by Wendy Vella
The Duchess smiled in delight and then frowned; the mouse had reached the cheese, but that meant it was now closer to their table.
They watched, stomachs churning in anticipation as it sniffed the morsel and . . . then the door banged open.
“Did it get the cheese?”
The Duke walked in to catch this last query, with the Earl following him in. He stared at all the ladies standing on top of the chairs, and his right eye twitched at the sight of Mrs Barker sitting amid the breakfast food with her skirts ballooning out awkwardly. Mr Barker was hurriedly assisting his wife.
The Duke finally spoke,
“Is this a new fashion in London of eating breakfast? One must no longer sit on chairs but stand on them? And what in the world is Mrs Barker doing . . . I am a little afraid to ask.”
“A mouse, father,” Catherine replied meekly.
“A mouse?” he asked, staring at Mr Barker.
Mr Barker turned bright red.
“And who was asking for cheese?”
“The mouse,” Emma spoke, embarrassed.
“I see, the mouse was asking for cheese.”
“No, oh! You have it all mixed up. It was like this. We saw a mouse and were frightened, but then we all felt sorry for the creature. He was a fetching thing, so we were just attempting to feed him a bit of cheese when you walked in.” Prudence explained.
“I see and did you name him as well?” he asked in amusement, and at the abashed shakes of heads, he added, “I will ask Pickering to come and take care of our uninvited guest . . . who seems to have disappeared at the moment. And no, I do not want to know how Mrs Barker came to be a part of the meal. Hamilton, join me in the library for a cup of coffee.”
Pickering arrived shortly after the departure of the Duke and Lord Raikes. He was told not to kill the mouse but put it away in a safe place.
“We are all very attached to the dear creature. Leave some water and food by its side,” the Duchess directed.
Pickering stared at the various lords and ladies standing on top of tables and chairs, presumably because of that very dear creature.
For the first and last time since joining the Duke’s household an expression crossed his face. Unfortunately, no one present could decipher what that emotion was. It was a rare opportunity often lamented upon being lost.
Chapter Seventeen
“What happened to it?” Lord Raikes asked Catherine.
He had searched the entire house and found her alone in the music room. He entered uninvited.
“The ‘it’ is a ‘he’. Pickering came armed with a broom, a paper bag, and a stable hand. They spent some time chasing it around the room, and finally he was cornered near the chimney. We have been assured he is safe,” she replied primly, moving to shut the piano.
“Stay, I would like to hear you play,” he said, catching her hand.
“Emma is in the morning room,” she replied instead, pulling her hand back.
“But I would like to know her cousin better.”
“You may, once you are married. I will spend considerable time at your home after the occasion, so you can further our acquaintance then.”
“I would like us to be friends now, for Emma’s sake. She would want the two people closest to her to at least like each other,” he said shrewdly.
She hesitated briefly and then sat back down on the piano seat.
“What would you like to speak of?” she finally asked.
“We have something in common . . . books. We both enjoy reading. Surely we can find a common author that we like?”
“I doubt my reading list would suit your refined taste. According to you we women should only read what is deemed appropriate for us. I do not think you would like such authors.”
“Name an author you like, and I will tell you what I think of him.”
“I prefer to talk of subjects rather than authors. Travel accounts are far more instructive and colourful than the dry pages of other texts. I envy you. You, being a man, can travel where you please, while I have to find my adventure in the pages of books.”
He looked at her wistful face and suddenly felt the urge to pack his bags and take her along with him to some exotic land. He cleared his throat as he answered,
“Have you heard of an author,” he paused and then continued “W.S. Raikes?”
“I have read one account of his trip to India. Father keeps some of his books in the library.”
“What do you think of his works?” he asked nervously.
“I think he must be an arrogant, selfish, and an extremely annoying man. I imagine he is a hundred years old with a bald head and crooked teeth. On his travels, he must carry a spy glass and peer at everything and anything that comes across his way, always remaining the distant observer.”
“You got all that from his writing?” he asked angrily, and then seeing the startled look on her face softened his tone and said, “Why would you draw such harsh conclusions?’’
“He writes well, when I can understand it. In every sentence, I feel he is trying to show how much better he is than the rest of us. He uses obscure words that I can never find in dictionaries. He fails to realise that not all of us have travelled to so many countries, and hence our vocabulary is limited. I understand French and Latin, but how an English reader is meant to understand Spanish, Italian, Greek, and goodness knows what else, is beyond me. He writes for old, stodgy professors or his fellow travellers. The rest of us mortals are left feeling foolish.”
“Perhaps he writes for himself?”
“Then why get it published? The whole point of a book is to entertain or instruct. He does neither, for I cannot decipher half of it.”
“Surely his accounts, if not entertaining, are at least instructive? Sometimes it is inevitable that one uses words from certain languages, since our own limited language cannot describe the intent clearly. A whole plethora of emotions cannot be put down on paper if one is limited to one script. Besides, I am sure the act of looking up the obscure words he mentions taught you something.”
“I forgot the words as soon as I looked them up. It would annoy people if I started speaking like an old university professor. As for instruction, he does not in all his travel accounts mention anything about women. He completely ignores their existence. How is that possible? He cannot be that blind, and they form the other and very crucial half of society.”
“Perhaps he does so to protect the modesty of the English mind. Cultures differ and if not understood properly can become a source of misplaced humour. He keeps the women out of his works to protect the women of all cultures and to maintain a level of respect that comes with the unknown.”
“You are making no sense. The author needs to respect his readers as well, to allow them the sensitivity to judge for themselves. An educated man or woman would not deride other cultures simply because they are different. I think this W. S. Raikes does not like women and does not consider them important. He must have been jilted sometime in his life, and I applaud the woman for her good sense. I also think that he is your bosom friend, since you seem to be getting angry on his behalf.”
He stared at her in shock and anger. She had touched a nerve when she mentioned the author being jilted.
He had at eighteen been in love with a woman who had spurned him for an older, more successful man. He would have come into his title too late for it to suit her. It was that very reason which had prompted him to escape England and travel.
He had not realised his old hurt still affected his writing. He had wanted to hear words of praise, since he was lauded by his peers for his works. No one had criticized him so bitterly, and the underlying truth hurt him.
“Just because you are not intelligent enough to understand his works, which are well received by the general, educated public, you stoop to malign his character. I had asked you about his works, not an analysis of the man’s personality. You have never met him, you know nothing of him, and yet you judge him. You have never vent
ured out of this tiny village, and unfortunately it has had the effect of making you petty and bitter. You wish you had his freedom, and you hate him for exactly what you blame him for. You hate him for being a man and able to do what you can never hope to do. You are a hypocrite, My Lady, considering yourself better than others simply because you had the good fortune to be born in this household. Please respect a more learned man, and if you find fault with not understanding the context of his works, then blame yourself for your intellectual shortfall.”
“Am I interrupting?” Emma called out.
He turned away in disgust, not bothering to reply. He strode out of the room without a backward glance.
“Why did he turn on me like that?” Catherine asked, bewildered and hurt.
Emma avoided her eyes when she spoke, “He did not mean a word. He spoke in anger. Perhaps this author is a good friend of his that he highly respects. I know you better than anyone. You are not a hypocrite, nor do you believe you are better than others. Forget it, Cat, it would not do to dwell on it. You are entitled to your own opinion, and you did no wrong in airing it.”
Catherine smiled to reassure her cousin, but her mind was in turmoil. She escaped to her room to think over his words. In spite of Emma’s reassurance, she was aware that somewhere in his tirade had been a grain of truth.
She was honest enough to admit that she had been unfair in her scathing and very personal description of the author. She also admitted that she did feel a touch of jealousy every time she read accounts of travellers, who were almost always men.
Some sadistic part of her made her seek out such books over and over again. She would enjoy the detail and descriptions, yet the process of reading such material left her bittersweet.
She was disturbed to know that a man as good as a stranger had been able to list her faults so easily.
***
That evening, Lord Raikes was overheard requesting his valet to bring him his travel diaries. Thereafter, he locked himself in his room for the night and did not come down for dinner.
Everyone felt his loss keenly. He was an outsider; hence, his presence had injected a vein of interest during meal times.
Catherine sat listlessly picking at her meal, her eyes bloodshot and her hair untamed. Emma looked as if someone had sucked all the energy out of her, while Prudence barely concealed her yawns.
The lovely dinner spread out in front of them looked morose as it cooled and congealed without being appreciated.
Catherine’s eyes once more slid to Lord Raikes’ empty seat and a soft sight escaped her.
The Duke thoughtfully noted his daughter’s expression and declared an early night was in order.
***
Emma entered her room that night with a heavy heart. Richard’s smile froze as he noticed her expression.
“What is it?” he asked, pulling her towards the chair by the fire.”
“Cat and Lord Raikes, they are constantly arguing. I think Cat hates him, and instead of leaving her alone he tries to rile her up all the more. I don’t know him well enough to understand why he is doing this, but Catherine is behaving just as oddly. I have never seen her argue with anyone so passionately. She is normally demure and shy. I have rarely seen her lose her composure.”
Richard curbed his smile. Instead, he took her hand and said softly, “They are attracted to each other. William understands this, but your cousin is confused. She is using anger as a means to keep her distance from the man, who she believes is your betrothed.”
“No, I don’t believe that. She hates him, and I have seen the dislike on her face every time she looks at him. I know my cousin, and you are wrong, Richard. It’s all your friend’s fault. I am sure he is teasing her mercilessly and deliberately annoying her. He may be attracted to her and trying to get her attention, but he is going about it the wrong way.”
“Em, my friend is experienced and well-travelled. He has met all sorts of people in his life. He knows what he is doing. Don’t worry about it. Your cousin will be fine, and I will warn William to curtail his behaviour in case others may notice and jump to conclusions. He will have all the time to woo her after our wedding.” His tone gentled as he added, “Don’t worry, Em, I don’t like seeing you upset. I will talk to William and sort things out. Now, smile.”
Emma glanced at Richard leaning next to her chair and offered a tremulous smile. He gently touched her cheek and pulled her off the seat into his arms.
Chapter Eighteen
Lord Raikes had spent the previous evening and most of the night coming to the conclusion that he was a pompous idiot with a decided prejudice against women.
He had initially started writing to please himself, and using words he learnt on his travels had been a way for him to remember all he had seen. The indigenous words brought up the flavour of the country like nothing else did.
He had continued writing in a similar vein in spite of his publishers request to simplify his work for his readers. He wrote to reflect his intelligence rather than his desire to instruct or tell the world of the various curiosities he discovered.
He wanted to prove to that long forgotten love that he was better than anyone. He wanted her to regret letting him go, and over time, as her face faded from his memories, his methods became a habit.
As for Catherine, she had been unaware of the identity of the author. She did not know she had been insulting him every time she spoke. He could hardly blame her, for had it been another writer he would have laughed and mayhap joined in with his own scathing observations.
He had forgiven her, and he intended to make up for his earlier harsh comments.
He entered the morning room and found Catherine in the midst of unravelling a blue yarn.
He paused briefly to take a deep breath, and then composing his face into a mildly curious expression asked, “What are you knitting?”
Catherine eyed him silently, and then tilted her head in Emma’s direction, who sat staring out of the window.
He ignored her hints and took a seat next to her.
“A sweater,” she finally answered his question loudly, hoping her cousin would look up and join her fiancé.
Emma glanced up and smiled encouragingly in their direction, then went back to searching the landscape.
“Are you supposed to miss three stitches in a row?” he asked.
“Yes, it is part of a pattern,” she lied.
“I see. What do you think she is trying to find?” he asked, nodding in Emma’s direction.
“It’s raining, I doubt she can see anything. Perhaps she is just thinking.”
“What do you think requires such deep concentration?”
“Why don’t you ask her, My Lord?”
“Oh, but I do not want to disturb her. She may be untangling some difficult problem. I may interfere in her train of thought.”
“But you have no qualms in disturbing me?”
“No, since knitting cannot require a great deal of concentration.”
“I could be solving some great, urgent problem while my hands remain occupied. Like you pointed out, I do not need to think to knit.”
“True. So was something bothering you?”
“Pardon,” she asked, confused, staring into his eyes.
He blinked, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
“I asked if something was bothering you. What are you thinking of while you knit?”
“You,” she replied, and then blushed in embarrassment as she realised what she had said. Her colour deepened as his smile grew.
“We are giving a party tonight, My Lord, in honour of your presence,” Emma interrupted. She had noticed the scene and could sympathize with her cousin’s dilemma.
“I look forward to it. Are many people expected?”
“Just a few families from the neighbourhood are invited. It won’t be a fully-fledged ball, but we will have dancing after dinner. We have tried to keep the guest list relatively young.”
“It will n
ot be on par with what you are used to, My Lord, but we will try our best to amuse you,” Catherine broke in.
“I am sure it will be delightful,” he politely replied, immediately making her feel small for her slight jibe.
Emma had had enough of the tension between the two.
“Can you two get along for one day without sniping at each other? My Lord, stop seeking her out and disturbing her . . . and, Cat, you can say what you like with me in the room, but please do not behave like this in public. I will ignore it, but others will not.”
She marched out of the room leaving them to sort out their differences. Richard had been right. She had carefully observed her cousin during the entire interaction and noted the blush. Her cousin had tensed the moment Lord Raikes had joined her. Her fingers trembled when she had tried to answer his questions.
The only reason Lord Raikes could possibly affect her cousin’s composure to such an extent was if Catherine were attracted to him.
The misunderstandings between Catherine and Lord Raikes would not have arisen if circumstances had been different. She felt she was to blame, since the crux of the matter was the wager.
She wondered if the charade would ruin any chances of a romance blossoming between the two.
Everyone assumed Lord Raikes to be Richard; hence, she was worried Catherine would become a target for gossip if people noticed. Her attraction to Lord Raikes was clear as day, and people would assume that she was trying to ensnare an affianced man. Even Lord Raikes’ behaviour would be noted and commented upon.
She finally concluded that she had been right in warning them. It had to be said, and she was the only one who could have said it.
Lord Raikes watched Emma leave, her words still ringing in his ears. He finally broke the silence and spoke,
“I think she is right. At least for tonight, let’s call a truce. I do not want to give people any reason to gossip.”
“Perhaps you should avoid me the entire evening that might be best.” Her voice trembled as she spoke.
“Lady Arden?” He watched a tear fall and immediately pulled her into his arms, knitting needles and all.