Love Stories of Enchanting Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  “Uncle Charles,” she said as she stood and faced him. “Uncle Charles,” she repeated, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Now then, Catherine,” he said with his gentle Derbyshire accent like a warm blanket on a cold day. “I reckon you have cried enough, have you not?” He smiled. “At least that is what your aunt tells me in her letters. Her many letters.” He took her hand and began to lead her towards the house. “So many, in fact, that I feel as if I have spent these last five months in Lytham myself.”

  “Yes.” Catherine tried to pull herself together. Her uncle was going to treat her kindly; she just knew it.

  “And what of you, Agnes Price?” Charles called behind him in a jovial manner. “How you are going to manage these next weeks without your gossiping partner I cannot imagine.” He laughed.

  “I shall have to turn to Catherine, Charles.” Agnes laughed. “She will get me through it.”

  “How nice it is to have company again,” Charles said as he led the two women into the drawing room. “Tea will be here in a minute. Sit yourselves down and be comfortable in front of the fire. It has been a cold winter here in the Peaks, but I daresay it was chilly enough on the Lancashire coast.”

  “There’s a fair wind comes off the Irish Sea, Charles. You will be glad to have missed that.” Agnes sat next to Catherine on the couch, and Charles took a seat opposite her.

  Catherine was suddenly filled with gratitude. She felt surrounded by the warmth and care of a real family, with the honey-like tones of natural northern England voices and all their customary kindness. Catherine felt cared for as if all her two companions wanted in the world was her comfort and peace of mind.

  If only she could stop her eyes welling with tears, but she had found her emotions so strong in the last weeks as if becoming a mother had changed her at a very deep level.

  “Thank you, both.” She managed to choke the words out as Agnes and Charles looked on kindly. “Dear me, will I never stop crying? I seem to do nothing else of late, and everything sets me off.” She laughed and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “That is very normal when one has just had a child,” Agnes said, then widened her eyes and fell to silence the moment the door to the drawing began to open inward.

  “Come in, Violet, my dear,” Charles called loudly to the small maid.

  “Here we are.” Violet set the tray down on the table. “And I’ve put a few little cakes out too. I thought you might be hungry after your journey, Miss Catherine.” Violet beamed. “And Agnes. It’s lovely to have you both back.”

  “Oh, how kind.” Catherine smiled and hoped she was not about to cry again.

  She needed to appear normal as if nothing had changed. The plan, the new plan, relied on the appearance of normality and absolute secrecy. They would all have to get used to living their lives based on a very carefully crafted tale from now on.

  Catherine wondered how easy that would be when there was such a wonderful informality between the house and staff. She could never have imagined a maid daring to speak at all when serving tea at Barford Hall; the Earl would have roared at any maid who chanced to attempt such a thing.

  Catherine tried to imagine his expression if he heard any servant addressing her as Miss Catherine instead of Lady Catherine. As much as he had never paid his daughter a moment’s consideration, he would have exploded at such a thing. Likely because he would have seen it as an insult to him rather than Catherine. It would not be a matter of wrongly addressing Catherine, but wrongly addressing the Earl’s daughter. The difference was subtle and huge all at once.

  “They look wonderful, Violet,” Agnes said, finding her voice again after the shock of almost giving the game away in the first five minutes. “Did you make them?”

  “No, Mrs Hollingsworth did. But I watched her, and she promised to let me try next time.” Violet was clearly excited by the prospect.

  “Well, I shall look forward to trying your cakes when they come,” Catherine said, practicing the ease she would have to employ from now on.

  “Enjoy your tea,” Violet said with a broad smile before she bobbed and retreated from the room.

  “Goodness, that was very close,” Agnes said, her voice full of apology. “Please forgive my stupidity.”

  “Do not make yourself uneasy. This is going to be an adjustment for us all.” Charles gave Agnes a kindly smile. “We will get used to it; all it takes is practice. Right?” He looked from Agnes to Catherine.

  “Right,” Catherine said and smiled. “And I really cannot thank you enough.”

  “You must stop thanking me, my dear. I am the sort of fellow who wriggles under praise of any sort.” He laughed. “And I think I am going to enjoy having a baby around the house. A fine little boy, no less.” Catherine looked at her uncle and was sure she could see a certain excitement on his face.

  “Do you really think this can work, Uncle Charles?” Catherine spoke in a near whisper.

  Catherine realized how much she had missed Charles Topwell. Whilst he had been a quieter figure in her world, playing second fiddle to the unstoppable force that was Aunt Celia, he had always made her feel welcome; at home.

  “Of course it can. We all have our part to play, but once Henry and Celia are back, and the story is well enough established, life will tick along nicely, you will see.”

  The plan, the second plan, had been all Charles’ work. When he had received the letter that Celia and Agnes had written between them, he had responded immediately.

  The plan was clever because it was simple. Charles wrote back to Celia to tell her all of it, step by step. They were to take every part and act it out thoroughly, he insisted on it, saying that it would be easier for them all to keep their tale consistent if they lived it as best they could.

  So, Celia, with Agnes peering over her shoulder in their little lodgings in Lytham, wrote a letter to her husband, telling him how the distant relative they were staying with was suddenly very ill. Celia had decided to stay on at the house to look after the woman. She had a young baby, and her husband was neither attentive nor did he provide enough to pay for a companion to keep his wife company in her illness. Celia, therefore, had decided to stay on for a while to help her take care of her infant whilst she built her strength back up again.

  Charles had let the household staff know that their mistress would be gone a while longer, and the news had been received quite naturally.

  After a few more weeks, Catherine and Agnes were to return home, sent away by Celia as the poor woman’s illness began to worsen. Again, all very natural, and the staff had looked forward to the return of Catherine and Agnes, even if their mistress was going to be delayed.

  “I know it cannot have been easy to leave Henry behind in Lytham, but you know that Celia will take the very best care of him,” Charles went on as Agnes poured them each a cup of tea.

  “I know she will, Uncle Charles. She is very good with him, and Henry loves her already.” Catherine felt tearful again, but she was determined to hold it in this time.

  “It would have been too dangerous to have Celia and Henry come back at the same time as you. It would be too easy for people to start putting two and two together. But I truly believe that this little passage of time will do much to avoid that. It gives the story time to settle into the minds of the staff and our neighbours. I am sorry for it, Catherine, but it really is necessary to our success.”

  “I know, Uncle Charles. And I know Henry will be coming back to me in the end.”

  “But not as your son, you must remember that. He is to be known as the child of one of my distant and less fortunate relatives. A child made an orphan when his mother died and his father turned his back on him.”

  “I understand. I am just grateful that Henry will be in my life.” Catherine’s voice wavered.

  It had hurt Catherine’s heart to know that her boy would grow up thinking her the most distant of relations. She wanted more than anything for him to know who she was, but it was
too much of a risk.

  A young boy growing up could not be expected to keep such a secret successfully. He could not have the knowledge that Catherine was his mother but never mention the fact outside of Ivy Manor, or in it, for the servants could never know the truth either.

  It was the only way, and Catherine knew it. It was not perfect, for no life without Thomas ever could be. A perfect life would be one in which Henry got to grow up knowing both his mother and father. Even now, after all that had happened, Catherine still had room in her heart to dream that things were different.

  But even if they were not, at least she would see Henry grow up. And she could be as close to him as any mother could be. She would be in his life, and he would be in hers. She would see him every day, and spend every waking moment with him. And, with the help of the Topwells and Agnes Price, she would teach Henry how to be a fine young man in a home that was full of love.

  “He will be in your life, Catherine. And we are not so wealthy that we would employ a nurse, so you will get to do it all. You will need to let the maids be involved, at first, at least. That way there will be no suspicion. You must make it seem as if Henry grows on you day by day. The staff cannot see your bond to him from the very first. It is all part of the plan. Do you think you can manage it?”

  “Yes, I will do whatever must be done to have Henry here. I will not let you down, Uncle Charles. Not again.”

  “Young lady, you have never let me down.” Charles seemed taken aback by her words. “I should never have expected you to give up your child in the first place. It was too hard.”

  “But he is born out of wedlock. He is illegitimate.”

  “I cannot abide that word,” Charles said firmly. “It is the way of the world to be critical and judgemental of others. It is a stain on society that appearances are more important than truth and love. They would blame a child as if we do not all come into this world in the same way.”

  “There is nothing we can do about the opinions of others,” Agnes added. “But we can work around them, can we not?” She smiled at them both conspiratorially.

  “We most certainly can,” Charles said cheerfully. “You must just be strong a little longer. You will get through these next weeks with Celia’s daily letters, and you will adjust to the way of things when Henry and Celia get home. You will manage it all; I have every faith in you.”

  Charles’ kind talk and belief in her made Catherine feel better. She would manage; he was right. Henry might not know she was his mother, but he would most certainly know how much Catherine loved him.

  He would grow up in a home of laughter and love, never knowing a moment’s fear. Henry would always feel important to those around him, never have his opinion ignored or his own wants in life dismissed in favour of someone else’s plan.

  Henry would have the things his mother had not, even if he never knew he hailed from Barford Hall and the Duchy of Shawcross. He did not need to know he was descended from Dukes and Earls; all he needed was to be loved, taught, and steered in the right direction.

  And maybe one day when he was grown, Catherine would be able to tell him the truth. She might be able to let him know finally that he was not an orphan, a poor child who had been taken in and saved by the kindness of his distant relations.

  One day he would know that his mother loved him so much she had been prepared to risk everything to keep him with her.

  But that was a matter for many years hence. There was a long road to travel first, and Catherine had decided at that moment to enjoy every minute of it. She loved Thomas, and she always would, but she had a responsibility to raise their son in happiness, and that was exactly what she would do.

  Catherine would follow the plan and follow it to the letter.

  Chapter 16

  Catherine had decided to make the long journey back to Hertfordshire alone. Whilst the Earl of Barford had been Celia Topwell’s brother, it was clear that she had no intention of attending his funeral herself. In fact, neither Celia nor Charles Topwell had any intentions of paying their respects to Oscar Ambrose and Catherine could not blame them at all.

  Not only had he treated Celia and Charles so poorly, but her aunt and uncle had objected strongly to the way he had treated Catherine also.

  And when she had received word from her brother that their father had died, Catherine felt nothing. Well, perhaps that was not entirely true, for she had felt a little curiosity to go home after so many years away, and she had felt her own hopes and fears for how her relationship with her brother Philip would have fared after so long. And, more than anything, she felt a deep need to see Thomas Carlton again.

  Catherine still thought of Thomas every day, could see his handsome face every time she looked at her beautiful son and knew that her feelings for him had never changed. She loved Thomas with all her heart and with the same ferocity of the very day they were parted eight years before.

  When the letter had come, Catherine had been sitting out on her favourite bench in her aunt and uncle’s beautiful grounds. She had been enjoying a late summer’s afternoon as she watched Henry clambering about in the only tree she allowed him to climb.

  It was a sturdy tree with low, broad branches, one that was easy for him to get into and out of without incident. She always watched him like a hawk, knowing that Henry was as keen as mustard to get to one of the taller trees and test his skills somewhere other than the tree he had known how to climb since he was five.

  “Aunt Catherine, this tree is too easy,” he complained as he peered out at her through the thick leaves. “This tree is for babies.”

  “That is just silly, Henry.” Catherine laughed as she shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted at his fine little silhouette against the bright blue sky. “Babies cannot climb trees.”

  “You know what I mean, Aunt Catherine,” he went on, and Catherine stifled another laugh when she realized that he was beginning to whine and complain a little.

  Whining and complaining did not suit Henry, and when he did do it, it always amused her. But Henry had a sensitive heart, one that Catherine would protect at all costs, and so she was careful not to laugh at him or say anything that would undermine his burgeoning confidence in himself.

  “I do know what you mean, Henry,” Catherine said gently. “But I would like you to wait until you are a little older before you try any of the bigger trees. I know that you are very good at climbing, but my nerves are not so very good at watching. And so you see, you would be doing me a great kindness by sticking to that tree for now, my dear.”

  “Alright then, Aunt Catherine,” he said in the most adorable, proud-little-boy fashion.

  No doubt he liked the idea of doing something to protect Catherine’s feelings and soothe her nerves, and the feeling of pride at that moment clearly outweighed the excitement of a new tree.

  “Thank you, Henry. It is always nice to be kind to somebody else, is it not?”

  “I always like being kind to you, Aunt Catherine.” Henry sat himself down on the broadest of the branches, and Catherine grinned to see his skinny legs swinging back and forth.

  “And why do you like being kind to me, Henry?”

  “Because I love you, Aunt Catherine,” he said in a perplexed tone which suggested she ought to have known that already.

  “And I love you too, Henry,” Catherine said and felt the familiar tightening of her throat.

  From the moment Henry had been old enough to speak, Catherine had forced herself to get used to his mode of address. So many times over the years she had been tempted to tell him everything, feeling sure that he would be pleased to know that his beloved Aunt Catherine was actually his mother.

  But Henry was still just seven years old, and once he found himself comfortable in whatever company he was in, he talked non-stop. Henry liked nothing better than to chatter, and even when he was climbing his little tree, he generally talked through the whole effort.