by Candice Hern
"All right."
Catherine looked up at the sound of opening doors and loud voices. "The gentlemen have returned," she said. "Oh, and there he is, Sukey. Mr. Phipps. He is the dark-haired gentleman in the bottle green coat."
"Yes. Yes, I see him," Susannah said, squinting toward the doorway as thirty or more gentlemen swarmed into the room, darting off in all directions to capture seats next to their favorite ladies.
Catherine was extraordinarily pleased to see Lord Strickland making his way toward her. Though she was committed to seeing Susannah properly settled, it was gratifying to think that she might have a chance for herself as well. And with an earl, no less.
"Good evening, Miss Forsythe," he said, bowing over her outstretched hand. "With such a crowd, I despaired of finding an opportunity to speak with you. How fortunate that I have found you alone, before all the younger men trip all over themselves to be at your side."
Catherine laughed. "You have me confused with my sister, Lord Strickland. She is the one who commands such attentions, not I."
"But you have my full attention, Miss Forsythe." He offered a warm smile, and Catherine felt a tiny rush of triumph for the second time that evening. All her plans were falling very nicely into place. Even dreams of her own future might well be within reach.
"And I see your sister has commanded Phillips's full attention," he said.
"Mr. Phipps, you mean."
"Septimus Phipps? Good heavens, no. He is over there, fawning all over Miss Fenton-Sykes. She has his full devotion at the moment, I am afraid. No, that is Captain Phillips with your sister."
"Captain Phillips?" Catherine turned around and indeed saw that her sister stood among a circle of eager admirers vying for her attention. And yet she was making calf's eyes at a certain dark-haired gentleman in a bottle green coat.
Blast the girl's nearsightedness, anyway. She had the wrong man!
As the green-coated gentleman turned slightly so that he was facing in Catherine's direction, she saw for the first time that his left sleeve was empty. "Oh, my goodness," she murmured, a hand flying to her mouth.
"Yes, poor Phillips lost an arm at Vitoria," Lord Strickland said, mistaking Catherine's concern. "But at least he came out of it alive. They reduced him to half-pay, of course, poor chap."
A one-armed half-pay officer. Good Lord. And Susannah was batting those blue eyes at him for all she was worth, while the very eligible Mr. Phipps was flirting madly with the freckled-face Miss Fenton-Sykes.
How could Susannah have mistaken the one-armed captain for the tall, well-built Mr. Phipps? And once she had discovered who he was, how could she possibly imagine that he was to be considered at all eligible? If the girl had half a brain . . .
Had it been only moments ago that she had been so puffed up with triumph? Catherine stifled a groan.
"Carlisle has been very generous, though," Lord Strickland continued, as though nothing at all were amiss. "They are cousins, you know."
Catherine brightened. "Captain Phillips is cousin to the Duke of Carlisle?"
"On the distaff side of the family, yes. After Vitoria, Carlisle convinced him to sell out and settle here at Chissingworth." "
"Captain Phillips lives here?"
"Yes. He is the steward. Quite a good one, too, I am told. He would have to be, of course. It's a huge estate to manage. It was a wise move on Carlisle's part to put Phillips in charge. Wise as well as generous."
So, he was a steward. A one-armed poor relation of the half-witted Duke of Carlisle employed as a steward. Little more than a glorified servant. A servant with dark hair and a bottle green coat. And Susannah was smiling up at him as though he were the most important man in the world.
Catherine sighed in exasperation and turned her back on the disagreeable scene.
The devil take all beautiful, featherbrained, nearsighted sisters.
"She recognized the dress?"
Miss Forsythe nodded and Stephen burst into laughter.
"There was nothing funny about it, sirrah," she said in a stern tone, belied by the smile she was unable to suppress. "I was terrified that I was about to be found out!"
She turned back to her painting, and Stephen was almost spellbound by the vision of her in the Old Hall garden, the sun behind her inflaming the soft blond curls peeking out from beneath her bonnet. He had an absurd desire to reach out and touch one of those curls. Would it feel as silky as it looked? What he really wanted to do was remove that jaunty little chip straw bonnet and see her hair in all its glory, unpinned and spilling in golden waves down her back. But perhaps her hair was not even long, as he liked to imagine, but cropped fashionably short. The fact that he did not know made him realize he had never seen her without a hat. What would she do if he asked her to remove it?
What would she do if he reached down and kissed her?
But he could not do that. He knew that he could not. But that was all right, for it was pleasure enough just to look at her. For now, it was enough.
If he possessed even half her talent with a paintbrush, he would capture this moment on paper: Miss Forsythe's fair loveliness set off against the remains of the Old Hall, where fountains of clematis sprayed over a ruined wall. Two of the loveliest things he had ever seen.
He had been intrigued by her story of the purloined gowns and silently commended her ingenuity in insuring that she and her sister would be dressed properly while at his mother's party. Entertaining as the tale had been, it still troubled him to think that she should be forced to such measures.
"But you were not found out," he replied at last. "You foiled the dragon before she could strike."
"For the moment," she replied. Looking up from her painting, she cast Stephen a tentative smile. "I discovered a talent for acting I never knew I possessed. It was most exhilarating."
Stephen was momentarily struck by her words. Perhaps she was not quite the artless innocent he had imagined. He decided to probe further.
"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Miss Forsythe?"
"That depends upon the question, Mr. Archibald."
"I was just curious about something," he continued. "I gather that you and your sister are not . . . well. . . not terribly secure, financially speaking."
"We are poor as church mice."
"Truly?" She nodded in response and turned her attention back to her painting. "Then, how is it that you came to be invited to Chissingworth in the first place? The duchess is usually very selective in her guests, or so I am told."
"She and my Aunt Hetty were in school together."
"Really?"
"Yes, really." Her eyes were fixed on the tiny ivory palette where she was mixing a shade of reddish purple pigment. "They ran into one another recently after many years, and the duchess kindly invited us. I suspect Aunt Hetty told her the truth of the matter and the duchess, kind lady that she is, saw a way out for Susannah and me and arranged for us to come."
"A way out?" Stephen asked. "How so?"
"By placing us in the company of more than a few unmarried gentlemen, that's how. So that we could find rich husbands."
"Rich husbands?"
"Of course," she said with a momentary lift of a shoulder. She began to fill in a finely outlined clematis blossom with the newly mixed pigment—an astonishingly accurate representation of the unusual color of the tiny flowers that covered the old wall. "In my world," she said, "it is just about the only acceptable avenue of survival for a penniless but well-born young woman. We must marry a fortune."
Stephen flinched at the words "in my world." He had always been impressed with Miss Forsythe's friendly, open manner with a man she considered little more than a gardener. He had taken every advantage of that guileless manner, encouraging her confidence and her trust. Her words just now, though, brought home the fact that she was very much aware of the supposed difference in their stations. His notion of an unspoiled paragon was slowly crumbling at his feet.<
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"Just before the duchess's invitation arrived," she continued, "I was this close to looking for a position as a teacher or governess. But what on earth could Susannah do? She is too pretty and too scatterbrained to be a governess. She is an excellent seamstress, of course, and probably could have found employment with a dressmaker. But that is a difficult life at best. Susannah is much too delicate for that sort of hardship. I cannot even bear to think of it. So," she added in a lighter tone, "here we are at Chissingworth looking for rich husbands."
Stephen was stunned into silence. He would never in a million years have pegged his guileless Miss Forsythe as a fortune hunter. It went against everything he believed about her. He stared at her in painful disbelief. His silence must have alarmed her, for she turned and looked over her shoulder at him.
"Are you surprised, then?" she asked. "Or perhaps disappointed?"
He did not wish to acknowledge that he was both. "No, no, of course not. Well, maybe a little surprised. I would not have thought you . . ."
"A fortune hunter?" She chuckled mirthlessly. "Go ahead, call a spade a spade. For I am indeed hunting a fortune." Her brows furrowed as she gazed back at him. "Please, do not look so shocked, Mr. Archibald. If you knew the level of poverty we have endured the last two years, you would not gainsay me. Believe me, I will do everything in my power to pull us out of financial destitution. I fully intend to secure advantageous matches for one or both of us before we leave Chissingworth. It is our only chance."
Stephen was seeing a new side of Miss Forsythe today, one he was not sure he liked very much. In truth, he understood her desperation. Although he had never given it much thought, he knew that women in general were seldom in control of their own fortunes. In most cases, a woman was entirely dependent upon the men in her life: father, brother, husband, son. As Miss Forsythe had no father or brother, he should understand her need to find a husband. He should understand it. The problem was that it represented yet another notion that flew in the face of his illusions of her as artless and innocent as the violets she favored. He just hated to think of her scheming to snare some poor sap for the sake of his fortune. Good God, what would she have done had she known from the start that he was the duke? She probably would have had him in her clutches from that first ignominious encounter. He shuddered to think of it, to think that she was, after all, no different from all the rest.
And he had had such high hopes for her.
She had turned back to her painting. He knew he should either leave or change the subject, but he could not convince himself to do either. Some perverse curiosity urged him on.
"And how is your search progressing?" he asked, bringing to mind the similar question he had asked Miles only two nights before.
She replied without turning around, as though unwilling to look him in the eye. "There are many eligible gentlemen among the party guests," she said. "Unfortunately, my sister has attached herself, for the moment at least, to a most ineligible prospect. Since I cannot rely on her good judgment, I am forced to secure an attachment for myself. It is up to me to marry a fortune."
Stephen's hands, stuffed into the large pockets of his coat, were now balled into fists. But he pushed on. "And have you singled out anyone yet?"
"Not exactly," she replied after a slight hesitation. "But there are several possibilities. Sir Bertram Fanshawe. Lord Knowland. Mr. Brooke. But I am tempted to encourage the Earl of Strickland."
Good Lord. Miles? "Lord Strickland?"
"Yes, he is eminently suitable. After all, he is one of the fifty richest unmarried gentlemen under forty in all of England."
"Fifty richest. . ." By God, it was worse than he had thought. The girl was a professional. "How on earth do you happen to know that?" he asked.
"MacDougal," she replied.
"What?"
She shook her head impatiently, dismissing the question. "I make it my business to know such things," she said. "I have to, if I am to be successful in my quest. Since the invitation to Chissingworth has presented me with this golden opportunity, I intend to make the best of it. I am not looking for just any husband. I am looking for a rich husband. Merely comfortable is not enough. I will not entertain even the remotest possibility of penury. Not again. Not ever again. Lord Strickland is an extremely rich man. And since he has shown more interest in me than in Susannah, I will cultivate his attentions for myself and try to steer my sister toward other prey."
Good Lord, but he felt almost sick to hear such a pronouncement. She sounded so cynical and calculating, not at all the sweet, unaffected girl he had begun to care for. This change in her angered him somehow.
"Well then, if Lord Strickland is such a catch," he said in a sarcastic tone, "then what about the Duke of Carlisle himself? Is he not also a very rich man, possibly even more so than Lord Strickland? Perhaps one of you should set your sights on his lofty title."
"Oh, no, I could not do that," Miss Forsythe replied, looking the duke straight in the eye. "Naturally, His Grace is also among the fifty richest men. Among the twenty richest, in point of fact. But the man is reputedly not right in the head. There are plenty of other eligible gentlemen of fortune without having to saddle one of us to a half-wit."
Angry as he was, Stephen felt a gurgle of laughter work its way up from his chest. A half-wit, was he? He feigned a cough to cover his laughter.
"Oh, but perhaps I should not speak so of your employer," Miss Forsythe said in a contrite tone as she looked over her shoulder at him. "You must have a superior knowledge of the duke, after all."
"Yes, I—"
"Cath! Cath, where are you?"
The call from beyond the yew hedge reminded Stephen that he must not be seen by the other guests. He often forgot that minor point whenever in the presence of Miss Forsythe. He began to back away.
"Over here, Susannah," Miss Forsythe called. "There's an opening in the hedge just next to the term."
"I will leave you with your sister," Stephen said hurriedly. "If you will excuse me." He darted through an opening in the border just as he saw the edge of a pink skirt coming through the hedge.
Chapter 8
Catherine watched, perplexed, as Mr. Archibald made his swift escape through an almost invisible opening in the hedge. What had set him off so quickly, like a scared rabbit? She would like to have introduced him to Susannah, who had expressed so much admiration for a man who designed gardens.
"Ah, here you are," Susannah exclaimed as she entered the garden. "I wondered where you had got to. However did you find this place? I would never have noticed that opening in the hedge border—and before you scold me, I do have on my spectacles. For now."
"Mr. Archibald," Catherine said, "you remember, the head gardener I told you about? He brought me here. Is it not beautiful? It was built around the remains of an earlier manor house. It is kept quite private, he told me, for it includes many experimental plantings. It is not even opened up on public days, for the protection of the plants. The duke, he said, is quite possessive about it."
"It is very nice," Susannah said as she glanced about. "And very kind of Mr. Archibald to allow you to see it. Let us hope the duke does not find out and have your head!"
Catherine laughed. "Mr. Archibald has shown me many special areas of the gardens, for he knows I like to paint the flowers. He brought me here because of the many rare species, and yet here I am painting one of the most common of all flowers."
"Oh my, that is a lovely picture," Susannah said, bending down to examine the painting. "And so very like the real flower. What is it?"
"Clematis. There seem to be dozens of varieties here at Chissingworth, but I am partial to this little purple one. I love the way it climbs up this old wall and gives it new life."
"Yes, it is very pretty," Susannah said. "I am so pleased to see you paint again. How I wish I were as clever and talented as you."
Catherine put down her paintbrush and took her sister's hand. "But you ar
e, my dear. Only look at this beautiful dress I am wearing." She spread her hands out, palms up, indicating the muslin dress she wore. It had been fashioned from one of their mother's old dresses. The jaconet muslin had been in excellent condition. Susannah had raised the waistline, added a fall of lace at the throat, and a French work flounce salvaged from another dress. The effect was very stylish, very au courant. "I look just like a fashion plate from Ackermann's, thanks to you."
Susannah squeezed her hand. "You are very sweet to say so," she said. "But I really came here to thank you."
"Thank me? What on earth for?"
"For singling out Captain Phillips for me," Susannah replied in her breathiest voice.
"Oh, about that—"
"He is so wonderful. He is handsome and brave and kind and smart—he is clever, like you, Cath."
"But, Sukey—"
"And he does not stare at me moon-eyed and praise my beauty every five minutes. He actually talks to men And listens, too, even though I am not at all clever. He treats me like a real person. Most gentlemen treat me like some fragile porcelain doll to be put up on a pedestal and gazed at."
"But, Sukey . . ." Catherine paused, interrupting her own objection as she considered the words of her sister. "Is that true, Sukey? Do most men treat you like a porcelain doll."
Susannah cast her gaze to her feet and twisted her hands together. "Yes," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You never mentioned it before. Has it always been so?"
"Yes." Susannah lifted her head and gazed intently at Catherine. "But I never truly realized it, you see, until I met Captain Phillips," she continued in typical breathless excitement. "He made me realize that all I ever wanted was to be treated like . . . well, like a woman, not like some precious object."
"Oh, Sukey."
"Captain Phillips is quite the nicest man I have met at Chissingworth. I am so very glad you pointed him out to me."
Catherine was distressed to learn how her sister's incredible beauty affected the way gentlemen behaved toward her. It should come as no surprise that men would behave so thoughtlessly; but it was upsetting to know that Susannah was so much aware of it and so disturbed by it. She was grateful her sister had finally learned that she need not settle for such artificial adoration. Catherine only wished it had been some other man to teach Susannah that particular lesson. For it was clear as day that her sister was developing a tendre for the terribly ineligible captain.