There was a man who acted as driver and butler rolled into one, although more often than not Celia answered the front door herself. There were two maids of all work and a gardener, although the gardener was of the jobbing variety and lived at the other end of Little Hayfield. He had other gardens to tend and generally spent only a day or two a week on the beautiful grounds of Ivy Manor.
Catherine had to admit that she did not feel any deprivation at the smallness of Ivy Manor nor the general lack of staff. She liked it all the better, content to do things for herself and finding it homelier than Barford Hall had been.
But now she was to leave it for the next four months, and she realized what a wrench that would be. Catherine had settled in so well at Ivy Manor that she had come to think of it as home already, even though Philip was not there, and Thomas still left such a hole in her heart and her life.
But things could be very much worse, that much she knew now. Catherine could be homeless altogether, given her condition.
When she had realized that she was with child, Catherine hardly knew what to do next. She had been at Ivy Manor only three months, and despite the fact that Celia felt so familiar and warm to her, still, Catherine had not been able to find the words to tell her.
In the end, it was Celia who had approached Catherine and not the other way around.
Catherine sat down on the bed and sighed as she thought of Celia’s kindness on the day they had first spoken of it. They had been taking tea together in the drawing room, and her Uncle Charles was mercifully out of the house, down in Glossop on some business or other.
“Sooner or later, Catherine, we are going to have to talk about it,” Celia had said quite out of the blue as they drank hot tea in comfortable silence.
“I beg your pardon, Celia?” Catherine had responded, her tone innocent as her stomach lurched.
“Forgive me for confronting you, my dear, for I would not upset you for the world,” Celia began and seemed concerned and uncomfortable. “But you are with child, are you not?”
“I … I …” Catherine had almost dropped her cup, and her cheeks flushed so violently that they were almost painfully warm.
“I am so sorry to bring it up, for I do not want to make you upset.” Celia had risen from her seat in the armchair to sit at Catherine’s side on the small couch.
“I do not know what to say,” Catherine said as tears of fear and shame rolled down her face. “Except to tell you that I had not meant it to happen. It was not a habit with us, you see.” She was desperate to explain herself, to have her aunt know that she was not a bad person. “It was that last night in Hertfordshire; Philip had arranged for Thomas and me to say goodbye to each other without my father’s knowledge. We were both so upset, so desperate at the realization that we would never see one another again and it just … It just …”
“I understand, my dear. You do not need to explain yourself, and you must not suffer the idea that I despise you for it, for I do not. I know you are a fine young woman, and I know what you suffered at your father’s hands. That your emotions ran away with you on the night you were to be parted from Thomas is understandable.”
“Thank you, Aunt Celia. Thank you for being so kind when I had not even the courage to tell you myself.”
“I cannot imagine that it would have been an easy thing to say.” Celia took Catherine’s hand. “In truth, it was not an easy subject for me to broach either. But we can only move forward, my dear, and I think that we have some plans to make now, do we not?”
“I do not know where I am to live now,” Catherine said, and her voice grew thick as she tried to control her fear and emotion. “You see, I cannot go home, and I do not know anybody else.”
“What on earth do you mean, Catherine? You live here, do you not? Here at Ivy Manor.”
“Yes, but when you tell Uncle Charles, he will disown me too, will he not? I am certain that he would not want me here under his roof, and I would not blame him for it. It is enough that I was sent here to be a burden in the first place, without bringing such trouble with me.”
“Trust me, my dear niece, Charles Topwell will not throw you out. He will not turn you out of Ivy Manor now or ever, so you must not upset yourself so badly.”
“It is kind of you to try to keep my spirits up, Aunt Celia, but you cannot know how Uncle Charles will react. I cannot think that he will be anything other than angry about it.”
“He is not angry, Catherine.” Celia smiled at her kindly.
When she smiled, Celia Topwell bore no resemblance whatsoever to Catherine’s father. Her dark eyes were warm and kind and her skin still bright and clear, despite the fine lines. There was something in her treatment of Catherine that was so motherly and tender that she found her tears flowing again.
“He knows?” she said in a dry, cracking voice.
“He knows,” Celia said gently. “Or at least he knows that I believe it to be true. That is why he is out of the house today, to give us a little time to talk privately so that you might talk freely and without embarrassment.”
“And he does not want to throw me out? He does not want to turn me away?” Catherine said incredulously.
“No, of course, he does not. We have discussed it and think we have come up with something that will be very easy to do. Something to help you, you understand.”
“But what can be done?” Catherine said and looked down at her slightly thickened waist. “It is soon going to be very obvious to all what condition I am in, is it not? And how will Uncle Charles bear the humiliation of it all? It is not fair of me to expect him to do so.”
“We have plans to make, Catherine, and I hope you will feel a little better when the details are all arranged.”
“Really?”
“Charles has assorted relations all over Lancashire, and it is not unusual for us to visit them from time to time.”
“So, we are to stay with Uncle Charles’ relations?”
“No, but that is what we shall lead everybody here to suspect. Not that there are too many people who are overly interested in how we choose to spend our time here at Ivy Manor.” She laughed. “We are not a family of such note that we are much out in society, and for the most part, we are pleasantly beneath the notice of others.”
“But where shall we stay then?”
“We are going to go to Lytham in Lancashire; it is on the coast. We shall take some lodgings there for the next few months until the baby is born.”
“And then what?”
“We shall find a suitable home for the baby, and then when you are rested enough we shall return here to Ivy Manor.”
“A suitable home?” Catherine knew that she was not in a position to argue.
A suitable home very likely meant a Lancashire orphanage, even if her aunt was intent upon finding a good one. But the idea of it made her heart ache; how could any child that belonged to Catherine and Thomas end up in an orphanage? Descended from Earls and Dukes, her child would be abandoned into a life of uncertainty.
And yet she knew that she could not bring the child home, there was no question of that. In truth, Catherine knew that she was lucky not to be turned out altogether. Although she had come to know Celia and Charles very well and was sure that they had warmed to her and thought a good deal of her, she could not have expected such kindly treatment. But they had been kind, extraordinarily kind.
She knew she could not repay them by demanding that she keep her child. Wherever she went in the world now, surely that was not possible anyway? A young woman with no husband and a child would be a pariah, even if she were the daughter of an Earl. Perhaps even more particularly because she was the daughter of an Earl, for society had greater expectations of moral fortitude in somebody of her station.
She had no means by which to show her gratitude to her aunt and uncle for their understanding, except than to go along with their plan to the very letter and to do so without complaint. After all, Catherine knew that she had relinquished her right t
o any complaint in this world, even if she had only ever acted out of love.
To society, that was not a good enough reason; it was never a good enough reason, no matter how sad the story.
“Yes, we shall find somewhere suitable. But I think it would be best if we do that in Lancashire, not Derbyshire, for your own sake, my dear.”
“Yes, yes of course,” Catherine said, determined to go along with every part of it. “I do not know how to thank you and Uncle Charles; really I do not. But can Uncle Charles really spend so much time away from Ivy Manor when he has his own matters of business to attend to here?”
“Charles will not be coming with us, Catherine. It will just be dear Agnes and us.”
“Mrs Price knows of my disgrace?” Catherine said a little helplessly.
“Your condition, Catherine, not your disgrace,” Celia said firmly. “And no, she does not yet know it. But let me assure you that she is the most discreet of women. I have trusted her with confidences of my own and been glad to do so these last twenty years. And she will be invaluable when your time comes, Catherine, for she has helped to birth children before and knows exactly what to do. Not to mention the fact that she is extremely efficient in all things and will have the lay of the land in Lytham long before we do. She is much more forthright than I am, and I imagine that it would be Agnes who takes the child to its new home.”
“Whatever you think is for the best, Aunt Celia. I am in your hands, and glad to be so, for I could not have imagined anybody treating me with the understanding that you have.”
“Well, if you agree to it all, I shall start to make plans. I daresay it will be two or three weeks before we can set off for Lytham, for we shall need to get our own little story in place. Agnes will undoubtedly find us some very suitable lodgings, and everything will be well, in the end, you will see.”
And Celia had been right; everything had fallen into place. Her Uncle Charles had been wonderful, treating her with kindness and concern and not one moment’s scorn or ridicule. Agnes had shown no sign of being shocked or horrified; rather she had busied herself with the practicalities of their journey and their stay, never once treating Catherine any differently than she had before.
Catherine leaned forward and checked the fastening of her packed trunk, looking around the small chamber for the last time. She would miss the little place, and yet she did not want to hasten her return. After all, the next time she slept in this bed, everything would have changed. She would be a mother, albeit a mother with no child, and she would be altogether different.
With a sigh, Catherine rose and walked out of the tiny room without looking back, determined to find her Uncle Charles, throw her arms around his neck, and thank him once again before bidding him farewell for the next four months.
Chapter 13
Thomas continued to ignore his brother’s existence for the next few months, despite the fact that he had seen some great changes in him. Pierce no longer seemed to seek his father’s approval in everything he did, and it had struck Thomas that he had lost interest in a good deal of life’s activities.
Penrose Carlton, for his part, seemed not to have noticed the change in either of his sons. He paid Thomas no more heed than he had ever done, often reminding him of the time he had described himself and Catherine as the afterthoughts.
But what had been surprising to Thomas was the fact that their father had not noticed the great change in Pierce either. He had not seen the cessation of the arrogance and self-satisfaction that Pierce had worn like a suit of armour for so long.
But even though Thomas had recognized changes in his brother, even understood that what he was witnessing was largely remorse, still, he could not forgive him. His own pain was so great and showed no sign of abating. It had been eight months or more, but his heart felt as raw as it had done on the morning he had kissed his beloved Catherine goodbye forever and darted away from the Barford estate before the sun came up.
How they had cried as they embraced, becoming soaked in each other’s tears. Thomas had known almost from the first that he had loved Catherine Ambrose, but he had never realized until the moment of their parting just how much.
Those last, terrible moments were all that Thomas could see when Pierce tried to speak with him. It did not matter that Pierce had motives other than to hurt his brother because, in the end, that was all Pierce had achieved. Had he kept quiet, it was likely that neither the Duke nor the Earl would have been any the wiser.
And so it was that Thomas, heading out once more to Stromlyn Lake, found himself pursued by the brother who would simply not give up.
“Thomas, I wish you would not go to Stromlyn Lake every day. You will never mend if you do not change things.” Pierce was talking sense, whether or not he had a right to speak it.
“I shall do as I choose. It is none of your affair.”
“I do not ask for nor expect your forgiveness, Thomas, but can we at least try to be friends? If only a little?”
“You were never keen to be my friend before.” Thomas walked into the stable to see if his horse was any closer to being saddled.
Pierce followed him in, and it was clear that one of the stable hands was saddling his horse also. Thomas let go an angry snort, thinking it likely that Pierce was going to follow him again. It was something he attempted from time to time in a bid to have Thomas speak to him.
Well, Thomas would show him. The moment his own horse was suitably saddled, Thomas would tear off out of the estate and leave his brother far behind.
Why would he not let it be?
“We have been friends in the past, Thomas. When we were boys we …”
“We are not boys now.” Thomas cut him off.
“I know,” Pierce said and fell silent as he looked helplessly around him.
Thomas knew that cutting Pierce off like that would interrupt his flow of speech. It would be some moments before he would be able to come up with something more suitable to say, for he did not have Thomas’ own quick wit and intelligence.
Over the years, Thomas had used that to his advantage when the brothers were arguing, and yet now he felt a stab of guilt over it as he stood in the stables staring at him. Pierce had spent the better part of eight months trying to atone for what he had done, and Thomas had fended off every attempt.
But still, Thomas could not let go of his resentment, and seeing that his horse was ready, he scrambled up onto his back and charged out of the stable, leaving Pierce to stare after him open-mouthed.
Thomas did not slow his horse at all, cantering through the estate and out into the countryside beyond. He tore down the track which headed in the direction of the lake, the breeze lifting his thick red-brown hair as he went.
It was the fastest he had ridden for some time, and there was something so freeing in it that he did not want to ever slow down again. But his horse was blowing hard, and Thomas had already begun to regret forcing the poor creature to run hard without warning and maintain it.
And so, Thomas slowed his horse to a comfortable trot, and now that it was safe to do so, he turned his head to look back the way he had come.
When he saw Pierce taking a shortcut through the fields instead of following him along the track, Thomas let out a noisy sigh.
“For God’s sake, go home,” he said, heard by none but his horse. “Just leave me to my anger.”
Thomas considered setting off again at speed but suddenly realized there was no point. Pierce was not going to give up.
Thomas turned back to concentrate on his trotting horse when a feeling of dread seemed to take him over. Something was wrong. Pierce was cutting through walled fields, and he was going far too fast. If he did not slow, he would come upon the high dry-stone wall at the top of the first field, and there was no telling what his horse would do. But no, surely Pierce knew what he was heading towards.
Thomas, feeling a dreadful cold prickling at the back of his neck, stopped his horse altogether and turned him around to face back
towards his approaching brother.
Pierce was still flying along, and Thomas, forgetting all that stood between them at that moment, began to shout and wave his arms. He wanted so desperately to warn his brother that he was almost frozen in fear.
Pierce showed no sign of slowing down, and Thomas could only watch helplessly from the track that ran alongside the field. With the wall too high and no run-up for his horse from the track that would give them any hope of clearing it, there was little else Thomas could do but yell and wave his arms.
When tragedy struck, the world seemed to slow down horribly. Thomas watched with horror as Pierce’s horse balked some distance before the wall, as Thomas had suspected it would.
Pierce was thrown so easily from the saddle that the whole thing seemed quite graceful in the beginning; the horse had stopped dead, and Pierce kept going. He arced through the air, and Thomas prayed that he would clear the wall.
A Soulmate for the Heartbroken Duke Page 10