Falling Stars

by Anita Mills

“In—in the old monastery.”

  His arms tightened around her for a moment, then he sat her back from him. “Why are you outside, Kate?”

  She couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t tell him what she’d seen. Looking at the ground, she mumbled, “I had a dream, Papa—and there was something chasing me—it wore a long robe,” she added, inventing. “And I couldn’t see its face. But the chains made a noise, and then I awoke in the monastery.”

  The footman behind him nodded. “ ’Twas the murdered monk.”

  “That will be enough,” her father said, interrupting the fellow. “She has quite a sufficient imagination as it is.” He took her hand and headed toward his study. “Dinkins, before you retire again, two glasses of hot milk, please.” He waited until the footman disappeared before he sank into a chair. Looking up at her, he pursed his lips.

  “A ghost, Kate?” he asked softly. “I have never known you to be afraid of anything.” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “I know a whisker when I see one, my dear.”

  She didn’t want to lie, but neither did she wish to hurt her foolish governess. So she remained silent.

  Her father did not speak again until Dinkins brought the milk, apologizing, “It ain’t real hot, my lord, ’cuz the fire’s nearly dead in the stove.”

  “Thank you. That will be all. You need your sleep—go on back to bed.” As the man left, John Winstead sipped his milk, then looked over the rim of his glass. “Do you know what trust is, Kate?” he asked slowly.

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Trust is loving someone enough to believe what he says.” His eyes met hers. “Trust is believing someone has a good reason to withhold something. Do you understand me, child?”

  “Yes, sir.” She stared into her milk for a moment, then answered slowly. “You think I might be untruthful, but you are willing to believe I have a reason for it.”

  He nodded. “Precisely.”

  She dared to look up. “I have hopes you will not tell Mama.”

  “I won’t.” He finished his milk. For a time, he seemed to grope for words. “You and Harry favor me, Kate,” he began, “and I’m afraid I have been somewhat of a disappointment to your mother.” He stopped to stare at the shaft of moonlight that sliced across the dim room. “My father was a gamester, I am a gamester, and no doubt Harry will be one also. It is in the blood, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t have to explain Mama to me, sir.”

  “I know.” He stood and reached for her hand. “Come on, you’ve got to get to bed.”

  As she walked up the steps beside him, she was nearly overwhelmed by the gratitude she felt for him. At her door, he bent to kiss her cheek.

  “Always remember you are my darling child, Kate,” he said softly. Straightening, he spoke more lightly. “And always remember gamesters make miserable husbands.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As she turned toward her room, she saw that Miss Beckwood’s door was ajar. As soon as the baron disappeared into the darkness, the governess whispered, “Kate?” The candle in her hand betrayed her wet face. When Katherine did not come to her, she stepped cautiously into the hall. “Please—I’d like to speak to you.”

  “I’ve got to go to bed.”

  “Please,” the woman repeated. “I know I do not deserve to be heard, but—”

  Reluctantly, Katherine followed her into the tiny chamber. Beckwood’s eyes were red, and her hands shook. Suddenly, her face crumpled, and she began sobbing. “He’s going to turn me off—I know it! He’s going to turn me off! I didn’t mean to do it—it was the rum, Katherine—it was the rum!”

  “I didn’t tell him anything.”

  It was as though the woman did not hear her. “Do you know what I am? A spinster—an ape-leader,” she blubbered. “I have no fortune and no hopes of one—none at all!”

  “Beckwood, I didn’t tell Papa anything!”

  The woman blew her nose in a soggy handkerchief, then went on. “It isn’t as though anyone would ever wish to marry me! I just wanted to be held. I—”

  “Miss Beckwood, I said I saw a ghost!” Katherine all but shouted at her.

  The governess stared for a moment. “You said you saw a ghost?” she repeated blankly. “Why?”

  “I had to say something.”

  “Then he does not—I mean—you did not tell him?” she asked incredulously.

  “No.”

  “Oh—you dear, dear child!”

  “I did it for Harry. I didn’t want him to know about it.”

  Beckwood wiped her wet cheek with the back of her hand. “Well, I think he knows now.” Sniffling, she added, “They are going in the morning, because Lord Townsend says he cannot stay after this.” Then, as though to comfort herself, she said, “But he promises he will come back.”

  “Good night, Miss Beckwood.”

  “Good night, Kate.”

  Later, as she lay beside an oblivious Claire, Katherine stared at the ceiling, feeling somehow betrayed by Bell Townsend. Everyone had liked him, everyone had welcomed him, and he’d misused their trust to make a fool of a lonely, silly woman. But even worse, he’d caused her to lie to her father.

  London: Summer, 1814

  Despite the warmth of the air, despite the beauty of hundreds of lanterns that vied with a clear, star-studded sky to illuminate the limestone mansion’s lawn, Katherine shivered as her brother handed her down from their town carriage. Behind her, Clarissa observed excitedly, “It is the very best of nights, Kate! Only fancy—we shall see Czar Alexander!”

  “I would that we did not,” Katherine muttered as she pulled her silk shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “One has but to read the papers to know he is mobbed wherever he appears.”

  “Be still, you foolish girl,” her mother snapped. “A crowd is to your advantage, if you will but use it.”

  They were nearly to the pilastered porch. As late as they were, the lanterns flickered above the heads of some of the highest of the ton still waiting entrance. A knot formed in Katherine’s stomach.

  Lady Winstead turned to survey both daughters critically, and her lips tightened as her eyes moved over Kate. “Straighten your shoulders and remove your wrap. You look as though you are a short Egyptian,” she decided irritably. “And you ought to have let Marsh apply the rouge, for you seem more than half-dead ere the evening has begun.” Reaching out, she pinched Katherine’s cheeks hard.

  As she turned her attention to Claire, Harry moved closer. “Buck up, Kate—you look fine.”

  It was a lie, but she was grateful for it. Since their father’s death, Harry was the only one who cared a button for her. If it were not for his bad rep with the ladies, she would have wished to live with him. But she knew her mother would not hear of it.

  If Harry didn’t watch himself, he was going to be as dangerous to know as Bellamy Townsend. Well, perhaps not quite that dangerous, she conceded. At least no one had divorced his wife over him like the Earl of Longford had done over Townsend.

  “Are you coming, Katherine—or are you wool-gathering?” Lady Winstead demanded, cutting into Kate’s thoughts, “Tonight I pray you will make at least some attempt at conversation, lest Sally Jersey believes you are an imbecile.”

  Harry sighed. His mother refused to understand that Kate could not help her shyness in company—no more than she could help her short stature, her ordinary face, or her unfashionably dark hair and skin. And she certainly could not help the lingering scandal that hung over all their heads.

  Clarissa was already creating a mild stir as several bucks turned around to admire her. Kate’s hands were clammy. Loosening her grip on her fringed shawl, she wiped the damp palms on her slim muslin skirt. Her mother looked back to her and demanded sourly, “What are you doing now?”

  “Nothing, Mama,” she answered.

  Lady Winstead observed plaintively to Harry, “In company, there is not a bit of life to the girl, is there? I daresay John was right three years ago when he wanted to ta
ke her to Bath for the Little Season. We’d have been saved a great deal of worthless expense.”

  “Leave off,” he muttered. “Kate is an Original.”

  “An oddity, you mean,” his mother snapped back.

  “Two years ago we were in mourning,” Clarissa spoke up. “And last year Harry feared the scandal had not yet been forgotten—”

  “Hold your tongue, missy! We are agreed we shall not rake that up again!” Lady Winstead said sharply.

  “Well, I for one do not mean to forget Papa,” Kate declared loyally. “It was not his fault.”

  “Well, I am sure I did not put a period to his existence,” her mother said acidly. Pasting a smile on her face, she managed to push her way inside and catch the Countess of Jersey’s attention. “La, Sally, but what a crush!”

  For a moment, Lady Jersey looked at her as though she were an encroaching fool, then her gaze moved to Harry. “Ah—what a pleasure, dear boy!” She smiled and tapped him coquettishly with her fan. “You must share the latest crim-cons with me over tea soon.”

  “You have but to ask me,” he assured her. “You know my mother and sisters, I believe.”

  Lady Jersey’s bright eyes swept over them, making Kate want to cringe. “Miss Winstead,” she acknowledged to Katherine, then she discovered a smile for Clarissa. “You are in looks tonight, my dear. Is Cranston here? Or Hargrove?” She let her voice drop speculatively. “I wonder.”

  Claire would have been in looks had she been in sackcloth, Kate thought privately, while her own gown did not become her at all, no matter how much her mother insisted that white made “even an ape-leader appear more virginal.” It was a hideous lie, for it made her appear utterly sallow. The only thing worse was yellow or the palest pastels, her mother’s other favorite colors for her.

  “So, does Alexander come?” she heard her brother ask the countess.

  “My dear Harry, he is here! You do not think everyone should wait like this for anyone else, do you?” Sally Jersey replied. “They are all come—even that Cossack Platov! Linking her arm in Harry’s, she pulled him toward the Russians.

  For a moment, even Katherine was carried by the excitement of those around her as she glimpsed the tall, blond autocrat of all the Russias standing beside the punch bowl. The rich gold braid of his military uniform caught the light from the chandeliers. Beside him, the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg, spoke to an over-decorated gentleman that Katherine guessed must be the King of Prussia.

  “Look, Kate—there’s the Cossack savage!” Claire whispered.

  Katherine followed her sister’s rather indiscreet point to a group of military officers gathered at one end of the table. There was no mistaking Platov—unlike the others, he’d eschewed formal dress and wore instead a military jacket over loose-fitting trousers that were tucked into high black boots. A wicked-looking sword hung from a belt at his waist. He was tall, dark, exceedingly ugly, and rather unkempt by civilized standards. As hetman of the ferocious Don Cossacks, he was attended by two menacing armed men.

  One of the Cossacks’ guards tried to gain Claire’s attention by mouthing words at her, then pointing to his wrist, grinning. Embarrassed for her sister, Kate announced urgently, “I’m not feeling quite the thing, Mama—really. It is the heat,” she lied. “Could we not sit down?”

  “Oh—look, Kate,” Claire whispered excitedly, “there is Lord Townsend, and he is watching me.”

  “I would doubt that,” Katherine answered dryly. “You are not someone else’s wife.”

  “Oh, Kate! We have known him for an age—and—and he used to run tame at Monk’s End! How could you say such a thing?” Claire demanded.

  “Everywhere he goes, there is a scandal. And Mama would not wish you to encourage him.”

  “No, of course not,” Lady Winstead agreed hastily. “Too much nasty gossip there. Oh, look—there is Mr. Thurgood, Katherine. If you were to give him any hope—”

  “Mr. Thurgood is ancient. Please, Mama, I am unwell,” Kate insisted desperately.

  Seeing that the old man was already peering nearsightedly elsewhere, her mother responded waspishly, “Sometimes I do not know why I bother at all. Go on, Claire—help her.”

  As Kate headed gratefully for the chairs that lined one wall of the huge room, her sister grumbled spitefully, “Why must you always ruin my evening? Bell Townsend was going to single me out!”

  “I expect he’ll be old and raddled before his salad days are over,” Katherine muttered with asperity.

  “Kate! How dare you say such a thing?”

  “Without difficulty. Rakes make damnable husbands.”

  “Kate!” Claire squeaked again. “Who said that?”

  “Harry—and I expect he should know.”

  “Miss Clarissa?”

  Claire spun around to face a young officer in the uniform of the Horse Guards, and immediately she smiled radiantly. “Captain Rigby. How very nice to see you again.”

  “I hope I am not too late to secure a waltz?”

  “Well, I—” Claire’s eyes sought Bell Townsend, discovering he was conversing with Harry, then she looked down demurely. “I should have to ask Mama, for she still thinks the waltz quite fast, sir.”

  “Then let us ask her,” he suggested. Nodding to Kate, he said, “I trust you will pardon us.”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn,” Harry muttered. “Poor Kate.”

  Bell turned to look at her. Despite the fact that Katherine Winstead was an odd little creature, he pitied her for Harry’s sake. There was no question about it—she wasn’t going to take, no matter how many parties she attended. “The girl ought never to wear white if she can help it,” he decided.

  “I know.”

  Bell nodded. “Makes the girl look like an Antidote. Sorry to say it to you, but she’s got no color and no style.”

  “Mama won’t pay for anything she does not choose. Not that her clothes matter all that much—Kate still would not play the game right. She gets damned near tongue-tied in company.”

  “She used to talk to me.” Bell looked at her again. “The only things she’s possessed of to make a man look twice are her tart wit and her smile,” he observed wryly, “and if she will not use them …”

  “She spoke because she knew you. And she knew Mama wasn’t going to throw her at your head. But whenever someone drags an eligible parti to meet her, she turns into wood, I swear it.”

  As Bell watched, several other girls sought seats near Katherine Winstead, and he felt even sorrier for her. Not very many gentlemen could be expected to brave a whole line of plain girls. The idle thought crossed his mind that while nothing short of a miracle could bring her into fashion, he could certainly see she was noticed—if she would let him. He half turned back to Harry, only to discover that Lady Childredge and her daughter had the poor fellow cornered. When he looked again to Katherine Winstead, kindhearted Maria Sefton was taking an obviously reluctant youth to meet her.

  Turning on his heel, Bell walked not toward Katherine Winstead, but rather toward the punch bowl. He was as yet too sober to approach her.

  The evening was passing slowly. Katherine sat, her feet tucked beneath her chair to hide that she’d slipped out of her shoes. As she watched, Claire managed to have a partner for every dance. It didn’t matter, Katherine insisted to herself. She’d rather sit like a statue than be led out again by another old man—or by some green boy pushed at her.

  The Season would soon be over, and she would again be home at Monk’s End. But not without a price. Her mother would be sure to vent her vexation a hundred times over, reminding Katherine that she had failed to achieve every girl’s expectation of a husband. And if Claire succeeded, it would be worse, for then there would only be Mama. And somehow not even Kate’s horses and dogs could entirely compensate for that.

  “Miss Winstead—Kate—may I join you?”

  Startled, she looked into a perfectly tailored gray evening coat, then raised her gaze to meet Bellam
y Townsend’s arresting eyes, and for a moment, she was surprised. “What a signal honor,” she murmured faintly.

  The girl was still short and a trifle too thin for his taste, and the only color about her was the rose pinned to her shoulder. The thought crossed his mind that he must be more drunk than he’d felt, else he’d not be standing there. Nonetheless, he proceeded gamely.

  “Actually, I thought to speak with you.” Dropping to sit beside her, he reached for her dance card. One blond eyebrow rose quizzically as he read it. “Well, you certainly stay with the safe ones, don’t you? I thought Thurgood died last year.”

  She snatched the card back. But she could not quite control the twitch at the corners of her mouth. “He would be wounded to hear you say that—if he could hear it at all. One has to shout at him, you know.”

  “Poor old soul,” he murmured sympathetically. “I suppose he regaled you with a dozen ailments.”

  “No.” She smiled ruefully. “He went to a great deal of trouble to assure me he wasn’t on his last legs.”

  “You ought to let yourself smile more often, Kate—it becomes you.”

  “Stuff.” She eyed him suspiciously. “To whom do I owe this—Harry?”

  “You wound me.”

  “Impossible.” Frowning, she scanned the crowded ballroom. “Claire ought to be returning, I expect.”

  “I’m not looking for her. Truth to tell, I have come to beg a waltz with you.”

  Her dark eyes widened briefly, then were guarded. “Oh? But why would you wish to do that?”

  “Come now, Kate Winstead. I’ve known you since you were a little chit in the schoolroom,” he said, betraying a trace of impatience. “Look, I saw you here, and—”

  “And you thought I would wish to dance with you?” she asked incredulously. “Lord Townsend, I assure you—”

  “Cut line, Kate,” he interrupted abruptly. “Listen, do you want me to bring you into fashion?”

  “If coming to more of these affairs is fashion, I’d rather not. Besides, you could not possibly manage it,” she added candidly. “I am even beyond Brummell’s powers.”