“Mr. Abelwhite! Don't be such a looby! I have only spoken with you on three occasions. You cannot possibly adore me yet. Now unhand me at once!” she entreated as she attempted to disentangle herself from his embrace. Not at all dissuaded by her resistance, he continued to hold her and indeed to press his lips to hers as best he could, for she was struggling quite energetically. Cat had secretly enjoyed such scenes in novels, of course, but now found these untoward advances and lavish speeches far less pleasant in person than numerous swooning heroines had in print. Literary love scenes had clearly neglected some annoying aspects of such encounters, such as damp palms and labored breathing.
When she was at last able to extricate an arm from his hold she cried out, “I have given you fair warning, Mr. Abelwhite!” With that, she brought her fan down forcefully on his nose with a resounding snap. Mr. Abelwhite sprang away from her forthwith, crying out in pitiful anguish and holding his wounded nose in his handkerchief. Cat, who was quite unmoved by his moaning, turned unsteadily on her heel and sought the central garden as best she could, torn between fury and humiliation.
Chapter Twelve
Cat had no sooner reached the less remote regions of the garden than she herself ran soundly (and painfully) into the person of Mr. Hazelforth, who had apparently been making in her direction at some considerable speed. Now she stood rubbing her own nose gingerly as Hazelforth reached out to steady her on her feet.
“Miss Catherine! Come here and sit down a moment—you look frightful.” Cat allowed herself to be led to a little bench which was screened, she was thankful to see, by the overhanging branches of a willow. Hazelforth looked narrowly at her for a moment, then gave a short laugh. “You had best take a moment to attend these spangles. They begin to look like epaulets.”
On reaching up to her coiffure. Cat was mortified to find that her intractable curls had indeed fallen down during her struggle, and her silver ornaments were now very nearly resting on her shoulders.
“Now, tell me what has happened,” Hazelforth insisted after giving her a few moments to right herself.
Cat was beginning to feel not at all well. Silence filled the air between them for some moments before she answered faintly, “I have broken my fan.”
“And …?” Hazelforth pursued, growing impatient.
Cat bit her lower lip to stop the tears that now welled up, more, it is to be guessed, from consternation than remorse. Then she gave an unsteady sigh. “I fear I have also broken poor Mr. Abelwhite's lovely nose.”
“Poor Mr. Abelwhite?!” he cried hotly. “If he has touched you. Cat, he will be fortunate not to be dead Mr. Abelwhite!”
“Why, Mr. Hazelforth, do you think it will come to that?” Cat asked in shocked dismay, her head beginning to throb ever so slightly. “I own, I had not thought of that at all. If he should call me out, may I name you as my second?”
Hazelforth laughed softly in the darkness and put his arm around her shoulders. “I fear you have consumed far more champagne than was absolutely wise, my little Cat. Have you had any dinner? I thought not. I fear I must insist that you return home at once.”
“And if I choose not to?” she demanded querulously, lifting her chin with a stubborn tilt.
Here, Hazelforth sighed heavily. “Miss Catherine, it is clear that the spirits have gone to your head tonight. Whatever prompted you to drink so much of that treacherous champagne?”
“Well,” Cat sniffed, “the evening was so warm, and they serve no other beverages here.”
“Where on earth did you get that idea?”
“Why, Mr. Abelwhite assured us it was so. He was quite apologetic.”
“Cur,” Hazelforth muttered. “Trust me, Miss Catherine. It is best you return home at once. I doubt indeed that Mr. Abelwhite will call you out,” he smiled, “for duels of any kind are now illegal, as you will recall. But I do fear he is not to be trusted, particularly if he feels his dignity has been affronted. Now, if for no other reason, you must return to Montrose House in order to avoid making a spectacle of yourself. You can ill afford it, as we both know.”
Cat now found her senses returning to her with uncomfortable clarity, and she had to admit, albeit silently, that Mr. Hazelforth was quite likely correct. Taking a moment to repair her toilette as best she could, she allowed him to convey her to his carriage with unaccustomed meekness.
“I shall tell the others that you are suddenly indisposed. My driver will return for me later. Now, off with you!”
As Hazelforth watched the carriage disappear into the darkness, the anger he had held in check now surfaced in earnest. What Cat had not told him he could easily guess, for, in spite of her temper, he doubted she would ever resort to violence unless she felt her honor or safety to be threatened. Mr. Abelwhite, he vowed, would have more to worry about than the destruction of his profile.
****
Both Eveline and Lady Montrose had the good grace to repress their curiosity the next morning, although Cat realized that what had taken place must indeed have been quite clear to them. Nonetheless, she allowed her throbbing head the greater part of her attention, keeping to her chamber for most of the morning.
When she finally did arise, she permitted Felicia to dress her like a rag doll and only winced a little as her hair was coaxed into some semblance of discipline. As Cat deliberated drearily over the choice of gown, Felicia crossed to the window and, hands on hips, stood staring into the park below.
“Tsk, tsk!” Felicia lamented in loud disapproval.
“What is it?” Cat asked wearily.
“Oh, nothing, nothing. But this is truly a wicked world, Miss Cat.”
“Come now, Felicia, out with it,” her mistress told her sharply. “It is clear there is something you wish me to know. My head feels too much like a pincushion to play games this morning.”
“Well,” the maid said with a long-suffering sigh, “see for yourself.”
With a much put-upon groan, Cat made her way to Felicia's side and peered out the window into the painfully sunny day. Half hidden behind some shrubberies, however, Cat was very much surprised to see Mr. Geoffrey D'Ashley quite presumptuously holding the hand of none other than Audrey, her parlor maid.
“Surely that cannot be our Audrey walking about with Mr. D'Ashley! Did you know of this connection, Felicia? Why was I not told of it at once?”
Felicia frowned and with a much aggrieved sigh explained, “Why, Miss Cat, you know quite well I have had more than one lecture from you about carrying tales from the servants’ hall. I thought you would be pleased to find I'd finally learned my lesson.”
Cat quickly dismissed her former dictates on tale-bearing with a small shrug. “How long has this been going on?” she demanded.
“Almost since our arrival, and poor Betsy is that upset. Fit to be tied. She is the one used to having followers, being so pretty and dainty and all. And Audrey, Miss Cat! You wouldn't believe the insolence of that chit, queening it over Betsy, who was fair taken with Mr. D'Ashley from the first time she saw him. It is a regular theatrical belowstairs.”
Had Felicia been more forthcoming in her descriptions, it would have been clear to Cat that the scenes which had taken place in the servants' hall of late had no place on a stage of any kind. The friction between the two parlor maids on account of Mr. D'Ashley's inexplicable attentions had grown from piqued vexation to outright animosity, and provided the rest of the staff with no end of diversion and conversation.
“Perhaps I should speak with her,” Cat reflected, realizing that this untoward attachment very likely was the reason that Mr. D'Ashley had ignored her invitation to call, “but not until this wretched headache goes away. I fear I must be coming down with the grippe.”
Felicia, who suspected quite rightly that Cat's indisposition stemmed from her indiscretions of the previous night, wisely kept her misgivings to herself and, feigning innocence, merely offered to have an apothecary summoned. This service Cat declined with huffy annoyance and she soon made he
r way down the stairs to the drawing room, where she found the subdued colors far more soothing than the dazzling shades of her own chamber.
For the first time in their lives, Cat shrank from the exuberance of Caesar and Brutus and, shuddering at each piercing yap, commissioned Martin to walk them until they were worn out and gave him fare for a hackney cab in which to return. Then she sank into a chair with a cool cloth over her face. As midday passed, Cat began to think she might contrive to remain among the living for at least the immediate future, and was able to face a light lunch of tea and dry toast. Her incipient vitality soon shrank, however, as Sir Harold Talbot hobbled into the room. He was closely followed by the butler, who announced him in an uncertain voice which bespoke his chagrin at this intrusion.
“Miss Mansard,” Sir Harold exclaimed more loudly than necessary as he entered, “you are looking rather sallow! Had a cup too much, eh? What you need is a pint of bitters. The very thing!”
Cat could but wince at the thought and assured him that she needed no such thing, and privately added that a little peaceful solitude, if such a thing could be contrived, would set her straight before too long. Sadly, however, she had grown too accustomed to good manners in recent weeks to voice these honest sentiments aloud.
“It is good of you to call, Sir Harold,” she said in tones she hoped would mask her true feelings. “Just a moment—let me ring for Lady Montrose or Miss Bartlett to join us.”
At that, Cat was very much surprised and, indeed, alarmed, to see Sir Harold turn and close the door behind him. “My dear Miss Mansard, my dear Catherine, I must have some words privately with you.”
If Sir Harold's recommendation of a pint of bitters had caused her head to spin, his next suggestion wrought even further damage. Taking care to arrange two overstuffed pillows on the floor in front of her, Sir Harold lowered himself with conspicuous discomfort to his knees and grasped her hand with hearty enthusiasm. Then, after a flustered pause of some seconds, he pulled from his pocket a piece of paper on which appeared to be written a list; he took a moment to peruse it, returned the paper to his pocket, and then cleared his throat noisily.
“My dear Catherine,” he began dramatically, “you must permit me to express my, er, deepest affection for you. It has grown steadily, er …like a ... like a healthy bounding pup! That's it—I say, I like that! Like a healthy pup! My heart has pursued your own staunchly,” he rushed on, warming to his subject, “like a good hound on a blood scent. I can but follow its lead. And now I, er, ... Oh, yes! Now, my dear,” he went on hastily, “I must entreat you to become my wife. You hold my happiness in your hands. Do not disappoint me!”
Had Cat been feeling less afflicted, she might have found Sir Harold's proposal amusing. As it was, she forced herself with some difficulty to maintain her equanimity as her head began to throb violently once again.
“You are overcome with emotion, I daresay, my dear,” Sir Harold chuckled heartily, misinterpreting her silence altogether. “I know how sentimental you females are. I cannot blame you, my dear. I must own, the thought of a pack of prime hounds and our seven or eight hearty children scampering about the countryside, hot on a burning scent, bringing home great piles of pheasants and quail, overwhelms me as well.”
This last image so overwhelmed Cat that her stomach at last rebelled and she was forced to flee the room abruptly in search of a convenient basin. Unfortunately, Sir Harold was not only mystified, but, because of his own affliction, found himself stranded on his knees until a passing footman was able to rescue him.
By the time Cat had recovered herself sufficiently to return to the drawing room, Sir Harold had gone and Lady Montrose had taken his place. Cat was grateful to find that the little lady studiously applied herself to her needlework and did not endeavor to catch her eye or engage her in conversation other than to ask if she were feeling any better.
“I am, physically,” Cat told her, “but I do not know how much longer I can contrive to maintain the good breeding Eveline has been such a slave to, if I am continually confronted by men who have none. I begin to think that living a life of genteel poverty is not such a bad thing compared to sharing a life of any kind with the company I have endured lately. And to think, there are another two months left in the Season. Surely, it is more than I can bear!”
“Well, Catherine,” Lady Montrose soothed, “tonight we shall have a quiet family dinner, and we can be ourselves. Cecily and John will be here, and Hazelforth and Sommers who are quite like family to me.”
The prospect of seeing Hazelforth so soon did little to console Cat, who recalled with mortification their last encounter. What a hoyden he must have thought her, she reflected miserably, to follow Abelwhite into the gardens in that brazen manner. And whatever was all that silliness about Abelwhite calling her out? Perhaps she had just imagined it.
“I am afraid,” Lady Montrose was continuing, “that you have not seen the end of Sir Harold Talbot. When he left he seemed to be under the impression that you had been overcome by the passion of his addresses and would confirm your acceptance verbally when next you met. I gather that Mr. Abelwhite's attentions last night have encouraged him to speak his mind more precipitously than he might otherwise have done.”
“Indeed, I was overcome,” Cat admitted with a blush of keen embarrassment at the memory of her precipitous flight, “but not, I assure you, by passion. I am sorry he so acutely misunderstood my predicament. Oh, dear! Is nothing ever to be easy again?”
“No doubt some day, Catherine, no doubt,” the lady returned serenely. “Sir Harold is a determined man, but I have no fear you can eventually dissuade him in his suit. But, tell me, you have been here some time now and met a number of agreeable young men. Do you find your heart even a little engaged?”
At this Cat knew not how to reply. Her heart had indeed been quite full of late, but she was hesitant to interpret its agitation.
“What of Mr. Hazelforth?” Lady Montrose asked pointedly, breaking in on her reflection.
“Lady Mouse!” she returned with a flush. “You know quite well that Mr. Hazelforth does not consider marriage a part of his future.”
“That may well be,” she allowed, “but you still have not answered my question.”
“Perhaps I do not know how to,” Cat cried in sudden desperation, deserting her companion for the more secure regions of her chamber.
****
Dinner that evening did prove to be a welcome respite from the tumult that had surrounded their recent days. Cecily and John arrived together with Mr. Sommers, who explained that Hazelforth was seeing off an acquaintance and would join them later, a revelation which Cat met with mixed feelings, for she had begun to both anticipate and dread his presence.
As Lady Mouse conversed gaily with Cecily about their planned costume ball, and Mr. Sommers immediately claimed Eveline's attention with a new book he had brought to show her, Cat felt rather neglected. As in all gatherings, John smiled rather than conversed, and Cat found her attempts at introducing a subject for discussion something of a trial.
She had had very little opportunity to converse privately with Eveline since their arrival and was quite perplexed to see the extent to which her time was apparently being engaged by Mr. Sommers. Whatever could he mean by it? She sincerely hoped that Eveline's affections were not being engaged in more than an intellectual sense for, after all, Mr. Sommers was every bit as much a confirmed bachelor as Mr. Hazelforth. But as she watched them, Eveline's cheek suffusing with color as she laughed at some witticism from Mr. Sommers, Cat could not help but envy their easy friendship, whatever its depth. If only there were someone with whom she could be so tranquil.
Hazelforth arrived just as dinner was announced and Cat found herself quite flustered as he smiled at her with a kindness she had not enjoyed for some time.
“Why, Charles,” Lady Montrose greeted him, “I must say you are looking well pleased with yourself tonight. Why so smug?”
“I have just seen to the
exportation of some troublesome baggage,” he replied cryptically.
“I thought Mr. Sommers said you were seeing someone off,” Cecily protested.
“Why, so I was,” he returned, offering her his arm as they went into dinner. Hazelforth did not address the subject again, however, in spite of Cecily's spirited entreaties throughout dinner that he satisfy her curiosity. As the evening was quite warm, Lady Montrose suggested they repair to the garden for sherry when dinner was finished. “In my home, when we are among friends,” she explained, “I do not allow the men to wallow about in their port till all hours, forsaking the ladies to the ennui of their own tired companionship. Such a beastly practice!”
Cat could not but agree, for she had spent many a weary hour among bored females, only to be joined hours later by the gentlemen, sodden with alcohol and reeking of cigars. This was indeed a much better plan. Cecily and John sat chatting with Lady Montrose as she fanned herself with a palm frond; Eveline showed Mr. Sommers the orchids with which Lady Montrose and her butler had been experimenting in the conservatory. Cat descended a staircase to the garden and leaned against the cool marble balustrade, breathing in the night air. Looking up at the full moon, she shuddered weakly, remembering wretchedly the excesses of the night before.
“Are you cold?” she heard Hazelforth ask quietly from behind her.
“No. Not cold. Haunted with chagrin, I fear. Last night beneath the same moon …” she faltered.
“Do not think of it,” he said softly. Cat sighed in the dim light. “Oh, I know that a few months hence I shall somehow find the humor in all of this. But, Mr. Hazelforth, I begin to fear that I am incorrigible beyond all hope. Poor Eveline has been such a slave to my deportment. You have no idea! But at the least provocation my lessons desert me and I find myself not only on the path to compromise, but guilty of destroying a perfect Grecian profile. I do not know how I shall ever face that gentleman again, for I know our paths must eventually cross.”
An Impetuous Miss Page 11