The Honorable Heir

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  He looked at Catherine and shook his head. “It’s false.”

  “I see that.” Her eyes were wet. “Did I cause all this trouble for false coin?”

  “All this trouble?” Tristram’s hand flattened on the desk, the artificial diamond tumbling from his fingers to skitter across the surface. “What do you mean by that?”

  Surely she wasn’t going to confess she had taken the jewels after all. As much as he wanted to cable home just to prove his father wrong, he did not want Catherine to be the culprit.

  She dabbed at her eyes with one of those black-bordered handkerchiefs that he hated to see her use. “I thought Edwin might have held me in some regard if he was willing to marry me, but I learned that wasn’t true. I thought having a title would make me important, but it didn’t. It’s all false coin, like the jewels. The real ones have vanished like my belief that I could have anything I wanted proved false.” A sob escaped her and fresh tears dampened her handkerchief. “Now I don’t know what to believe in.”

  His heart breaking for her pain, Tristram wrapped his arms around her and cradled her head against his shoulder. “Not everything is false. Jesus’s love for us isn’t. That’s the most important thing to remember, even if perhaps it’s most difficult to do so when those on earth who should love us, fail.”

  “I know. I know. And my family loves me. Or so I like to think. But perhaps they put up with me because they want to make a show of their faithfulness in front of my detractors for the sake of family pride. Perhaps God only tolerates me because He made promises.” She clung to his shoulders, quiet and still in his arms. If she still wept, she did so in silence.

  The feel of her in his arms needing his comfort felt so much like love, he was overwhelmed.

  No, he chastised himself, he couldn’t love her until he trusted her completely. But oh, how her nearness made his heart sing.

  He touched her smoothly upswept hair. If only—

  The library door burst open. “Catherine, Lord Tristram, do come join the rest and listen to my new composition. We can— Oh.” Estelle’s voice broke off.

  Catherine jerked back. Her face paled, and the hand gripping the handkerchief flew to her lips as though she were about to be sick.

  Tristram turned more slowly to face a veritable throng in the doorway—Estelle, Florian, Pierce, Ambrose...and Georgette.

  * * *

  Catherine had a strange moment of reflection as she stood there and time seemed to come to a halt. She realized she was rather good at organizing everyone’s life but her own. In the month since she’d returned to Tuxedo Park, she had planned three charity events, taken over much of the household management from Mama and ensured Estelle attended at least half of the social events to which she was invited. The busier she was, the less she thought about how Edwin had hurt her, how Tristram still half believed she was guilty...and of Tristram himself—the kiss, the snowball fight, the way the mere sight of him could melt her.

  But for all her ability to keep a half dozen juggler’s balls in the air without hitting the floor, she could not control her love for Tristram, her wish to cling to his strength or her urge to cling to him even when she’d heard others coming.

  Her head had told her to let go. Her heart had said to hang on. And there stood Georgette, staring at her as though she’d kicked a puppy.

  She made herself laugh as though she were tossing off something unimportant. “I am overtired from all these events I’m planning. Imagine me crying over something as nonsensical as a broken earring.” She scooped up the bauble denuded of one of its false diamonds and dropped it into the box. “I expect a jeweler can repair it. Lord Tristram, why don’t you go hear the performance. I have two days until this tea party and some of the details are not yet set. Georgette, will you stay and help me?”

  “I think I’d like that.” Georgette took a tentative step through the doorway.

  “You don’t want to go home, Georgie?” Pierce asked.

  “No, I’ll stay.” She moved more quickly to the desk.

  Tristram moved in the opposite direction, heading toward the others. “I’d like to go back with you, Pierce.”

  “Stay and listen to one piece,” Estelle urged. “I call this one ‘Joy.’”

  The men departed with Estelle. Catherine swept the earrings into a desk drawer and drew the lists for the tea to the center of the desk.

  “Wait.” Georgette leaned forward and picked up the artificial diamond. “You don’t want to lose this.”

  Oh, but she wished she could.

  “I suppose not.” Catherine placed the cut crystal in with the earrings. When she looked up, Georgette was gazing at the picture.

  “We had so much fun together as girls, didn’t we? When did we start finding our social prestige was more important than our friendship?”

  Catherine sank onto her chair. She should offer coffee or tea, but didn’t possess the energy to rise and ring the bell. “Perhaps when we started listening to others tell us what was expected of us.”

  “Marry well. If not money, then rank and family.” Georgette perched on another chair, still holding the picture. “We don’t have money like some have, but my mother’s side has family back to the Mayflower. But you VanDorns have the income and the name. It’s always eaten up my mother and grandmother with envy. They were convinced you would steal everything from me.”

  “And I did.” Catherine reached across the desk, though couldn’t reach Georgette. “I won’t do it again, Georgette. Lord Tristram is a kind-hearted man, and he was giving me comfort. That is all.”

  Georgette pursed her lips and flicked her gaze to a point above Catherine’s head, then inclined her head. “Of course.” She sounded anything but convinced.

  “Georgie—”

  “Now,” Georgette hastened to speak over Catherine, “you need my assistance with something for the tea?”

  Understanding that the subject of Tristram was closed between her and Georgette, Catherine turned the conversation fully to the charity event. “I have no idea which is the best way to set up the ballroom.” Catherine prattled on about table placement, the sort of beverages that would be served, the finger sandwiches and cookies and cakes. Then they moved on to a discussion of the first skating party of the year. They did not mention Tristram again or answer the question surely at the top of Georgette’s mind—why was Tristram alone with Catherine to begin with?

  When Georgette had departed, Catherine realized yet one more difficulty. If Georgette did convince Tristram to wed him, she was likely to learn about the jewelry and his lingering suspicions that Catherine lay behind the theft. And what would happen between their families then?

  For the next two days, Catherine kept herself so busy with preparations for the charity tea that she had no time to think about the possibility of Tristram and Georgette marrying, and was too weary at night not to sleep.

  The morning of the tea dawned bright and clear. Catherine took the automobile to the clubhouse to look into the decorations, ensuring that the flowers had arrived on the morning train. She supervised their placement and, at last satisfied with the arrangements, she went home to dress.

  For the second time since returning home, she donned one of her gowns from Paris. It was white lace with a wide neckline, filled in from the shoulders to a high neck with sheer lace. She wore pearl eardrops, and pearl combs in her hair beneath a wide-brimmed hat of white straw trimmed with white roses. White wouldn’t raise as many eyebrows as had the mauve, and it still wasn’t first mourning. She wished she could tell the critics that mourning a man who barely acknowledged her existence was hypocritical of her. They would likely tell her that she had made the choice to marry him and her husband deserved her respect.

  She cringed at the thought. She hadn’t respected Edwin. Once she knew he intended to behave as though he had n
o wife, she used the power of her money over him.

  And now here she was, using the power that his title gave her over much of the Tuxedo Club’s female population. After all, why else would the older Selkirk ladies buy tickets to this particular tea for the first time in five years? Their arrival brought a hush over the room—a hush followed by excited chatter. Catherine served the Selkirk ladies herself, aided by Georgette and Mrs. Daisy Baker, another friend from Mrs. Graham’s academy. They dispensed tea and hot chocolate and directed the guests to the tiered plates of cakes and sweets.

  Catherine poured, sent for fresh tea and poured some more. Her arm grew weary, but her heart sang at how smoothly everything was going. She poured one more cup, then glanced up to hand it to the next person in line and looked straight into Tristram’s jade-green eyes.

  He managed to take the cup and bow without releasing her gaze. “May I call tomorrow, my lady? I’d like to retrieve those earrings.”

  Catherine flashed a glance at Georgette, busy serving Ambrose and Florian.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, and left before she could protest.

  The majority of the ticket holders having arrived, Catherine abandoned the tea-serving table and began to circulate through the room. On the stage, Estelle, Ambrose and Florian began to play Christmas carols.

  Most of the ladies and handful of gentlemen present greeted Catherine with cordiality, with only a few backhanded compliments slipped in.

  “Lovely dress. You look more like a bride than a widow.”

  “Hanging out for another title?”

  Catherine ignored the remarks and continued the hostess duties Mama had performed for the past ten years. Her mother presided over a table chatting and laughing with her friends, pretty and content.

  Catherine paused beside her and kissed her cheek. “Are you happy with everything?”

  “How can I not be when I have two such admirable daughters?”

  Tristram sat at the next table with one other gentleman and three young ladies. Three more empty chairs suggested Estelle, Ambrose and Florian had taken their refreshments there before going onto the stage.

  Tristram and the other man rose at Catherine’s approach. She didn’t recognize him or the young ladies.

  “Lady Bisterne,” Tristram said, “allow me to introduce the Beaumonts. They bought the property next to the Selkirks last year.”

  They all made proper “how do you do” responses, then the Beaumonts returned to their chairs. Tristram remained standing.

  She motioned for one of the waiters to come clear away their plates. “I hope you are enjoying yourself.” She glanced at Tristram’s cup. “Hot chocolate? I thought I poured you tea.”

  “You did. It was not to my taste and I was feeling rather chilled.”

  “But I ensured the tea was perfect. I don’t know why—” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you all right? You’ve gone quite pale.”

  He was not only pale, a sheen of perspiration had broken out on his face, and he gripped the back of his chair. “I think I should get some fresh air.”

  His companions at the table had ceased their conversation and were staring.

  Catherine stepped forward to offer him her arm, but when he released the chair, he swayed, took a staggering step forward and collapsed onto the ballroom floor.

  Chapter 13

  Should a guest be taken ill, she must assure him that he is not giving the slightest trouble; at the same time nothing that can be done for his comfort must be overlooked.

  Emily Price Post

  Catherine rushed to catch Tristram, but Mr. Beaumont reached him first, lowering him to the floor. Around her, ladies gasped in horror.

  “Should I send someone to fetch the doctor, my lady?”

  “Find a place to carry him first.” Catherine kept her voice calm. To those who had seen the incident, she offered them an assuring smile and a waved hand. “He’s a wounded war hero.”

  She said the words as though that explained why he would collapse in the middle of a charity tea, while the music continued in joyous celebration upon the stage.

  Catherine returned her attention to Tristram, so pale, and she wasn’t entirely sure he still breathed. She wasn’t entirely sure she still breathed. Her breath felt trapped in her lungs, about to burst with a wail.

  Please, Lord. Please let him be all right.

  Tristram didn’t drink spirits. He couldn’t be inebriated. Had his concussion of a few weeks ago caused some sort of relapse? Or was he ill for other reasons, something contagious, perhaps?

  No matter, she would catch the plague and she wouldn’t care. She must see to his welfare.

  “I live across the way in the bachelor’s quarters,” Mr. Beaumont was saying. “I’m happy to carry him to my room.”

  “Thank you.”

  She knew that she couldn’t see him there, but she could not concern herself with that now. Tristram needed warmth, comfort and care.

  “Yes, carry him there. Thank you.” As though nothing were truly wrong, she continued her circuit of the room, ending up back at the serving table, where Georgette seized her arm.

  “What happened?”

  “Tristram has collapsed. Dr. Rushmore is on his way. Right now he’s being taken to the bachelor house.”

  Georgette’s golden brows drew together. “I do hope this doesn’t mean there’s weak blood in his family. One does hear things of English aristocrats, and I don’t want to pass that sort of thing to my children.”

  “Your...children?” Catherine stared at her old friend. “Has he made you an offer?”

  “No, but I am determined to marry him. We get on well, and he’ll take me away from this confining life.”

  No declarations like “I love him and intend to win him.” She was simply determined to wed him.

  If Tristram were all right—and Catherine prayed that he was—he deserved better than to be snared by someone chasing after his title. That was no different than a poor man going after a lady’s dowry.

  She had been there, pursuing Edwin for his title so she could have the highest rank of any of her friends, yet she reviled Edwin for exploiting her money for his own gain. She claimed she wished Edwin had cared for her, yet what had she done to care for him? She showed him as little respect in death as she had in life, shunning her mourning far too soon, flaunting her disdain for him with her mauve dress just over a year after his death.

  Turning away from Georgette with the excuse of inspecting the contents of the tea and chocolate pots, she voiced a silent prayer. Lord, I cannot ask Edwin for forgiveness, but I can ask You. Please forgive my selfishness, my greed, my lack of remembering that You are what is important.

  She said a prayer that Tristram would be all right. She wanted to pray that the Lord would show Georgette that she was making a terrible mistake if she didn’t love Tristram, but she would not even think to put that much of a wedge between her friend and what she wanted. She couldn’t, even if it was for Georgette’s and Tristram’s well-being. A reunion of families was already taking place before her eyes, as Mama sat down to tea and talked with the older Selkirk ladies. That peace, that ending of the gossip and nasty remarks, was too precious to risk.

  Head whirling, she felt like Tristram had looked in those last moments before he fell—pale and shaken. She touched her handkerchief to her brow.

  “Are you taken ill, as well?” Georgette whispered in her ear. “I surely hope nothing was wrong with any of the food.”

  “I haven’t partaken of any of the food.”

  But Tristram had. He said the tea was not to his taste, yet Ambrose’s and Florian’s cups had sat empty upon the table and they had drunk the same tea. Nothing had happened to them. They were just now finishing up a melody and taking their bows to much applause.

 
His mostly full cup of tea had been pushed toward the arrangement of poinsettias and greenery in the center of the table, and replaced by hot chocolate acquired just after she left the beverage table.

  Not to his taste, he’d said about the tea, as though it tasted odd. Too sweet? Too bitter? He took just a bit of milk in his tea.

  Her stomach seized up at the notion in her mind. Yet it wasn’t out of the question. Someone, after all, had sent him to Lake House, had smashed him on the head and left him in the snow. Hitting was more likely a thing a man would do.

  Poison, however, was considered a lady’s trick.

  The blow had taken place outside her house, the illness at her charity tea. Two incidents that could easily be blamed on her.

  “Excuse me.” Spinning on her heel, she forced herself to move at a sedate pace, though what she truly wanted to do was run—run to Tristram, ensure his well-being, talk to him about what she feared.

  Not until she reached the doorway did she realize she should have attempted to retrieve Tristram’s teacup. But no, she had motioned for a waiter to clear the table, an action that could be taken as her trying to destroy evidence.

  Her heart commenced racing like a polo pony. She pressed a hand to her chest and breathed deeply. It worked for a few moments until Dr. Rushmore strode through the doorway.

  “Doctor?” She nearly pounced upon the poor man.

  He touched her cheek. “You’re pale, my lady. Are you ill, as well?”

  “Only anxious.”

  “He will be fine in a day or two of rest. Something he ate disagreed with him.”

  “Do you think something could be wrong with the food?” she asked. “Will others be ill?”

  Dr. Rushmore smiled. “I don’t think so. Sometimes people can’t tolerate certain foods. We don’t know why yet, but we’re working on finding out.” He patted her arm as though he were old enough to be her father, which was decades from the truth. “I expect your beau will call as soon as he’s well.”