Indiscreet

by Mary Balogh

  Catherine opened her eyes at last and nodded. “For you,” she said. “I am not hungry.”

  Miss Downes eyed her critically. “You have not eaten all day, have you?” she said. “I shall cut one up for you, Mrs. Winters, in bite-sized pieces. Like this, you see?” She had found a knife and proceeded to carve one small currant cake into smaller wedges. “This is what I do for Mother when she is off her food. There, dear.” She handed the plate to Catherine.

  Every bite tasted like straw. Every swallow was a major undertaking. But out of gratitude for kindness and unconditional love she persevered. By the time she had finished, there was a cup of strong, sweet tea at her elbow. It was a long time since she had been waited on in her own home.

  Despite the breaches of etiquette that Miss Downes had deemed necessary, she stayed only the half hour that was polite for an afternoon call. Catherine followed her into the hall.

  “I shall call again tomorrow after church,” Miss Downes said. “Yes, I will go to church. I will not punish God because my truth does not coincide with the rector’s. Oh, Mrs. Winters, Mother and I had great difficulty being properly civil to Mrs. Lovering when she called on us earlier. Great difficulty, indeed, though I believe we succeeded. There is no excuse for discourtesy to others, is there, especially when they are guests in one’s own home.”

  “Miss Downes.” Catherine had spoken scarcely more than a dozen words throughout the visit, though there had been not a moment of silence. “Thank you. I wish there were words more expressive of how I feel.”

  Miss Downes, thin, shapeless, ramrod straight in posture, severe of expression, was not the type of person one normally felt the urge to hug. But before she opened the door, Catherine did just that.

  “Well, goodness me,” Miss Downes said, flustered. “I just hope the tea was not too strong for you, dear. It is how Mother likes it, you know, though I prefer it a little weaker myself. And I remembered after putting two spoonfuls of sugar in your tea that you usually take just one.”

  Catherine stood at the open door for a short while, watching Miss Downes stride purposefully along the street. There were a few other people out at some distance from the cottage. There were probably others looking out of windows.

  Miss Agatha Downes, fussy spinster daughter of a former rector, had just performed what was perhaps the most courageous act of her life.

  • • •

  THE second knock came only fifteen minutes later. Her encounters with the outside world for today could not possibly end on a positive note, then, Catherine thought, making her weary way to the door.

  And would this day never end?

  Not for even one moment did she mistake him for his brother. Even so, her breath caught in her throat at the likeness. And more alike than ever. The customary good humor had left Mr. Adams’s face. He looked pale and grim. So did Lady Baird, who was with him.

  “I do not believe there is anything to add, is there?” Catherine said bitterly before either of them could speak. “Unless you have come to reduce the week’s notice to a day.”

  “Oh, Toby, you darling dog.” Lady Baird stooped down to cup his barking face in her hands. “You know me. We are friends, are we not?”

  He agreed. He stopped barking, wagged his tail, and lifted his chin to be scratched.

  “Mrs. Winters,” Mr. Adams said, “I would like a moment of your time inside if I may. My sister has come with me to lend propriety to the visit.”

  Catherine heard herself laugh as she stood aside and ushered them into the parlor. Lady Baird went to stand facing the window. Mr. Adams took up his position before the empty fireplace, his back to it. Catherine stopped just inside the doorway and lifted her chin to look him directly in the eye.

  She would not cringe. She would not despite the guilty memories she had of what she had done with his brother last night in the passageway just behind where she was now. Could that possibly have been just last night?

  “Mrs. Winters,” he said quietly, “it appears that my brother and my wife between them have done you a dreadful disservice during the past twenty-four hours. Not even so long.”

  His words were so unexpected that she said nothing.

  “I do not know what happened between you and Rex last evening,” he said. “I believe you are of age, ma’am, as is he. What you do in privacy together is your concern and his. Not mine. Or anyone else’s. It is unfortunate, of course, that he was seen to leave your cottage. People will talk and gossip. And people will judge. And punish too. My wife acted hastily. She was given the facts and was upset by them. I was from home and so she did not have me to consult. She felt that she must act as she thought I would have acted. She is sorry for it now, sorry that she acted with what she perceived to be the harshness of a man instead of acting in accordance with her softer woman’s instincts. Perhaps in time you will pardon her—and me. I hope you will disregard all that she said to you. Your cottage is leased until the end of this year. I will be quite happy to renew the lease at the end of that time.”

  “Mrs. Winters,” Lady Baird said without turning away from the window, “forgive me. I deliberately threw you and Rex together on more than one occasion, knowing that he admired you. I did not realize the nature of that admiration. I suppose I should know my own brother better by now. Forgive me for my contribution to your distress.”

  They thought her guilty. But it did not matter to them. They thought that a physical affair between two adults was their business and no one else’s. The realization was soothing, or would be when she had time to digest what was happening here. Mrs. Adams had not been acting on her husband’s perceived behalf, of course. But it was understandable that he should wish to protect her from censure.

  “Lord Rawleigh escorted me home last night,” she said. “I was tired, yet the Reverend Lovering had already left. I was going to walk home alone but was afraid of the dark. Lord Rawleigh found me in the music room—I was supposed to be dancing with him at the time—and insisted on bringing me home himself. Toby was barking and it was very late. Lord Rawleigh stepped inside to quieten him. He left a few minutes later.” She left them to imagine what had occupied those few minutes. “Nothing happened between us.” Not what she stood accused of anyway.

  Mr. Adams nodded. “Perhaps it is as well that my brother left Bodley early this morning,” he said. “I do believe that the events of this day would have provoked me into separating him from some of his blood, Mrs. Winters.”

  “I might have helped,” Lady Baird added.

  “It would have been so simple—and so proper—for him to have called out my carriage for you,” Mr. Adams said, “and even to have sent a maid with you. I apologize for him, ma’am. He was ever the impulsive one, and frequently the thoughtless one too, as witness his purchasing a commission when he was the elder son of the family.”

  “He always said you would make the better viscount, Claude,” his sister said quietly.

  “I feel for the distress you must have suffered today,” Mr. Adams said. “But gossip dies and my wife will want to make her personal apologies to you. You are a valued member of this community.” He smiled. “How are Julie and Will to become even competent pianists if you go away? You will stay?”

  She could not go. That fact had been causing waves of panic all day. But she could not stay either. How could she stay?

  “I am a pariah,” she said. “How can I stay?”

  “Oh, dear,” Lady Baird said. She sounded angry. “People can be very vicious. With no proof whatsoever of what they believe. And even if there were proof . . .”

  “We will call for you here tomorrow morning,” Mr. Adams said. “You will come to church with us, ma’am, and sit in our pew. People will get the message.”

  Catherine closed her eyes briefly. “I have been told not to go to church,” she said.

  “By whom?” His brows shot up. He looked more than
ever like his brother.

  “By the Reverend Lovering,” she said.

  He stared at her in stunned silence for a few moments. “I see you did not exaggerate when you described yourself as a pariah,” he said quietly. “I shall handle this, Mrs. Winters. This will not do at all.”

  “I will go away,” she said. “If you will just give me a week or two.”

  “But do you have somewhere to go?” Lady Baird had turned away from the window now. There was concern in her face. “Do you have family to go to?”

  “Yes.” There was enough pity in their faces. She would not invite more. She would not be a helpless pawn in this drama that had developed today and was playing itself out about her. “Yes to both questions. I merely need to write a letter to warn them to expect me. I must leave. I would not be comfortable here any longer.”

  “I am sorry about that,” Mr. Adams said. “But it will not be within the week?”

  “No.” She felt panic threaten again. A week. What would she do after that? Where would she go? There was nothing and nowhere and no one. She drew a deep and silent breath and held it for a few moments before releasing it slowly.

  By that time they were leaving. But they did not do so before Mr. Adams assured her that he would call on her again and that he would make all right for her.

  Was he God? None of this could ever be put right. Some wounds could never be healed.

  Lady Baird did what Catherine had done for Miss Downes earlier. She hesitated and then hugged Catherine in the open doorway.

  “I could kill Rex,” she said. “I could kill him.”

  They climbed into the carriage, which had waited for them, and drove away.

  Catherine closed the door again and leaned back against it. Surely now, she thought, the events of the day were finally over. Surely now there would be peace.

  If there could be peace in her life ever again.

  • • •

  LORD Pelham and Mr. Gascoigne had gone to Dunbarton in Cornwall to visit the Earl of Haverford. They had been feeling footloose and unwilling to go either to London or to Stratton. They had burdened Viscount Rawleigh with their presence there only a few weeks ago. They tried to persuade him to go with them, though neither was very insistent when he refused. He had not been good company on the journey south from Derbyshire.

  They had sensed that his black mood was not something he might be teased out of. And so they had talked on neutral topics, laughed and conversed about people and events and issues that had no connection with Bodley or the couple of weeks they had just spent there.

  Viscount Rawleigh was not quite sure why he did not go with them to visit Ken. It was probably just what he needed—a change of scenery, a chance to be with his three closest friends without other obligations and other affections intruding.

  But he found that he wanted only to get home to Stratton, where he might be alone to lick his wounds. Not that he would admit even to himself that there were wounds to lick. Women like Catherine Winters he could live without. The woman was a tease, whether she knew it or not. She had lured him into behaving shabbily, and he hated to be in the wrong over anything or anyone.

  At Stratton he would forget about her. He would be in familiar surroundings, and there was always plenty of work to be done during the spring—when he was at home during spring, that was. He had a perfectly able steward, of course.

  Life, since he had sold his commission, sometimes seemed almost frighteningly empty and purposeless.

  A letter from Bodley had preceded his return. It was addressed in Claude’s firm hand and lay accusingly on a silver salver where his eyes fell on it almost as soon as he had crossed his threshold. Doubtless it was a remonstrance on behalf of Clarissa for having jilted Ellen Hudson. But there had been no jilting, he thought irritably. There had been no courtship, except in his sister-in-law’s determined imagination. He found the girl a bore and she found him a terror—hardly the basis for a courtship, not to mention marriage.

  But Claude, of course, always gentle and fair, would be punctilious about putting forward Clarissa’s views even if they did not coincide with his own.

  Lord Rawleigh left the letter on the tray in the hall until he had retired to his own apartments, enjoying a hot and leisurely bath, dozed for half an hour on his bed, and dressed for dinner. He took the letter into the dining room with him and glanced at it irritably from time to time as he ate.

  He would have expected Claude of all people to recognize his need to cut himself off from family and Bodley for a while. He did not need a letter to remind him. And good Lord, Claude must have written it and sent it almost as soon as he and Nat and Eden had disappeared down the driveway.

  He pulled it toward him eventually when there was only a glass of port left in front of him on the table. Just let Claude try to convince him that he was honor bound to offer for the girl. Just let him try!

  A few minutes later he crumpled the opened letter in one hand and held on to it while he closed his eyes tightly. He did not move for a long while. When a footman tiptoed nervously toward the table to clear away a few more dishes, the butler motioned him with one thumb and they both left the dining room.

  God!

  He could not think straight.

  There was really nothing to think about.

  But he sat for many long minutes trying to convince himself that there was if only he could set his mind in motion.

  When he left the dining room, his butler was hovering outside, trying to look busy.

  “I’ll be leaving for London at first light tomorrow morning, Horrocks,” Lord Rawleigh said. “I’ll be going from there straight to Derbyshire. See that everything is arranged, will you?”

  “Yes, m’lord.” The man made his bow. His impassive expression registered no surprise that his master was returning whence he had come only a few hours before.

  “I will be taking the carriage,” his lordship said as he strode in the direction of the staircase.

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  • • •

  MORE than a week had passed. She knew that she could not procrastinate for much longer. She had pretended that she was making plans, that she had written letters and was awaiting replies. She had pretended that there were alternatives to explore, a quite dizzying number of attractive options to choose among.

  In reality there was nothing. During the long hours she was alone, she merely sat, staring ahead, knowing that in the end she must simply leave her cottage and leave Bodley-on-the-Water and go.

  But go where?

  She must just pick a place on a map and go there, she told herself. But that was impossible. What would she do when she reached the chosen place? She received a small quarterly allowance. There was very little of this quarter’s money left. Not enough to take her very far by stage. And even if she spent it all to go as far as she could, there would be none left at the end of the journey. Nothing with which to start her new life.

  She could get employment, she supposed. After all, thousands of other women must find themselves in similar case. She could teach; she could cook; she could be a companion. But how did one come by employment? Advertise? She would not know how to go about doing it. Visit an employment agency? She would have to go to a large center to find one. Go from door to door, knocking and asking?

  She had no previous employment, no references. Mr. Adams would give her a reference, she thought. So would Lady Baird. But she could not bring herself to ask them. She had already invented for their ears the myth of the large and loving and welcoming family. She could not bring herself to admit that it was all a lie. She could not bring herself to apply to them for assistance.

  She could stay, of course. Mr. Adams had told her so more than once since that Saturday visit. And if she stayed, the yearly lease on the cottage would continue to be paid and her allowance would continue to be sent regular
ly. Those were the conditions—she would be supported for as long as she stayed in the place she herself had chosen. Any move would have to be well justified.

  She knew that a move under the circumstances would not be seen as justifiable. She was to live quietly and respectably. She was to draw no attention to herself. She was to be, to all intents and purposes, dead. If she remained dead she would be supported.

  If she left, she would be destitute.

  But she could not stay. Miss Downes, bless her heart, had called each day and had even invited her to visit Mrs. Downes. But she had declined the invitation. She would not make life harder for her only friends in the village than it must already be. And Mr. Adams and Lady Baird or Lady Baird and her husband had called each day too. Sir Clayton and Lady Baird even took her walking on two occasions, Sir Clayton between the two ladies, one on each arm. Once they walked south of the village for a mile or so, Toby running joyfully ahead of them—poor dog, he had been missing his exercise. Once, at Lady Baird’s insistence, they had walked the length of the village and stood on the bridge for a while admiring the view before strolling back again. The street had miraculously cleared of people ahead of them.

  But it was no good. She could not stay. How could she live in a village where she could not venture out alone? How would she shop for food? How could she live in a place where she was shunned just as if she had the plague?

  The Reverend Lovering knocked on her door one day and made her a stiff and formal and pompous apology for the erroneous conclusion he had jumped to on that fateful night. But it was obvious to Catherine that he did so only because he was afraid of losing the patronage of Mr. Adams and therefore the living of Bodley. He did not call again. Mrs. Lovering did not call at all.

  Catherine did not go to church on Sunday. She had missed two weeks in a row.

  She had to leave.

  But she did not know how it was physically to be done. She did not know how she was to walk out of her door, shut it behind her, and walk away to an unknown destination and an unknown future.