The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  As the barouche continued its slow journey, Lady Everingham ignored the speculative and disapproving looks cast on her charge by some of the high sticklers who had witnessed Catherine’s farouche behavior. To each acquaintance she made a point of introducing Catherine as a widow - to whom far greater license was granted than to a young woman venturing into society for the first time. With charming insouciance Clara rattled on about how far Mrs. Perez was from home, how delighted to see a familiar face. Particularly, one of the gallant young men who had defended his country on the Peninsula. By the time the ladies left the park, Clara Everingham was satisfied she had pulled the claws of the ton’s sharpest tabbies. She was now free to wonder which acquaintances might have daughters of a suitable age to balance a table which had suddenly been gifted with three extra men.

  “No! Absolutamente, não!” Quivering, Cat glared at Monsieur Claude, the ton’s most talented coiffeur.

  “But it is the fashion, Catherine,” Lady Everingham protested. “Your hair is very fine, impossible to dress in the latest fashion. You look—forgive me, my dear—but you have the look of a-a courtesan.”

  “Catarina, pobrecita, what is the matter?” cried Blanca, hastening into Clara Everingham’s sitting room from the hallway. She found Cat with her fists clenched at her sides, nearly nose-to-nose with her astonished hostess while Monsieur Claude stood, mouth agape, waving his scissors in Gallic outrage.

  “I made a solemn promise to Blas I would not cut my hair,” Cat hissed. “A solemn promise, you understand. It is not possible, I cannot do it. Even if I wished to. Which I do not,” she added with a hiccup of a sob.

  Clara Everingham threw up her hands. “My dear, I had no idea you felt so strongly.” She took a deep breath, summoned the pleasant dignified smile expected from a well-bred hostess. “Monsieur Claude, with your exceptional talent I know you will be able to contrive something suitable for Mrs. Perez for our little party this evening. I leave her in your capable hands.” With a significant glance at Blanca Dominguez, Lady Everingham wisely retired to the far reaches of the house.

  That evening, when all of his guests were seated in the mahogany paneled dining room, Sir Giles Everingham remained standing at the head of the table in a gesture unusual enough to capture the attention of all in the room. “As you know,” he announced, “the Grand Armée was decimated by our European allies at Leipzig in mid-October. Today we have received word the fortress of Pamplona fell on October 25th.” Sir Giles paused, savoring the moment, as exclamations of joy echoed through the room. When he continued, his words were slow and clear. Closer to a prayer of thanksgiving than triumphant joy. “With the fall of this final French bastion in Spain, the road to France is clear at last.”

  “To the Peer, God bless him!” cried Lieutenant Audley, forgetting his lowly rank as he sprang to his feet to propose the toast.

  “And to all his gallant men,” Sir Giles returned as everyone rose to drink to the Peninsular army and its Commander in Chief.

  “His men took to calling Wellington The Peer as soon as he was made viscount after Talavera,” Cat whispered to Lord Wrexham as he seated her once again at his side. “It was their way of showing their pride in his title.”

  “Which they won for him,” said Wrexham drily.

  “It takes more than hard fighting to win battles, my Lord,” Cat chided. And not just the military genius of Wellington. Among the unsung heroes were Thomas, Blas, Sir Giles . . . and Tonio. The will-o-the-wisp she had never met, but who spiced his reports with humorous remarks which never failed to bring a smile to her lips. And all the other members of Britain’s network of spies. The Portuguese and Spanish guerrilleros. Their wives, children, and lovers who had suffered such horrible reprisals.

  Cat was relieved as the next change of course signaled a conversational switch to the person on her left. This was scarcely the place to talk of atrocities on the Peninsula, and with Wrexham she might well have been tempted to do so. Though why she felt an empathy with this admitted rake, she did not have time to analyze.

  Wrexham’s reaction to the change of partners was quite different. His dinner partner’s face proclaimed her an idle beauty with no thoughts beyond her reflection in a mirror. Yet he suspected she was so much more. He experienced keen disappointment when she turned her back to converse with an elderly gentleman widely known as Britain’s foremost expert on codes.

  Later, as footmen began to serve a delicate blancmange, the words of a middle-aged Member of Parliament rose above the general polite table talk: “Is it true Wellington will send his Spanish troops home before he moves into France?” Directed to Sir Giles, the question effectively silenced all conversation.

  The only censorship was a gentleman’s discretion, and Sir Giles, after only a moment’s hesitation, responded with the truth. “Your information is correct, Bennington. Wellington will not take Spanish troops into France.”

  “But that’s nearly half his army,” Lieutenant Audley sputtered.

  “Forty thousand men,” echoed Gordon Somersby.

  Sir Giles’s lips firmed into a thin line. “The general has good reason for his decision.” He returned to his dessert, obviously bringing the discussion to a close.

  Lord Wrexham raised an enquiring brow to Catherine.

  “Reprisals,” Cat explained. “Terrible, unbelievable things were done by the French. You have perhaps seen some of Goya’s drawings?” Wrexham nodded, his patrician face devoid of his customary cynicism. “It was not just soldiers who suffered, you understand,” Cat continued, “but women, children, priests, nuns. Everyone. The guerrilleros exacted revenge of course, but if Wellington goes into France . . .” Cat shrugged. “There would be no way to control the Spanish troops. It would be far worse than after Salamanca and Badajoz.”

  “Is it true our own troops sacked those cities?” It was something Wrexham, as a member of the House of Lords, found difficult to believe.

  “Oh, yes,” said Cat simply. “It was their reward, you see. So many of their friends died to take those fortresses. For the survivors there must be something.”

  Wrexham could not remember ever finding a woman so unsettling to his peace of mind. To his surety he was an Englishman and therefore superior to the rest of the world. Catherine Perez did not merely come from another country but from a world beyond his imagination. Loosing her on the ton would quite literally set the Cat among the pigeons.

  She was also unsettling to an entirely different portion of his anatomy. His eyes insisted on following Catherine Perez from the room when the ladies, at Clara Everingham’s signal, left the gentlemen to their port. He was a fool, Wrexham thought. A blithering idiot. Tumbled back in time to the infatuations of callow youth. Women like Catherine Perez should be kept locked up, the key thrown into a bottomless pit.

  As long as he was locked up with her.

  As Catherine entered the drawing room, a young woman detached herself from a group near the pianoforte and moved forward to greet her. “You probably don’t remember my name with such a sea of new faces,” she said, the lively intelligence glowing in wide gray eyes belying the shy diffidence of her tone. “I am Amabel Lovell, Mrs. Perez, and I hope we will be friends. Mr. Somersby, who sat next to me at dinner, has told me all about you, and I know I shall like you immensely.”

  By this time Miss Lovell had succeeded in guiding Cat to a window seat in the far corner of the drawing room. “Mr. Somersby says you will understand the problems of a young lady raised in a household where her father actually does something,” Amabel Lovell confided with scarcely a pause in her monologue. “Here in London I sometimes think government work is almost as bad as being a Cit. My papa works with Sir Giles, you see, and I am to make my come-out this Season. And my mama says it is not at all easy for someone who has been raised in a political household to be enough of a widgeon to get by without being called a bluestocking. But Mr. Somersby says you do it superbly, that you actually hoodwinked Marshal Junot himself!”

  Ca
t’s lips twitched. She might understand the Wrexhams of the world, but Amabel Lovell was a new experience entirely. “Gordon Somersby has a very odd memory if he recalls that ancient news,” Cat said with a deprecating gesture, “yet ignores my outrageous behavior in the park earlier this week.”

  “Oh, but he said Lieutenant Audley and he might not have seen you otherwise. Just think how tragic it would have been if they had not heard you. How could you have found them in a city the size of London?”

  Catherine eyed her new acquaintance with interest. Short golden curls framed a heart-shaped face whose open countenance betrayed not only intelligence but a gentle good nature. Catherine rather thought she herself had once been as sunny and open as this charming young lady, but after the French occupation of Lisbon a mask had come down, hiding fourteen-year-old Catherine Audley from the world. And sunny? When had her naturally ebullient disposition disappeared? To be replaced by this icy wall of calm which so seldom cracked to reveal the woman inside? Was it with her father’s beating? That fateful night before her wedding? When Blas left that last time? When her father died?

  “I would be ever so grateful if you could help me,” Miss Lovell was saying. “My papa says gentlemen wish to discuss hunting or horses. The Corn Laws, The Rights of Women, even the mention of a novel will frighten them faster than a flat purse. Of course, I suppose I don’t really have to worry,” she offered a bit doubtfully. “I am practically betrothed. A long-standing family arrangement which, I take leave to tell you, I am most happy to honor. You won’t see me running away like those silly chits in novels. Anthony is quite splendid. Handsome, and so charming.”

  Miss Lovell peeked at her mother who frequently scolded her for her enthusiasms, but that lady was immersed in conversation with several other ladies who frequently met in the drawing rooms of London’s political families. Providing a musical background was Miss Flora Hawley, singing a group of country songs, accompanied her sister Adelaide.

  Amabel leaned closer, confiding to Cat, “Mama has warned me not to wear my heart on my sleeve. You see, I have been too young for Anthony to take much notice of me, and he may not come up to scratch. That is why I wish so very much to have someone who can help me know how to go on. Mr. Somersby says you are ever so sophisticated and know exactly how to talk to men.”

  Cat was suddenly aware she was enjoying herself. Between the satisfaction of Lord Wrexham’s open admiration and the friendship being offered by this vivacious girl only slightly younger than herself, she was beginning to feel alive again. “Tell me about your Anthony,” Cat encouraged.

  “He is Anthony Trowbridge, a younger son,” Miss Lovell confessed. But the younger son of a duke—Marchmont, you know—so he is quite well fixed. His father has given him one of his smaller estates. It is some distance away - in Derbyshire. I fear he has become so enamored with farming that he seldom comes to town. His father and mine did the grand tour together and hatched this betrothal scheme over a vast number of bottles one night in Venice. Long before either was married, of course, but for some reason they never gave it up.”

  Amabel suddenly clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes widening at the immensity of her faux pas. “What an idiot you must think me, rattling on like this. I have not even offered you my condolences. Please forgive me.”

  After Catherine’s reassurances, Miss Lovell plunged straight on. “Mrs. Perez, do you have any children?”

  When the gentlemen entered the drawing room some time later, Gordon Somersby and Lieutenant Audley headed with alacrity toward the two young ladies still ensconced on the window seat, deep in conversation. And yet, within minutes, the two young men discovered their prize had been winkled out from under their noses. Catherine was now seated on a love seat at the opposite end of the room. Where, both young men noted sourly, her companion, the Earl of Wrexham, was favoring her with the anticipatory smile of a predator about to devour his prey.

  “That was well done, my lord,” Catherine approved. “I have not seen such an outstanding maneuver since Wellington left Portugal.”

  “The prize was well worth the effort,” Wrexham murmured, lifting her hand to his mouth for a kiss which he daringly placed on the inside of her wrist. Catherine, shocked by the flash of physical response which shook her, snatched her hand back into her lap.

  Lord Wrexham felt a surge of satisfaction. For a moment he had managed to disturb the young lady’s remarkable façade of sophistication. “That is quite the most stunning mourning gown I have seen,” he continued smoothly. “Surely not the design of a London modiste?” While casting his highly appreciative eye over his dinner partner, he had not failed to note the unusual design of her high-collared gown of soft black silk.

  “I asked Madame Helène to copy a gown of which I am particularly fond. The original design,” she added meaningfully, “was by my husband.”

  The earl’s mouth turned up at one corner. Light sparkled in his gray eyes. “I do believe you are trying to tell me something,” he murmured.

  “That I am not available for dalliance,” said Cat plainly, her eyes steadily holding his. “But I am much in need of a friend.”

  The earl considered her thoughtfully. “I am not at all sure either of us would be wise to embark on the precarious adventure of friendship, for as you must know that is only a small portion of what I desire from you.”

  “Then I must remain alone, my lord.”

  Wrexham, no one’s fool, caught the loneliness and regret in her voice. But, above all, the integrity. The lady meant what she said. Inwardly, he groaned. There was, however, some slight hope. The earl knew his own worth—his vast consequence as well as his wealth. To coax a lady so young and lovely from her mourning was a challenge which mightily intrigued him.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “Friendship it is.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Shortly after breakfast the next day, Clara Everingham went in search of Blanca Dominguez, finally locating her in the sunny morning room which overlooked the rear garden. As usual, Blanca was bent over her embroidery, diligently adding to the drawer full of pillowcases, silken bellpulls, slippers, undergarments and handkerchiefs she was decorating for Christmas gifts. The relatively small room, enhanced by the sparkle of the sun through the double doors to the garden and the coziness of a cheerful fire in the grate, was a haven of quiet contentment.

  With a heartfelt sigh Clara lowered herself into a comfortable chair next to the sofa where Blanca was sitting. “Catherine seemed to enjoy herself last night,” she ventured, keeping a close eye on Blanca’s serene features.

  “I believe you are correct,” Blanca agreed, holding her embroidery hoop up to the light to check the delicate white-on-white stitchery.

  “She has such charm and wit. Yet, many time since she came to us I have thought she seemed . . . unnaturally quiet, even . . . unhappy.”

  “She was most certainly not unhappy to see Mr. Somersby. Nor her cousin the lieutenant,” Blanca pointed out as she threaded fresh white silk through her needle.

  Clara’s smile was rueful as she pictured the scene in Hyde Park. “No, that she was not,” she agreed mildly. “And I was pleased to see her warming to Amabel Lovell last night. An excellent connection.” Lady Everingham paused, choosing her words with care. “But frequently Catherine seems closed off, as if nothing and no one can affect her. There are a few marvelous moments of animation, and then she is gone again. As shut off as if she were one of those glorious mums out in the garden, separated from us by a wall of glass. Beautiful but untouchable.”

  “But the doors may be opened, the flower touched,” said Blanca calmly.

  “But not by just anyone, I fear.”

  “Ah, no,” Blanca agreed, laying her embroidery aside. “Only Blas has that power.”

  “She loves him that much?”

  “À corps perdu. I fear she is like her father. There will be only one great love in her life.”

  “Thomas?” Clara had heard a great deal about Thomas Audley,
but certainly nothing which indicated he had but one woman in his life.

  Blanca’s eyes were fixed on the garden, but what she saw was the Casa Audley. With all its joys and infinite sadness. “Elspeth, Catarina’s mother, was the love of his life. No one could ever take her place.”

  “My dear . . . “ Clara’s words dwindled to a halt, her social poise shattered by what this admission must be costing Blanca Dominguez.

  “They are very special men,” Blanca continued, “Thomas and Blas. And much alike. They love with great passion, but nothing, absolutely nothing, is allowed to get in the way of their duty. Men like that are greatly needed in this world, but they are not easy to live with.”

  Clara shut her eyes. No one could understand that better than the wife of Sir Giles Everingham. “You believe Blas will come back to her then?”

  “I try to make myself believe it, but there is something secretive about him. He is like a chameleon who changes his coat with every situation.”

  “You do not like him?” Clara asked in surprise.

  “I do not trust him,” was the brief reply.

  Some ten days later the ladies were enjoying what had become an almost daily visit from Captain Audley and Gordon Somersby when the card of an unexpected morning caller was presented to Lady Everingham by Rankin, the butler. “Ailesbury!” Captain Audley exclaimed. “Oh, lord, Cat, forgive me if I play least in sight! A more pompous, puffed-up, boring as–ah–gudgeon than the head of the house of Audley cannot be found. Come all the way from the country to look you over. Lydia must be in a rare twit you might steal her thunder. And won’t you just!” he added with considerable relish.