The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  “Blas?” The single word from Dona Blanca was little more than a long sibilant hiss.

  “Blas might have won such a house in a game of cards,” Cat speculated. “That I can picture, for many English fortunes have changed hands in Portugal. But to have the money for all this . . . the furnishings, the servants . . . surely I would have known if he had such wealth.”

  “There is no one else?” Sir Giles inquired.

  Catherine considered a moment, then shook her head. “No. No one.”

  Blas’s words came back in rush of memory. From that day in the music room when they had quarreled over his going to the mountains of Spain with such right good cheer. If you are in need, you have only to contact the firm of Bentham, Bentham and Wembley in London, and you will never want for anything.

  She had always assumed he dipped into the Casa’s profits to buy the chinchilla-trimmed blue velvet cloak. Fool, fool, fool! Papa had been right. Blas was a nobleman who would no more think of keeping his wartime wife than he would consider flying to the moon.

  Catherine’s cheeks blanched so white, her hair seemed to flame around her face in a mockery of the maquillage of another age. “Forgive me,” she murmured. “I must be private . . .” She picked up her skirts and rushed from the room, leaving her companions staring after her in consternation.

  Blanca broke the silence. “She knows it must be Blas who has done this thing. She has loved him for so very long—since she was fourteen years of age. But Blas . . . he is the very devil of a man. It was never expected he would be faithful, of course. And always there has been a question whether his passion would outlast the war. But now . . ?” Blanca shrugged. “Now it becomes obvious he had more secrets than we imagined. To know a man so very well, and yet not know he could command such wealth and power as this, is not a good thing. It makes a woman wonder how much else she does not know.”

  “If his intentions were honorable,” said Sir Giles carefully, “surely Thomas would not have urged Catherine to have a Season. And yet, if he knew the boy was ready to give her a slip on the shoulder, he would have rejected the house outright . . . “ Baffled, Sir Giles rose to pour himself another brandy. If only he knew something about Blas besides the young man’s undoubted talent for spying . . .

  “Ah, poor child, it is too much to comprehend,” Blanca murmured, shaking her head. “Excuse me, baron, I must go to her.”

  Blanca found Cat in her room, seated on the rug before the fireplace, her black gown spread in a dark pool around her. Her head was bent, hands folded in her lap. “I understand your fears, querida,” said Blanca gently, “but you are a woman of the world. You know a man of wealth may give his inamorata sapphires or diamonds, even an annuity . . .”

  At this Catherine lifted her head, distracted from her own anguish by a wave of sympathy for the older woman. “Yes, like mine,” Blanca agreed calmly. “Your father was indeed generous. When you are safely married, I shall have enough to repair the winery and live in comfort. But enough of me. We now speak of you.”

  Cat returned her gaze to the glowing coals. Blanca was forced to speak to a pair of hunched shoulders. “Catarina, a man does not give such a thing as Branwyck Park as a parting gift. This . . . this magnificence is the gift of a wealthy young man to his wife. Blas is not an easy man, Catarina, and he has surely become too accustomed to playing games. But no one can deny he has more duende, more soul, than any man I have ever known. Now go to bed, and thank the good lord that you have a man who has taken such care of you. He is more a fidalgo, a cavalheiro, than I had thought.” With this magnanimous pronouncement Blanca swept from the room, leaving Cat to the private pain of her thoughts.

  Some time later, she slowly uncurled from the rug. Lighting a candle from the wall sconce, Cat glided across the floor toward a door on the far side of the room. A moment’s hesitation as she gathered her courage, a twist of the knob, and she was into the dressing room connecting her suite to the bedchamber of the master of the house.

  The empty bedchamber of the master of the house.

  The candle cast a small glow into a room which was as dark as Catherine’s was light. Wooden paneling, furnishings of black and scarlet with touches of gold. If nothing else, she thought, this room should have told her who had ordered the decorating of the house. She sank to her knees beside the imposing bed with its black velvet coverlet and bedcurtains elaborately embroidered in gold. Her hand caressed the thick nap of the cloth. Cat laid her cheek onto the sleek smoothness. If Blas had gone to the trouble of specifying the colors of their rooms, did that not mean he planned to live here? Or was this merely the most sumptuous gift a man could give to a woman he had once loved?

  A woman he intended to love again . . .?

  But not, perhaps, to marry.

  And where was he, the dolt? Crossing the Pyrenees into Spain? Swallowed by an anonymous grave? Eaten by carrion? A flyspeck among the thousands upon thousands already lost to Napoleon Bonaparte’s overweening ambition?

  Only the guttering of the candle finally broke the spell. As Cat raised her head, she became aware the metallic threads of gold had scratched her face. How very like the man was this soft black velvet coverlet with pain hidden in its smooth façade. Her enigmatic Englishman, who had carelessly waved a golden arm and created this small miracle, was too tough to kill. Blas the Bastard was not among the anonymous dead. And in typical style, when not chasing the French, he was undoubtedly chasing other women.

  It was surely not right for a man to have so many secrets, Cat decided, her exquisite face grim in the flickering candlelight. If the time should come when Blas wished to court his wife, it was altogether possible she would no longer be available.

  Catherine Audley Perez de Leon woke slowly, vaguely aware of yet another strange bed . . . of ghosts banished with the night. A whole new world beckoned beyond the bedcurtains. This was Branwyck Park. Her house. Her bed. She gave the bell pull behind her head a determined tug, threw back the aquamarine velvet bedcurtains to let in the bright . . .

  It was England, she discovered. Not Portugal. The day was gray, with a steady drip against the mullioned window panes. With a sigh Cat swung her feet back into bed, fluffed up the pillows behind her back and waited for the maid assigned to her by Mrs. Plumb. A cheery, homespun country girl whose name completely eluded her.

  The ornately flowered china clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of ten as a brief scratching at the door heralded the arrival of Bess Fielding, who had been waiting several hours for this summons. When it came, she had rushed about so quickly she was nearly breathless from the long journey up from the kitchen.

  “I’m Bess, Ma’am,” she panted, as she unfolded the legs on the tray she carried and set it over Cat’s lap. “Bess Fielding. Mrs. Plumb says I’m to do fer you ‘til you go to London, and if you’re that pleased with me, you might let me stay on to serve ye when you’re at Branwyck. This here’s your chocolate, Ma’am, and Cook ’oped as how you’d like some toast and Old Miz Avery’s jam. She makes jam a treat, she does.” Bess gasped for breath, plunged on: “And Mrs. Plumb says to tell ye that there’s still plenty in the breakfast room, though the Spanish lady and the London gentlem’n ’av surely eaten more than Cook was expectin’ and the little master and his nurse too. Made Cook that happy to have such fine appetites in the house!”

  During this monologue Cat nibbled her toast and took a tentative sip of the chocolate while surreptitiously studying the voluble young maid. Bess Fielding was close to her own age, with a riot of brown curls severely bound back by a dark blue ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her face was round, her blue eyes open and honest. Cat was suddenly very grateful for the young maid’s cheerful presence.

  “And what would you be wearing today, Ma’am?” Bess inquired, throwing open the wardrobe in which she had carefully hung Cat’s gowns. A pity they were all black, Bess thought. She longed for the dressing of a lady whose wardrobe contained all the colors of the rainbow in silks and satins and fine musli
n.

  Cat chose an unadorned gabardine which would not suffer too much from the exploration of the house which was her the primary task for the day. Task! She could scarcely wait to begin.

  “Ah, Ma’am, you’d look good in anything!” cried Bess as she finished the last of the long row of buttons up the back of Cat’s gown. Stricken, Bess clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Ma’am, I’m that sorry. Me mum says I’m as thoughtless as sparrow. I shouldn’t be talkin’ so bright and cheery when you’re newly widowed and all.” The maid heaved a deep sigh. “You would ‘a been the han’somest couple in London, you so bright and ’im so dark. A fair treat it would ’a been to see the two of you together.”

  Shocked, Cat turned to stare at Bess Fielding. “Can it be you have met my husband?” she inquired faintly.

  “Only seen ’im, m’am. When he was looking at the ’ouse. Nearly three years back, it was. Me pa’s one of your tenants—market gardeners we are—so we all saw him when he come by t’cottage. A devil of a man, he was, beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am. Fair took our breath away. Me mum and m’sister and me. We peeked out the window quite shameless like. Arrogant as a prince, he was, me mum said. And givin’ orders ’bout everythin’. New paint and thatch for all the cottages, new ditches and dams, new tools. Me mum cried, I can tell you! Things have been ever so much better since. It’s a right shame about ‘is passing.”

  “I–I thought perhaps my husband sent an agent to choose the house,” said Cat, not hesitating to pry for information. “Was the man fairly tall with black hair, medium brown eyes, long eyelashes and a good deal of strength in his face?”

  “Like the Prince o’ Darkness ’imself!” said Bess with fervor. “And sat ‘is ’orse like billy-be-damned to the world! Oh! I surely beg your pardon, Ma’am, but I’m thinkin’ you know what I mean!”

  Yes, indeed. Cat knew quite well what she meant.

  And however was she to stay widowed if—when—Blas came back to England? Cat could not resist a smile, a surge of hope. If Blas did not wish to acknowledge her, he had gotten himself into a bit of a pickle. A very un-Blas-like thing to do.

  By the time Cat descended to the ground floor, Sir Giles Everingham was waiting to bid her farewell, promising to send his carriage for the ladies in two weeks time so they might meet his Clara and begin to become acquainted in the ton. After an outpouring of thanks for Sir Giles’s escort into their new life, Cat and Blanca waved him on his way.

  A visit to the nursery found Rosalía and Pierre exploring the contents of long-disused cupboards for toys and books of another age. After a quick hug for the little boy who seemed not at all disturbed by yet another place to lay his fair head, Catherine and Blanca met with Mrs. Plumb in the morning room, which overlooked the now rained-soaked rear park and gardens of the charming old house.

  “I am pleased we are blessed with a cook who is as competent in her position as you are in yours,” Cat said, bringing a flush of pleasure to Mrs. Plumb’s cheeks as the housekeeper murmured her thanks, “but I fear I do have one request. Would you be so good as to procure some coffee, even if you must send to town for it. I was raised on Brazilian coffee, and chocolate is not at all what I can like in the morning. At bedtime, perhaps, but never in the morning.” Cat evinced a delicate shudder. “Please do not apologize, Mrs. Plumb. I am aware that it is the custom. Dona Blanca—Mrs. Dominguez—and I are attempting to accustom ourselves to English ways, but we are agreed that mornings without coffee are simply not possible.”

  After repeated apologies and assurances that coffee would be procured that very day, Mrs. Plumb ventured hesitantly onto another tack. “I was wishful of knowing about Bess Fielding, Ma’am. I realize she cannot be what you’re accustomed to either. But knowing you’d be going up to the city where you’d want to hire a fine London dresser, I hoped Bess might do while you were at the Park.” Nervously, Mrs. Plumb plucked at the heavy keys dangling from her waist, setting them to jingling. “She’s the oldest of seven children—her father Jem Fielding is one of your tenants—and she fair leaped at a chance to come to the Park. But she’s been helping out at home for so long that I fear she has no notion of how to go on. Shall I send to London for a proper maid for you, Ma’am?”

  The thought crossed Cat’s mind that if Pierre was exposed for very long to Bess Fielding and Mary Plumb he could not help but learn to talk. Then again, he might stay silent for lack of finding a way to get a word in edgewise. “I find Bess Fielding quite satisfactory, Mrs. Plumb. In fact, I plan to take her with me to London if she cares to go.”

  Cat swept away Mrs. Plumb’s astonished protests, as she later dismissed Bess Fielding’s tearful cries of gratitude. A young and cheerful presence would be a much needed asset in the vast and unknown city of London.

  There were no neglected corners in Branwyck Park. According to Mrs. Plumb who had served the former owners, many fine pieces of furniture had come with the house, but every room had been refurbished, worn furniture reupholstered or carted to the attics; rugs, draperies and bedhangings cleaned or replaced. In short, an astonishing amount of time, effort and money had been spent on Branwyck Park. Except for the nursery, Cat would not change a thing. Creating a bright, cheerful place for Pierre was, in fact, the only challenge left her. She could not, however, refrain from wondering at the significance of Blas leaving the nursery untouched.

  Cat spent the remainder of the dreary afternoon in the library writing letters to her relatives in England. Over the years she had kept up a desultory correspondence with her grandparents and with the titular head of the family, the present Earl of Ailesbury. The last time she had written was to inform them of the death of her father. That Catherine Audley was now resident in England would come as a surprise. That she was Catherine Audley Perez de Leon would come as a shock. The circumstances of her marriage, and her age at the time, had led Thomas to forbid her to mention it in her letters to her English relations.

  Cat quickly discovered the letters were not easy to write. The unceasing pounding of the rain against the library windows did not help. She was eminently grateful when she heard the pad of small feet on the carpet followed by small arms clutching her knees.

  “Ah, bonjour, Pierre. Good morning!” Cat cried, sweeping the little boy up into her lap as Rosalía came huffing and puffing into the room behind him, apologizing for allowing her charge to get away from her.

  “Sit down, catch your breath,” said Cat in Portuguese. And to Pierre in precise English: “I am glad you have come to see me. This is the library. See all the books. Beaucoup, beaucoup des livres, non?” Dutifully, the little boy turned his head and stared at one long wall which was covered from floor to ceiling with books. Many of the shelves were so far above the floor that a tall wooden ladder ran on a track set into the shelves.

  Cat pushed back her chair and set Pierre on his feet. Taking his hand, she led him to the shelves which were solidly filled with leather-bound volumes imprinted in gold. She encouraged Pierre to touch the books, feel their texture, trace the shining letters of the titles. “One day,” she promised, “you will be able to read all these books.” Owlishly, Pierre stared at her. He either did not understand her English or he found the prospect of all that reading quite daunting.

  Almost hidden behind the sliding ladder Cat saw a book in a bright burgundy binding which looked as if it might have drawings in it. She pushed the ladder aside and reached for the book, her hand freezing on the cover at the sound of a distinct, “Ah!” from Pierre. The book was of no interest at all. His small hands grasped the ladder and tugged. Nothing happened. Frowning mightily, he put his full weight into a forceful push. Fascinated, Cat watched his face light up as the ladder moved a few inches.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Cat picked Pierre up and put him on the ladder, his shoes on the bottom rung. After making sure his hands were tightly clasped on the sides of the ladder, she gently moved it about a foot . . . then stopped.

  Glee turned to swift disappointment. Almost .
. . almost she saw his lips move. Expectantly, encouragingly, she waited.

  He was trying. She could see it clearly. Then the light faded from his clear blue eyes; he hung his head, turning his face away. He started to step down from the ladder.

  “Ah, no!” Cat cried, setting him firmly back in place, horrified she had caused him pain. It was too soon. He would talk when he talked. Never again would she push him. “Let us go for a ride,” she said brightly. Placing her body behind his to shield him if he slipped, she slid the ladder the full length of the wall. The second time they tried it, Cat moved twice as fast; the third time, she ran. Gleeful, if unintelligible, cries of merriment tumbled from both young woman and boy.

  When, breathless, Cat swung Pierre off the ladder, it was to find an audience hovering in the doorway. Rosalía, Arthur Goggans, Mrs. Plumb, two housemaids, and a footman. There wasn’t a soul in the house who had not heard the story of the little boy who didn’t talk. The little boy left alone in the midst of a battlefield. Frenchie or not, he was nothing but a poor lost tyke and he had already won their hearts. Mrs. Plumb was crying, as was Rosalía Santos.

  Goggans hastily shooed the staff back to work. Cat promised Pierre they would ride the ladder again soon and returned him to Rosalía. When the room was once again quiet, she had difficulty returning to her letter-writing. There was a great hollow in her heart. No one would abandon such a child. Someday the war would be over, and a colonel of chasseurs would come looking for his son. Somehow she was certain of it.

  However would she be able to give the boy up?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cat was a child of the city. As she rode into London, accompanied by Blanca and Bess, she could not resist lowering the window of Sir Giles’s traveling coach. Eagerly, she leaned forward to absorb the sights and sounds of the great city. The rumble of wheels over cobbles, the bustle and hum of people working, shopping, hustling to survive. Buildings towering above narrow side streets, glimpses of a women slouched doorways. Even the smells—from the glorious odor of baking bread to the stench of the sewers—were wonderfully familiar. Not Lisbon, but close enough. Exciting, yet exotic. This was London. Heart of her father’s homeland.