by Lucy Muir
“As for Lord Woodforde, I shall always hope to have his friendship and hold him in the highest respect—but, Papa, I would be married for more than friendship or convenience.”
“This notion of marriage for romantic love has much to answer for, I fear,” Lord Trevor said with a sigh, opening his book in dismissal. “Do as you see fit, Catherine, but remember that a marriage contract once entered upon is nigh impossible to break.”
“Lady Manning, we must have a ball to announce Catherine’s engagement, or at least a dinner,” Judith urged the next morning during the ten o’clock repast, which was Catherine’s and Lady Manning’s second breakfast and Judith’s first.
“I grant that would be in order,” Lady Manning admitted grudgingly.
“Which would you prefer, sister?” Judith asked Catherine.
Catherine smiled to herself, thinking how the simple question indicated how much she had gone up in her sister-in-law’s estimation since her betrothal to Lord Edgecombe, her sister would have ordered, not asked. “I think a dinner,” she replied. It was too soon after the masquerade to think of another ball.
“Very well, I shall speak to Lord Trevor and make the arrangements,” Lady Manning agreed. “Catherine, let me know if there is any dish in particular you would wish served.”
Leaving her aunt and sister to discuss the details of the dinner, Catherine retired to the parlour where she waited stayed for an hour, half-expecting Lord Woodforde to call on his way back from town as he often did. But when the noon hour came and there had been no sign of their neighbor, Catherine decided she must ride to Woodforde Park and speak to him. Surely he could not be angry at her for going with Lord Edgecombe instead of him yesterday, she wondered, although she was uncomfortably aware her manners in so doing had been seriously lacking. But whatever Woodforde’s reasons for staying away, she felt she owed it to their long friendship to inform him of her betrothal in person. She rang, ordered Damask brought round, and went upstairs to change into a riding habit.
Upon her arrival at Woodforde Park, Catherine was ushered to the library, where the marquess could be found late most mornings after he had done his rounds of the estate farms and taken care of his business in town. Lord Woodforde rose from his desk as Catherine entered the room, standing stiffly behind it.
“Have you come to seek my congratulations on your betrothal, Miss Trevor?” he asked when the footman retreated. “If so you have wasted an errand, for you will not receive them.”
“How did you come to know of my betrothal?” Catherine asked, surprised he should know of it so soon.
“My steward spoke to Lord Trevor’s steward in Moreton this morning, but I did not find it unexpected news,” Lord Woodforde answered coldly.
“Why will you not wish me well in my betrothal? Why do you begrudge me my own home and husband?” Catherine asked, going to stand before his desk, although not without a remembrance of the last time she had done the same. “I wondered that you left yesterday before I returned to the drawing room. I had thought our friendship counted for more than this.”
“I do not begrudge you your own establishment, Miss Trevor,” Lord Woodforde refuted. “I have long desired that you would find one, and repeatedly offered my own. I have no more desire to see you the unpaid servant of your sister-in-law than you desire it yourself. But I dislike seeing a woman I have admired and respected these many years abandon the forthrightness and honesty that heralded her character to adopt the deceitful tricks of the least admirable of her sex, playing at being what she is not. I only hope you will not learn to regret your actions to the extent I fear you shall.”
“What do you mean by your accusations, Lord Woodforde?” Catherine demanded, hurt by the harsh words coming from a person she had always liked and respected. “Do you say I am deceitful because I learned to dance the minuet well? You know I have always loved dance! Or because I learned to play vingt-un with more skill? You know well I had played the game before the marquess came to Ellsworth Hall!”
“I am speaking of your attempts to present yourself as a perfect object for the marquess to add to his collections,” Woodforde answered forthrightly. “You, Miss Trevor, have been masquerading since the Marquess of Edgecombe arrived, hiding your true nature behind a mask of words and attitudes! Tell me, have you ever had an honest discussion with the Marquess of Edgecombe in which you spoke of the feelings that lie in your heart—your passions, your dreams? Have you, Miss Trevor, ever even told the marquess of the depth of your attachment to your hare? Or have you hidden it, fearing his ridicule?
“I thought not,” Woodforde said when Catherine remained silent. “Stand before your mirror, take off your mask, and look at what is there, Miss Trevor. Then look behind Lord Edgecombe’s mask and see if the two of you suit as well as you have deceived yourself you shall.”
“I must own myself surprised that you accuse me of being dishonest with Lord Edgecombe regarding myself on the basis of failing to share my hopes and dreams,” Catherine retorted, hurt and striking out with the intention of inflicting hurt herself. “When have you spoken of yours, Lord Woodforde, despite your many offers to me?”
“In this very room, not so long ago, if you will recall, Miss Trevor,” Lord Woodforde answered evenly, his eyes holding Catherine’s in a steady gaze. “Did it make so little impression upon you? And had you behaved with more correctness but yesterday afternoon, you might have heard more. However, you have made it clear enough you have no desire to hear the honest speaking of a friend’s heart.
“Now, if you will pardon me, Miss Trevor, I have correspondence to finish. Thomas will show you out,” he said, tugging the bell pull.
Without another word, Catherine rose and quit the room, managing with great effort to keep the tears from falling until she was out of Woodforde Park and on the road home.
Chapter Nine
Angered and devastated by Lord Woodforde’s accusations, Catherine hastened upstairs upon returning to Rosemont and, controlling her countenance with difficulty, sent Flora off on an errand. Safe from observation, Catherine gave in to her tears, weeping without restraint. Never before had Lord Woodforde spoken so harshly to her, and she feared the rift between them might now be too deep to bridge. Did it ordain the end of their friendship, after all these years?
As her body shook with sobs, Catherine reviewed the disastrous confrontation with Lord Woodforde in her mind. Could there have been any truth in his accusations? Had she pretended to be what she was not to attract Lord Edgecombe’s interest? Had she hidden aspects of herself that she feared Edgecombe might dislike?
She had to admit she had. Certainly she had hidden her fondness for William, as Woodforde had charged. She had also hidden her dislike of cards as a regular form of entertainment, and had certainly tried to present herself in ways Lord Edgecombe would find appealing. Yet still she did not feel she had done anything out of the ordinary, for as she had argued with Lord Woodforde long ago, one naturally wished to appear well to any person one liked and admired. It was a normal desire. She could not see that she had done anything reprehensible. Sighing, Catherine dried her tears and prepared to go downstairs and face her family and their plans for her betrothal dinner.
The day of Catherine’s betrothal dinner arrived. It was now nearing mid-October, and the changing season was reflected both in the heavier and darker apparel of the guests and in the harvest theme of the centerpiece on the dining table. Catherine herself had selected a gown of russet silk, trimmed in blonde lace, and Lord Edgecombe, when he arrived, was clad in a fine suit of dark green, the coat embroidered in gold at the cuffs and around the buttonholes. The wrists of his shirtsleeves were edged in fine lace, as was the jabot beneath his stock, and his lightly powdered hair was tied at the back with a silk ribbon. Catherine knew she and Lord Edgecombe looked exceedingly well together, and felt a moment of pride.
When all the guests had taken their seats around the large mahogany Chippendale table, Catherine’s father, looking every i
nch the viscount in his fine embroidered coat, his linen and silk stockings pristinely white, rose from the table. After a graceful bow to the company, he began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors all, we have gathered for a special occasion, that occasion that both thrills and strikes dread to the heart of any loving father: the announcement of the betrothal of a beloved daughter. My daughter has this week chosen to give her happiness into the keeping of the Marquess of Edgecombe.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my daughter, Miss Trevor, and the gentleman she has chosen to be her husband, the Marquess of Edgecombe.”
The guests repeated the toast and the dinner commenced. Catherine herself ate little of the two main courses, finding herself too often addressed in congratulation, and also the recipient of many good-natured bawdy comments, especially as the dinner progressed and the guests had downed much of the fine vintages from Lord Trevor’s cellar. Catherine was relieved when the dessert course, a huge model of Rosemont made of sugar and surrounded by individual rose-shaped sweetmeats, was set on the table, knowing the women would soon withdraw and she would have a space in which to recover her composure.
But once seated in the drawing room congratulations continued, most of the women making appoint of approaching Catherine and wishing her well. Miss Stillington-Fyfe was one of the first, whispering, “I did tell you the marquess must find you of interest when he arrived. I am so very pleased. I wish you much happiness.”
Catherine thanked Miss Stillington-Fyfe for her good wishes, pleased to note that the young woman was again looking quite well in a pastel gown, the softness of her toilette enhancing the quiet gentleness of her disposition.
Miss Ellsworth, always correct and courteous, stopped with her mother, Lady Ellsworth, to render her good wishes before they sat down for a rubber of whist. Despite the obvious sincerity of their congratulations, Catherine could not help but feel some discomfort in the presence of any members of the Ellsworth family, being quite aware both that Mr. Ellsworth had nursed hopes of attaching her interest himself, and that Miss Louisa Ellsworth had wished to bring Lord Edgecombe to an offer. Louisa herself did not come to speak to Catherine until just before the gentleman entered the room nearly an hour later.
“I must congratulate you, Miss Trevor,” Louisa said softly, after first making certain no one was within hearing. “It appears even an aged maiden many have hopes of marriage if she has attractions enough in her possessions. But I myself would prefer to have an offer made for my person rather than my possession of an unusual rose, rare though it might be.”
“One must admire your resolution,” Catherine replied, hurt by the slighting words despite her knowledge of the disappointment that must have prompted them, “given that it may condemn you to a life as a single woman.”
The entry of the gentlemen prevented further private conversation, and Louisa moved to sit near a young gentleman friend of her brother’s. Lord Edgecombe joined Catherine, and for the rest of the evening the two good-naturedly fended off risqué advice that became more and more explicit as the night progressed. Yet when the guests had finally departed and Catherine lay exhausted in her bed, awaiting sleep, the evening seemed to have been somehow incomplete, for Lord Woodforde had not been among those present.
After the formal announcement of their betrothal, Lord Edgecombe established the custom of coming to dine at Rosemont on alternate afternoons. Although his company was always charmingly correct and pleasant, Catherine could not help notice that it was her brother and sister-in-law who appeared to enjoy the marquess’ presence the most. John talked endlessly of shooting and hounds, and Judith delighted in learning of Lord Edgecombe many collections and his Leicestershire estate, Edgecombe Place.
For her part, Catherine wondered at the marquess’ lack of physical affection. Although he had replied to bawdy suggestions with equally bawdy replies at their betrothal dinner, he had so far failed to display the physical affection and desire toward her that he had on the night of the masquerade. Perhaps, Catherine told herself, he had had a good deal to drink the night of the masked ball. And certainly it was true that behavior at a masquerade often went beyond the normal strictures of conduct observed at other times. Still, there were moments she almost felt Louisa’s barb might have had a sting of truth. She had not forgotten the gleam in the marquess’ eye when he had seen her rose. Had he become betrothed to her just to get the rose? She knew avid collectors were willing to go to extraordinary lengths to obtain their desires.
Lord Edgecombe’s demeanor toward herself was not the only thing that preyed upon Catherine’s mind. She had yet to see Woodforde since that day he had asked her to leave his presence at Woodforde Park: he no longer stopped to speak to her father of a morning, came no more to dinners at Rosemont, and had ceased to invite the Trevor’s to dine at Woodforde Park. It sorrowed Catherine greatly to think her friendship with her neighbor at an end, nor could she entirely believe that it was. Surely one day she must again hear his step in the hall, or see him ride his mount down the graveled drive! But days passed without any such occurrences, and oddly, neither her father nor her aunt seemed to think Woodforde’s absence strange.
One week after Catherine’s betrothal dinner to the Marquess of Edgecombe, Mr. and Mrs. Stillington-Fyfe announced the engagement of their daughter Miss Stillington-Fyfe to Mr. Ellsworth. A ball was planned to celebrate the occasion.
“It seems an odd match, aunt,” Catherine said to Lady Manning as their carriage neared the Stillington-Fyfe’s estate. “Miss Stillington-Fyfe is an excessively shy young woman, and Mr. Ellsworth is devoted to nothing so much as his dress.”
“I think it a good match,” Lady Manning said unexpectedly, “although I do feel he made the offer as a second choice after hearing of your betrothal to Lord Edgecombe. Mr. Ellsworth has a good heart beneath his fopperies, and Miss Stillington-Fyfe will admire and respect her husband.”
“Perhaps you have the right of it,” Catherine responded dubiously. “I shall hope that you do. Certainly Miss Stillington-Fyfe will make a better wife to him than I would have.”
“No doubt,” Lady Manning agreed. “And perhaps we shall see yet another betrothal this autumn. I heard from Lady Ellsworth that Lord Woodforde escorted Miss Louisa Ellsworth to a dinner recently and that they have gone riding together.”
Catherine made no response to her aunt’s words, but was surprised at the depth of dismay she felt at the news. Perhaps Lady Ellsworth had exaggerated the connection between her daughter and Lord Woodforde to Lady Manning because she felt Catherine had stolen Lord Edgecombe from her daughter. Or perhaps it was true, the voice of reason insisted as Catherine remembered Lord Woodforde and Miss Louisa standing close together as they sang their duet at his dinner. Catherine remained unusually silent for the rest of the way to the Stillington-Fyfe estate.
The carriage door was opened by waiting servants when they arrived, and Lady Manning and Catherine descended and walked up the wide flight of steps leading to the entrance hall. Judith had chosen to stay at home, claiming ill health and demanding her husband remain with her, although Catherine suspected it was a ploy to punish John for his refusal to return to London while the hunting remained so good here in the country.
Once in the ballroom, Catherine and Lady Manning laid claim to two lyre-backed chairs near Squire Turner and Sarah. Lord Edgecombe arrived with the Ellsworths not long afterwards and came immediately to join them.
“My dear, you are in excellent looks tonight,” he proclaimed to Catherine after making his bows, adding, “As are you, Lady Manning. Few gentlemen present may claim to have companions of such attraction.
“I believe the lawyers are closer to reaching an agreement on the settlements,” he added to Catherine in a lower voice as he moved a chair next to hers and sat. “Soon you must order your bridal clothes, and we shall discuss what alterations, if any, you think you might wish to have made to Edgecombe Place, although I doubt you will find much fault
with my taste, whether in the house or grounds. I am certain you will find my gardens to be a worthy home for your prized rose.”
Catherine was surprised to feel only mild interest at the thought of redecorating Edgecombe’s home, and wondered at it since it was to be her home for the rest of her life, barring whatever time they would spend in London. Strangely, Catherine realized, despite the ball and Lord Edgecombe’s frequent presence at Rosemont, her betrothal to the marquess did not seem quite real.
“It is generous of you to offer to make alterations for my convenience,” she replied, “but I am certain few can be required.”
“My steward has written to Vigee-Lebrun,” he added, “and negotiations are underway for her to travel to Edgecombe Place and paint your portrait. I think I shall commission one of yourself alone, and one of us together.”
“I shall look forward to it,” Catherine replied, “It is excessively generous of you.”
“Only the finest is acceptable for the woman who is to be my wife,” Lord Edgecombe replied matter-of-factly.
“Shall we join those upon the floor?” he added as the musicians began to play and guests took their places for a cotillion.
After dancing the cotillion and a vigorous country set, Catherine was more than agreeable when Lord Edgecombe suggested they get a breath of fresh air. A wide stone terrace ran the width of the Stillington-Fyfe house, and they strolled companionably along to its end where moonlight bathed an expanse of lawn in which a small lake glimmered. Lord Edgecombe pulled Catherine closer to his side as they stood enjoying the scene, and she felt the warmth of his body against hers, protecting her from the autumn chill.
“We have had little time alone,” he said, turning to face Catherine. “Now we are betrothed I think we might be allowed a taste of the pleasures to come.” Taking her chin in his hand, he tilted her face up to his and kissed her lips.