionable golden tone of her skin, brought about by too much time outdoors.
Lady Cahill and Amelia had subjected Kate to a rigorous regime of crushed strawberries—to refine and clarify the skin—buttermilk baths—to soften it—and, for general toning and nourishing, slices of raw veal laid on her skin for hours at a time while Amelia read to her. In addition there were twice-daily applications of distilled pineapple water—for clarity and beauty and to erase wrinkles—egg and lemon face packs—to fade that dreadful tan and nourish the skin—and oatmeal masks—to brighten and refine the skin.