He was such a happy, personable little boy that he reminded her more and more of Thomas. He was sensitive, it was true, and yet he had a certain confidence with people, just like Thomas had always had.
Henry waved to her from the tree, and she smiled and waved back, watching him carefully. As always happened, she drifted off into thoughts of Thomas and how his talkative and confident nature had led him to approach her in the first place.
Had he been any different at all, they likely never would have spoken, for Catherine would certainly not have had the courage to have approached him herself.
“Have you seen Henry anywhere?” Celia called out in an extraordinarily loud stage-whisper as she approached Catherine from the kitchen door.
It was a little ruse that the two women had played over and over, ever since Henry had taken to climbing the tree. And Henry, despite being a bright little boy, never seemed to realize that they were making the whole thing up for his benefit, again and again.
Catherine smiled and let her eyes stray to Henry who quickly put a finger to his lips and shook his head vehemently, beseeching her to remain silent.
“I have no idea, Aunt Celia. I cannot think the last time I saw Henry. Perhaps it was this morning,” Catherine said loudly and smiled when she heard Celia chuckle, low and quiet.
“Well, perhaps I will sit here with you for a while until he appears,” Celia said and settled herself down on the bench at Catherine’s side.
Catherine could immediately see that Celia held an unopened letter in her hand, although it was face down, and she could not see to whom it was addressed.
“What a beautiful day it is today, Celia. It reminds me that summer will not be here forever.” Catherine sighed. “As warm as it is, there is a quality about the light in late summer; it is very different from early summer. A little more yellowy, I think.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” Celia said thoughtfully. “And it is a reminder, I think. A bittersweet one.”
“We must make the most of it then.” Catherine risked a glance in Henry’s direction and could see that he was busy stripping the leaves from one of the branches, fully occupied, and having forgotten that the two women were there at all.
“You look after him so well, my dear,” Celia said, changing the subject suddenly. “He could not have had a better governess if we had employed somebody. He really is a clever boy, is he not?”
“He is, and to teach him has been a wonderful experience for me. It keeps us together all the time and in such a way that I never feel I have to explain my constant attention to him.” Catherine smiled at Celia, and her eyes strayed to the overturned letter once more.
“Everything comes as second nature now, my dear, and I can hardly remember a time when we struggled to be careful of everything we did and said. The feelings of trepidation seem so far away now.”
Celia was right; they had fallen into a very easy arrangement. In the beginning, Catherine had hoped rather than believed that Charles Topwell’s plan would work. But they had all stuck to their part, the four of them supporting one another throughout, each acting as a watchman to the others, all of them mindful not to do or say the wrong thing.
For Celia, Charles, and Agnes, of course, the whole thing had become easier much more quickly. For Catherine, however, there was always the temptation to change things a little between herself and Henry, to let him know just how closely related they were. There was always that tiny twinge, that little ache, every time her son referred to her as his aunt.
But, all in all, the plan had worked, and Catherine was more grateful than she could ever have expressed. Her life, whilst not complete over those last years, had been content enough. Henry was the most important person in her world; he was her child, and she would protect him like a lioness with her cub.
“You came home very early from the evening buffet with your friends yesterday, Catherine. Is everything alright?” Celia always approached such subjects with care and caution.
“Yes, I am fine, I promise.”
“You enjoyed yourselves?”
“Yes,” Catherine said and felt shabby for lying. “Well, no, not really,” she said and frowned apologetically.
“What happened?”
“The same as last time, I am afraid. Constance and Stella are very kind, and I know they have my best interests at heart, but I do wish they would stop introducing me to hopeful men of a certain age.” Catherine sighed dramatically, and Celia burst out laughing.
“Oh dear, was he as bad as all that?”
“Worse, and it was not one hopeful gentleman, but two.”
“Well, as you say, your friends have your best interests at heart.”
“They certainly think they do, Aunt Celia. But I have told them time and time again that I am not interested in marrying, and I wish they would just believe me. I think that they are under the impression that I am simply objecting because I am embarrassed to find myself unmarried at seven and twenty.”
“Seven and twenty is not old, my dear. And you really are very beautiful, Catherine. It is hardly surprising that there is no shortage of gentlemen who are doubtless only too pleased to be introduced to you.”
“How kind of you, Aunt Celia. But I truly do not want to be married. I never want to marry, not now.”
“Because of Thomas?” Celia had not mentioned Thomas for a long time, and it did something to Catherine’s heart to hear his name spoken aloud.
“Yes, because of Thomas. Always Thomas.”
“Do you still love him?”
“As much as I ever did, Celia. I know that I will love Thomas Carlton until the day I die.”
“Have you never heard anything about him since you came here?”
“How could I? My brother has never written, and I dare not write to him for fear of what my father will do. Poor Philip,” she said and felt the familiar ache of missing her brother. “And for the same reason, I could not write to Thomas either. And he has never tried to find me, has he?”
“Not that you are aware of, Catherine. That is not to say that he has not tried. You cannot know what difficulties he has experienced since you were last in Hertfordshire.”
“And I suppose I shall never know,” Catherine said miserably.
“I am not so sure that is true,” Celia said and turned the letter so that the handwriting on the front could be seen. “For this is post-marked Hertfordshire, Catherine.” Celia lowered her voice and let her eyes stray to the contented little Henry in the tree.
“Hertfordshire?” Catherine’s voice came out in a wheeze of shocked excitement.
She leaned forward and peered at the handwriting without taking the letter from her aunt at all, almost as if she dare not touch it. She could see that it was addressed to her and addressed in a hand that was so familiar that even the passage of time could not disguise it.
“My goodness, Aunt Celia, it is from Philip.”
“Are you sure?” Celia sounded impressed. “You can tell his handwriting from a few lines of address?”
“I would know it anywhere,” Catherine said and sat still as a statue, still not reaching for the letter at all.
“Catherine, are you going to open it?” Celia sounded pleasantly impatient.
In the eight years she had been at Ivy Manor, Catherine had come to know her Aunt Celia very well indeed. She could be described, at best, to be inquisitive and, at worst, to be rather nosy. But it was always done very gently and without malice and was always mildly amusing.
“Well, I suppose I ought to,” Catherine said and realized that her hands were shaking as she reached out to take the letter from Celia. “Look at me; I am trembling.”
“It is understandable. I know how you have missed your brother.”
“If I am honest, I fear the news.”
“News? What news is it that you fear?”
“I suppose I fear my brother telling me that Thomas has become married, although I suppose that is silly. Philip has not written t
o me at all these last years, and it would be an unlikely catalyst for his sudden communication, would it not?”
“Probably the easiest thing to do would be to open it and read it. There can be no benefit in conjecture at this stage, Catherine.”
“Quite so,” Catherine said and swallowed hard as she opened the letter.
She read it for some moments, although it was but brief. She could never have imagined a letter from Philip being so brief after so many years, but there was no doubt a reason for that. And the news, whilst it did not upset her, surprised her. It was curiously the last thing she had expected, and she felt a little stab of guilt when she realized that she was relieved to discover that it was news of her father’s passing, not news of her old love marrying.
“He is dead. My father is dead,” she said simply and looked at Celia.
“Goodness me, I am surprised to hear that. My brother was always very hale and hearty, certainly not the sort of man one would expect to die whilst relatively young.” Celia looked more interested and thoughtful than devastated. “I must admit, I do not feel a great deal about it.” She shrugged and looked at Catherine.
“If I am honest, neither do I. Not for the man himself, I mean,” Catherine said thoughtfully. “But there are a whole host of other emotions that will need to be picked through sooner or later, emotions entirely unconnected with my father and his passing.”
“I understand, really I do.”
“Well, I will have to get to the bottom of my own heart sooner or later, for Philip wishes me to attend our father’s funeral.”
“And will you go?”
“Yes,” Catherine said and nodded firmly. “But not for my father’s sake; for Philip.”
Just days later, as the last of the post carriages she had taken led her ever closer to Barford Hall, Catherine knew that it was not just for Philip’s sake that she was making that journey. She needed to know, once and for all, what had become of her first and only love.
Chapter 17
Thomas arrived in the churchyard more than an hour before the funeral service was due to start. Lady Morton had given him the specifics, despite urging him to exercise caution, possibly not even go at all.
She was right, of course. Whilst Thomas was not an enemy of the Ambrose family, at least not in his own estimation, the man who was being buried would have certainly seen it that way. And, as much as he despised the old Earl of Barford, it was his funeral.
He would be no more expected to turn up at it than he would have expected Philip Ambrose to attend the funeral of the Duke of Shawcross. Not that Thomas’ father showed any signs of weakening that he had seen.
He stared out across the graveyard from his vantage point in the trees and wondered if he would be seen. Thomas knew he would have a good view of the service itself, for he could clearly see the mound of earth, rich and brown, piled high next to the freshly dug hole.
It made him shudder to think of such preparation, even though he knew there could be no other way to do things. But he could not escape the curious feeling as he looked at the mound of earth and the hole in the ground. It would soon contain the remains of a man; a man he had hated, yes, but a human being who had lived and breathed but days before.
It reminded him of Pierce and the day they had lain his own brother to rest in that very graveyard some seven years before. He remembered well how he had seen the mound of earth as he had approached the family plot at his father’s side. He had been too bound in grief to even feel anger at his father’s self-contained, proud, and pompous display. The anger had come later.
Thomas blew out a great sigh. The day was warm enough, but there was a chill whenever the breeze drifted through the trees and found him in his hiding place. He was wearing black garb so as not to appear disrespectful if he happened to be discovered. Still, despite the thickness of his black tailcoat, he was beginning to wish he had worn a great coat over the top.
Standing on the edge of the graveyard out of sight was going to be a fairly sedentary business, and Thomas would soon feel cold. Especially when the service began, and he dare not move at all for fear of drawing attention to himself.
Of course, in the end, Catherine might not be there at all. If he did not see her, would he really wait to see the man who had ruined his life lowered into the ground? He thought not.
Thomas could find no warm feelings for the old Earl of Barford, but he had long since relinquished all ideas of revenge and bitterly nursed grudges. It was enough for him that he did not like the man, he did not need to make that feeling more active. After all, he had seen just what such feeling could become and exactly where it could end if it went unchecked.
Thomas had never truly forgiven himself for his brother’s death. He knew, of course, that none of it would have happened if Pierce had not betrayed him in the first place, but he knew very well that there had been an opportunity to prevent the tragedy which ensued.
Had he forgiven Pierce, there would have been no need for his brother to chase him so recklessly and at such a speed as he made his way to Stromlyn Lake.
Still, Thomas had other things on his mind as he stood in the cover of the trees and thick shrubbery and revisiting old ground would not help to bring Pierce back; it was done.
Thomas embraced himself a little as another cool breeze swept through the trees and made the leaves rustle and the larger branches sway rhythmically. Would she come?
Whilst he had known immediately of the Earl’s passing, and soon after of the date for the funeral, Thomas had heard nothing at all about the attendance or otherwise of Catherine Ambrose. If she was still Catherine Ambrose, that was.
Lady Morton had no information on Catherine whatsoever and never had in all the time she had been away. She had been as much in the dark as anyone else in the county. The truth was that people rarely spoke of Catherine Ambrose, most of them fearing the wrath of the Earl of Barford.
Over a surprisingly short amount of time, Catherine appeared to have been forgotten, although he was sure their plight was still a good source of occasional private teatime gossip.
Lady Morton had been a great friend to Thomas from the day she had created a little story to explain his absence from the room when he had wanted to speak to Catherine secretly. He smiled sadly to himself as he thought of how much had changed since that day, and just how many years had passed with only himself and Lady Morton to remember it all.
Of course, Catherine would remember every part of it if she had a mind to. Thomas knew that so much might have changed for her since she had been away to whatever part of Derbyshire had been her home for eight years.
She was a beautiful woman with such intelligence and a magnetic personality; surely, she would be married by now. For all Thomas knew, she might not even live in Derbyshire anymore. She could be anywhere.
His only hope of setting eyes on her again was on that very day, the day of her father’s funeral, he was sure of it. That idea filled him with the most terrible dread that she would not come at all, and all hopes of ever looking upon her beautiful face, if only from afar, would be dashed forever.
Married or not, Catherine would certainly not be obliged to attend her father’s funeral. The man had disowned her entirely, so even a small consideration in his will was unlikely.
But there was Philip. Surely, she would come to the church at least to support the brother she had so loved. Still, even that relationship might have changed, and Philip might still not know exactly where it was his sister had been sent. In those circumstances, he would surely not have been able to track his sister down at all.
Love Stories of Enchanting Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 41