“He’s not my—”
Several ladies emerged from the ballroom to surround the doctor, inviting him to come in for a hot drink and sandwiches. No one expected the doctor, making a pittance in comparison with the income of the Tuxedo Park residents, to pay for a ticket.
Like an automaton, Catherine returned to her duties. Guests were beginning to leave, drifting out in twos and threes. She thanked as many as she could for coming. She supervised the waiters in cleaning up the tables and made arrangements for the flowers to go to the church and the leftover food to the needy.
All had gone well except for Tristram’s mysterious and sudden illness.
At last, she was able to go home, where she could sit without distraction and run through the details surrounding Tristram. He hadn’t liked the tea. Some people couldn’t tolerate certain foods, but Tristram could tolerate tea in great quantities. Nothing was wrong with the tea. No one else had gotten ill. Perhaps something in the sandwiches or cakes had caused his collapse, but instinct told her no. That tea not being to his taste haunted her.
“Because some people can’t tolerate poison.” There, she had said it aloud—given voice to her fears.
But who and why? To make her look bad? That would make her look guilty—an attempt on Tristram’s life. The real jewel thief would perhaps rid himself of his pursuer and turn everyone’s attention to Catherine.
But who? No one at the serving tables. They lacked opportunity to steal the jewels. Indeed, Florian was the only person who had been inside Bisterne since Edwin’s death—other than Catherine. Ambrose was Edwin’s friend, but he hadn’t paid a call at Bisterne for months before her husband died. Someone else passing by? Strangers about whom Catherine knew nothing?
Her mind spinning around and around the same notions, Catherine buried herself in details for the next charity event to distract her thoughts, and tried not to think about Tristram. She could do nothing more than send a note around to Mr. Beaumont and request information as to Tristram’s welfare. She received no response from Mr. Beaumont, nor did she hear from Florian and Ambrose.
But Tristram himself called on her the following morning.
* * *
Conscious of how easily he could have died at the tea, Tristram was anxious to speak to Catherine, to learn what she thought of the incident. She was easily the one to suspect. Too easily. Yet who else would want to get rid of him?
Catherine received him in the conservatory, where sunlight shimmered off a row of icicles as though she resided in some kind of ice palace. The white snow and colorless ice emphasized the deep blue of her gown and the sunlight brought out the red highlights in her hair. The sight of her robbed him of breath, of even a whisper that she could try to harm anyone, especially him.
“Are you going to come in or stand there and stare?” The corners of her lips twitched up.
He strode into the room to meet her in front of the windows where he had kissed her in a moment of madness he would like to repeat. “I was appreciating the scenery—and you.” He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from touching her. “Are you well?”
“I’m quite well. It’s you who concerns me.” She touched his arm as she gazed up at him. “Are you doing all right? Does the doctor know you’re up and about? May I send for tea?”
“I think I’m off tea for a while, but I would like some of that hot cider, if you have any.”
“We always do, at least through Christmas.” She sent for the hot drink, then seated herself on a sofa to give him leave to be seated.
He took a chair adjacent to her so he could better look at her.
She met his gaze without flinching. “Lord Tristram, I believe you were poisoned?”
“We don’t beat around any bushes, do we?” That was as much levity as he could manage. “Why do you ask something so...serious?”
“Rarely does an illness come on so quickly, and you said the tea wasn’t to your taste, but I made certain that tea was perfect. I put nothing in it but a little milk, so it should have been to your taste.”
“Yet somehow, someone managed to insert a rather hefty dose of potassium bromide.”
She jerked upright. “How do you know? The waiters cleared the table.”
“Not fast enough. I regained consciousness soon enough to tell Beaumont to gather my cup from the table and give it to the physician.”
“So you suspected, too?” She leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. “Did you suspect me again?”
“You had the best opportunity.”
She opened her eyes wide enough to glare at him.
He leaned forward and covered her hand where it rested on the arm of the sofa. “Too good an opportunity. Like that last pair of earrings, it’s too coincidental, too much like someone wanting me to think it’s you trying to hurt me or get rid of stolen jewels.”
“Hurt you?” She turned over her hand and laced her fingers with his. “Tristram, can potassium bromide not kill?”
“In large enough doses. Fortunately, that large a dose tastes so bitter, no one in his right mind would drink it.”
“So whoever put it in your tea is an amateur—” She squeezed his fingers hard enough to hurt. “Let us stop dancing around this topic. Someone might have wanted to kill you. First the blow to your head, and now this.”
“I have a feeling if you hadn’t come along, someone else would have rescued me from the snow before it was too late. And yesterday, I drank enough to lose consciousness for a few minutes, but not enough to kill me.”
“So what’s the purpose?”
“To scare me off from here? From pursuing the jewel thief?” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “To cast more aspersions on you?”
“Or all of those choices.”
“Or all of those choices.”
“Who is behind all this?”
The arrival of the hot cider, rich with the scent of cinnamon sticks and nutmeg, saved him from having to hedge. He could tell her what he should have known all along, but he wouldn’t again question anyone’s honesty as he had Catherine’s, until he gathered enough evidence.
“Tell me, Catherine, what happened in those last days of Bisterne’s life?”
She shook her head. “Nothing unusual. He came home for more money, as he did every quarter. He did some riding and shooting with neighbors, then he went to the safe, took out the jewels and rumbled about how it was such a waste he couldn’t sell them so he wouldn’t have to live off the largesse of an American female.”
“But why couldn’t he sell the jewels? They go with the estate, but they’re not entailed like property.”
“I don’t know. I thought some English law prevented him from doing so. Other than the combs and wedding and engagement rings he gave me, I never wore the jewels. And the combs—” She stopped, and her eyes widened. “He knew they were false. That’s why he couldn’t sell them.”
Tristram inclined his head. “I think you’re right. He knew all along someone had traded most of the real stones for false ones, but he might not have been sure which were which, so he dared not risk anyone learning they were artificial if he chose the wrong ones.”
“Someone else from the family. It had to be someone else from the family who knew the combination to the safe. His father, perhaps?”
“Or his uncle?”
“Florian’s brother?”
She did not suggest Florian himself, but she must be wondering as much as Tristram was if Florian could be behind the attacks and the theft. It would explain his confidence that Estelle and her father would find him acceptable; he knew he possessed money hidden away somewhere.
“Was Ambrose ever at Bisterne?” he asked.
She shook her head. “He despises the country. We met in town once or twice when I managed to
get up there for some shopping. Why do you ask? He’s not part of the family, is he?”
“No, he’s a Wolfe with no Baston-Ward connections. But I’m seeking all avenues.”
Her face lit, her sparkling dark eyes upon him. “Does that mean I am no longer guilty?”
“It does. Now I just want to call on you because I quite want to be around you.” He drew her hand to his lips. “May I?”
She drew her hand free. “Georgette.”
“I keep trying to talk to her about it, but she stops me every time, as though if I don’t say it, it won’t be true.”
“But it could make trouble if she’s humiliated again.”
“If she is, then it’s of her making, not yours.”
She released his hand and rose to pace the room. “I’d like you to call on me. But I’m not ready to marry another English heir, especially one Georgette has set her heart upon.”
“Is it her heart or her pride?”
She stopped and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I’m afraid the latter. But can I hurt her pride again and cause another rift amongst the older ladies, among my mother’s friends?”
“Are you responsible for their behavior?” Tristram stood and fixed her with a scowl, his body tense with frustration.
She glared back. “Are you responsible for finding the jewels because your father can’t be proud of the man you are without you performing some feat?”
“A great deal of money depends on me succeeding.”
“Which is something else. How dare he hurt others just to make you prove something that’s really none of your concern. This should be managed by proper investigators. Why aren’t they on to the jewel thief?”
“To keep it out of public notice.”
“Well, if you don’t succeed, the public will notice eventually.”
“I have to succeed, Catherine. This has gone well beyond me finding a jewel thief. This pursuit could cost me my life.”
“You are right in that.” Her lower lip quivered. “But I cannot allow you to pay me particular attention, unless Georgette realizes what she’s doing.”
“And I won’t force my presence upon you.” He gazed at her, his eyes burning, his heart aching, knowing he loved her to distraction. “I must leave here in three weeks to get home by my father’s deadline.” He bowed.
“I am going back to the Selkirks to talk to Georgette about my feelings—my lack of feelings—toward her. This cannot continue if I may have a future with you.” He gazed at her, his heart about to burst as he awaited a response from Catherine.
She gave him her calm, cool look. “We’ll talk about the future when the present is settled.”
Frustrated, amused, he held her gaze. “Then I have great motivation to succeed.”
* * *
As though she sensed his greater determination, Georgette avoided him as much as possible. Indeed, she arranged for him to be out of the house—urging Pierce to take Tristram shooting or ice fishing with the men. Why anyone would voluntarily freeze for fish one could well afford to purchase, Tristram didn’t know, but Pierce and his cronies seemed to consider it a feat of manly virtue to withstand the cold for what amounted to only enough fish for hors d’oeuvres at a small gathering had they even kept them.
Tristram rather enjoyed these outdoor activities with other gentlemen. He felt safe from the threatening behavior of others in their company. At the same time, he longed to be with Catherine and ached for just half an hour alone with Georgette. He must seize an opportunity, whether she wished for it or not, and speak with Georgette before he returned to England three days before Christmas.
He thought his opportunity arrived one morning in mid December. Snow had fallen the previous day and most of the night, but the day broke with brilliant sunlight. Ambrose and Florian were discussing calling on Estelle to practice one of her new compositions when Georgette walked into the parlor.
She wore a pink wool suit and creamy lace. She met his gaze and smiled, her eyes soft and warm. “You don’t want to hear one of Estelle’s compositions, do you, Tristram? It’s such a pretty day, I thought we could try the toboggan run at the racket club.”
“I can think of few things I’d like more.” Beyond seeing Catherine, holding her hands in his, touching her porcelain cheek...
Florian cast him a sympathetic glance, then turned to Georgette. “Come listen to Estelle’s composition, and then we’ll all go over to the racket club. The ice is thick enough for skating.”
“If you like, I’ll go.” Tristram didn’t want to seem too eager.
For nearly two weeks, he had honored Catherine’s wishes and hadn’t called on her. His heart had to be satisfied with brief greetings at social gatherings they both attended, though she didn’t seem to attend many. Much of the past two weeks, Catherine was in the city working on charitable events and shopping with her mother and sister, Tristram learned from Florian, who moped around without Estelle near.
Tristram envied the younger man. If he were free he could walk away from his father’s edict and offer for Catherine. Of course, that might be considered too much of the easy road to solving his difficulties with his father.
Riding in the Selkirks’ automobile along the well-groomed street leading past houses that offered nothing less than ultimate comfort, Tristram realized that he had lived his life like that road. He took the path into the army because it was easier than fighting with his father about another course of action. He disobeyed orders because that was easier than trying to convince his superiors what they were doing hurt England’s cause in the end. Then he accepted his father’s ultimatum because it was easier than staying home. Believing Catherine was the jewel thief was easier than trying to find the real culprit. Now staying away from Catherine was easier than forcing a confrontation with Georgette.
How can I call myself a man of God willing to serve Him if I am unwilling to take risks He might demand of me?
He turned to Pierce, who was driving. “Let me out. I want to walk.”
“We’ll be there in two minutes.” Pierce pointed out the obvious, but pulled on the brake.
“And I’ll see you in ten.”
“But, Tristram,” Georgette called from the rumble seat, “walking through this snow is so difficult.”
“I know.” Tristram waved and set off.
Belching and chugging, the auto pulled away, Georgette waving.
“What would You have me do, Lord?” He asked the question aloud.
No specific answer came to him. When he arrived at Lake House, his trousers sodden, the VanDorns’ butler greeted him with considerably more courtesy than the previous visit, and led him straight to the drawing room fire. And there sat Catherine dispensing hot chocolate. She glanced up, saw him approaching her and dropped a china cup onto the hearth. It shattered into a hundred pieces, and Tristram’s heart sang.
“I didn’t know you were coming.” She stooped to gather up the broken china.
“I almost didn’t.” He bent to help her. “But they mentioned skating, and you promised to show me what a skating chair is.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Her gaze flicked to the music room, where she could see Georgette through the doorway trying her hand at Estelle’s banjo. “Georgette...?”
“No, I’ve not spoken to her yet. I—” He looked into Catherine’s eyes. “I’m a coward. All my life—”
“Tristram.” Georgette’s voice rang out from the music room doorway. “I’m happy to see you arrived safely. Are you ready to push me in a skating chair?”
“I think that sounds—” He stopped himself. “I’m afraid—” From the corner of his eye, he caught Catherine’s quick shake of her head. “Catherine already promised to show me how the skating chairs work.”
“I see.” Georgette’s eyes went as wintry co
ld as the December sky. “Well, I think it inappropriate for such a recent widow to do something as frivolous as skate.”
Tristram’s heart sank. She wasn’t going to be understanding about his feelings for Catherine. The genteel feuding between the families would start again unless he figured out what to do.
“She’s right.” Catherine rose, her hands full of china shards. “I should stay here and help Mama with Christmas—”
Tristram turned to her. “Is breaking promises easier than keeping them?”
“That depends on to whom one makes the promise.” She glanced toward Georgette, who was watching them closely.
Breaking promises was rarely easier than keeping them. He had made a promise to her. He had made one to his father. Most of all, he had made a promise to his heavenly Father to serve him. But he didn’t want to serve the Lord alone. He wanted Catherine at his side, the stubborn, loyal love.
“Does your sister not need a chaperone?” he asked Catherine.
“I do.” Estelle tucked one hand beneath Georgette’s elbow. “As is, we have too many gentlemen.”
Georgette looked away from Tristram and Catherine, and gave Estelle a smile. “Of course. How silly of me. We’ll find more for our party, if they’re not already there.”
One phone call by Estelle ensured that the racket club teemed with young people by the time the Selkirk and VanDorn parties arrived. Ladies and gentlemen alike donned black skates and headed to the lake. Someone found Tristram a pair that fit and he donned them with considerable doubt.
“I haven’t been on ice since I was a schoolboy. We don’t get weather cold enough to freeze water thick enough most of the time.”
“But all I remember is freezing cold weather.” Catherine shivered. “Living in Bisterne was like having an icehouse for a home.”
“And not something you wish to repeat?” Georgette bent to strap on her own skates. “Last one on the ice is a rotten egg.” She headed toward the ice.
“No takers, Georgie. We can’t compete with you.” Catherine glanced at Tristram without looking at him directly. “She has always been the fastest. That’s why we let her push the skating chairs instead of riding in one like the rest of us ladies do.”
The Honorable Heir Page 15