by Lucy Muir
The marquess’ lips felt cool and firm, and although a shiver went up Catherine’s spine as he pressed closer to her, she did not feel the warm melting sensation she had when he kissed her at the masquerade. Still she allowed the kiss, thinking her previous sensations must return. His kiss became more demanding, and he pulled her body close that she might feel the hardness of his own beneath hers. Her lips parted in a gasp, and his tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting of salt and claret. Surprised and not sure she liked this invasion, Catherine tried to pull back, but the marquess caught the back of her head with his right hand and held it as his tongue continued to explore her mouth.
This was very unlike the first kiss! Catherine pulled tried to pull away again and finally shoved against his chest with all her strength. “Please, Lord Edgecombe, I beg you will cease,” she protested.
“I see you have much to learn,” Edgecombe said, releasing her.
Catherine, relieved to be free of his arms, stepped back and turned to face the marquess, wondering and not a little uneasy to see this new aspect of his character. For a moment they stood in silence, staring into each other’s eyes, each searching for something they could not find.
“I am pleased to find you innocent,” the marquess commented at last, “but you are now betrothed: you must not resist my embraces. There is nothing to fear. I assure you that you will learn to find much pleasure in our times together,” he promised Catherine, taking her arm and walking back down the terrace.
Once more in the ballroom Lord Edgecombe was again his usual impeccably mannered self, but Catherine was preoccupied for the remainder of the evening. It had been an unsettling encounter. No countrywoman had any lack of knowledge about what passed between a male and a female or failed to know what duties were performed in the marriage bed, and she had to admit to herself she had wondered often why he had not kissed her or shown her more physical affection since they had become betrothed. But…this night had been different somehow from the night at the masquerade. Catherine did not understand why, when he had kissed her before, she had wanted to melt into him, but now when he kissed her she wished to repulse his advances. Was it simply fear of where she sensed his caresses could lead, or was there a deeper reason?
For the remainder of the week Catherine went about in a state of increasing confusion as the business of the betrothal proceeded. Settlements were agreed upon and signed. Documents were gotten into order that they might soon have the banns begun to be said. But Catherine did not feel the happiness and anticipation she had expected to feel. What was wrong? Was it the difference between the excitement of what was to come and what was achieved? Was she so shallow a person that once the thrill of the chase was over she no longer wanted her quarry? For quarry she had to acknowledge Lord Edgecombe had been. Until the night of the Stillington-Fyfe’s ball. That night there had been a subtle shift and she sensed she had become the quarry.
The Marquess of Edgecombe continued to dine at Rosemont every alternate day, and Catherine could never fault his manner during those visits, for he was unfailingly courteous and charming to Lord Trevor, Mr. and Mrs. Trevor, Lady Manning, and herself. But, Catherine sighed to herself as she pondered her situation early one October morning; there was no warmth behind the courtesy. Lord Edgecombe’s manner betrayed nothing of his inner self. The only occasions upon which he revealed warmth to Catherine were when he shared some unusual yet beautiful trinket he had found. At those times his pleasure in the new object moved him nearest true warmth of manner. Never again after that night at the Stillington-Fyfe’s had he attempted to kiss her, and, contrarily, that also disturbed Catherine. If only he would kiss her once more with the feeling he had shown on the night of the masquerade!
Catherine took to going for long solitary rides alone on Damask, often ending her rides on the top of a rise from where she could see Woodforde Park, but she never rode down to call. She greatly missed Lord Woodforde’s friendship, and admitted to herself that until she no longer had it, she had not appreciated how comfortable it had been to have an ear to share her delight in new interests such as her pet hare or to listen to her trials, even those as insignificant as her difficulties with her sister-in-law. Mrs. Turner remained her friend of course, but Sarah was farther away and had many demands upon her time. She would always help Catherine, but Squire Turner and her own family must come first.
Still, Catherine thought, it was to Moreton Manor she would direct Damask this morning. Even should Sarah prove to be busy with her own concerns, at least she would have the pleasure of the ride through the woods, which were just beginning to reach their full color with the deepening night chill.
Fortunately, Sarah proved to be at leisure that morning, for Squire Turner had ridden on a hunt and Lady Ashe had taken her grandchildren for a walk.
“Catherine,” Sarah commented worriedly after they greeted each other with affection, “you appear to have lost your appetite. I believe you are much thinner than you were; your riding habit hangs upon your figure.
“Tell me,” she ordered, taking Catherine’s hands in hers and searching her face. “Are you not happy with your betrothal? Is there something amiss?”
“I have nothing to complain of,” Catherine evaded. “Lord Edgecombe is all courtesy and consults me frequently on any alterations I wish made to his estate before I take residence there.”
“I enquired if you were happy.”
“In truth Sarah, I am not,” Catherine confessed, “but I do not know why.”
“Perhaps it is but the realization you will be soon leaving the country in which you have lived all your life,” Sarah suggested. “It must be a difficult break to leave all one has known and go where one knows no one and all is new and strange.”
“Perhaps that is it,” Catherine agreed. “Yet, should I not be happy to make such a sacrifice for the man who is to be my husband?”
“Do not demand too much of yourself,” Mrs. Turner advised her friend. “Allow for the natural feelings of loss you must have.
“Now,” she said briskly, rising and holding out her hand to Catherine, “we shall walk to Mrs. Spencer’s establishment and you shall order a new riding habit.”
Catherine thought over what her friend had advised as she rode slowly home later that morning. Could her lack of happiness in fact be no more than the natural feelings one would have at leaving all that was familiar? Possibly, she had to allow. And perhaps Lord Edgecombe’s seeming distance had been because he sensed something lacking in her response. She must make a greater effort to respond to his overtures regarding preparing his estate for her arrival. It was truly generous of him to offer to alter his home to please her, and she had shown neither proper interest nor gratitude, she knew.
Still thoughtful, Catherine dismounted at Rosemont. As the groom led Damask to the stables, Catherine started up the front steps. Suddenly the doors flew open and the housekeeper came out, approaching Catherine in great agitation.
“Miss Trevor, oh Miss Trevor,” the housekeeper cried, wringing her hands, “there has been an accident with your hare. That imp of Satan, begging your pardon miss, but that is what he is, I do not know how or when he managed to steal them away…” she broke off.
“What is it, Mrs. Porter? Tell me!” Catherine demanded.
“The young Master Trevor, miss. He took the key from my ring, the key to your garden—I am sure I cannot think when, but he…”
Catherine did not wait to hear any more. Fearing the worst, she lifted her riding skirts and ran as fast as possible to the walled garden and threw open the unlocked door. Trampled flowers and vegetables registered as her eyes searched frantically for William. Finally she spotted him in the corner of the garden, cowering behind a tall foxglove, trembling, but alive.
Mrs. Porter came panting into garden to finish her tale. “The young master he tried to catch the hare and got hold of his leg and pulled. James passed by the door on his way from an errand for his lordship, and discovered the young master, but I f
ear the damage was done, for your hare’s leg is broken, Miss Trevor, I am sad to say.
“I walloped the young master across his backside as I am sure you will hear,” Mrs. Porter continued, but I do not care if I lose my place for it, indeed I do not,” she finished, “for it was a harmless creature he has hurt, and for no reason but the young master’s thwarted will.”
Catherine approached William slowly and carefully lest she frighten him further, trying to see what harm had been done. Her heart sank within as she saw that indeed one hind leg dragged limply. Tears coursing down her face, she backed away from the hare and stood. What would she do? A broken limb! There was usually but one end for an animal with a broken leg, but she could not, would not, allow William to die of a broken leg—not after saving him from even more grievous injuries! But what could she do to aid him? Then she knew. She must see Lord Woodforde—he would know how to save her hare. Their recent coolness did not signify, nor the fact she had not spoken to him for several weeks; Woodforde would help despite all, Catherine knew that to the core of her soul. She must go to him at once.
“Mrs. Porter, leave James to guard this garden and the hare while I am gone. I shall return soon with help.”
“Where shall I tell her ladyship you are going should she enquire, miss?”
“To Woodforde Park. Lord Woodforde will know what must be done to save William,” Catherine called over her shoulder as she hastened from the garden.
Ordering the fastest horse in the stables to be saddled, Catherine mounted with the groom’s help and set off for Woodforde Park, urging her mount to greater and greater speed. At the steps of Woodforde Park she slid down from the horse, tossing the reins to the groom who came out at her approach, and ran unceremoniously into the house.
“I must see Lord Woodforde,” she demanded of the liveried footman who stood on duty in the entrance hall.
“His lordship is in the small drawing room, Miss Trevor,” the footman replied, pretending not to notice Catherine’s agitated state.
Without waiting for the footman to precede her and announce her arrival, Catherine ran past him and up the stairs to the drawing room.
Woodforde started up from his chair at Catherine’s precipitate appearance. “Good God, what is it?” he asked, taking in her disheveled appearance. “Is it Lord Trevor or Lady Manning?”
“No, it is William,” Catherine gasped. “My nephew tried to catch him by his leg and broke it; he is alive but in pain and so frightened, I do not know what to do.”
“I shall return with you immediately,” Woodforde said, going to the door and instructing the footman to order his horse saddled.
Catherine and Lord Woodforde wasted no breath on additional words, but rode to Rosemont in silence, concentrating on making their best speed. Once they arrived they hurried to the garden, where James stood faithfully on guard. Woodforde dropped to his knees and slowly crept to the hare, who still cowered, flanks quivering with fear, his eyes bulging in his head.
“Oh I cannot bear to lose him,” Catherine exclaimed, tears running down her face anew. “He has but just come to accept my presence and be my friend!”
Woodforde made a close inspection of the hare without touching him, and then backed away and stood up.
“Many might say the best thing would be to put him out of his pain, Miss Trevor, but I believe there is another possibility. Wild creatures have great powers of recuperation. If you care for him and keep him from moving about too much, there is a possibility his leg will mend on its own. It may only be dislocated, or it may be broken. I cannot see any place the bone has pierced through the skin, and that is to the good if it is indeed broken, for those breaks that do not go through the skin heal more easily. His leg may not mend as it was, but that will not matter to a hare kept in a walled garden.
“I have almost completed the wooden shelter I promised you I should build. I shall go and order it brought here. We shall place it next to him in the garden corner, and it will give him a place to hide and feel he is safe. For now I think it best if we leave him. Can you lock the door securely? Was the key retrieved from your nephew?”
Catherine glanced at James. “The key was obtained from the young master, your lordship,” James said blandly, but with a look in his eyes that told Catherine the footman had taken advantage of the moment to handle his young master much less carefully than he would ordinarily have done.
“We shall leave you to lock the garden then, James,” Lord Woodforde ordered. “And make certain you keep the key in a very secure place.”
“I shall, your lordship,” James assured him.
Lord Woodforde left for Woodforde Park and Catherine retreated to the drawing room to wait for the wooden shelter to be brought for William. Judith, who sat on the sofa with her arms around her sniveling eldest son, spoke with heat the moment Catherine entered the drawing room.
“I must insist you reprimand Porter severely. She took excessive liberty in chastising my son. She is not his nursemaid.”
“He deserved to be chastised,” Catherine responded coolly. “John had been told he was not allowed in the walled garden and stole a key in order to gain entrance. He knew what he did was wrong. And if I catch him near the garden again I shall wallop him myself.”
“You forget your place, sister,” Judith said frostily. “My husband John is heir here, and young John after him.”
“You forget your place as well, Mrs. Trevor,” Lady Manning spoke from her seat by the drawing room window. “Until the marriage or demise of my brother, the current Viscount Trevor, I am mistress here, and I say the walled garden is forbidden to all your children.”
Huffing, Judith stood and swept from the room, pulling her son close to her skirts.
“John is in trouble,” Marie, who had been listening with wide-eyed interest, proclaimed with satisfaction as she kicked the legs of the chair in which she sat.
“Yes, and you shall be as well if I catch you near my hare,” Catherine informed her niece decisively.
Marie stuck out her tongue at Catherine and ran after her mother and brother.
“What harm has young John caused the poor creature?” Lady Manning asked when they had the drawing room to themselves.
“His leg is most probably either dislocated or broken, but Lord Woodforde has hopes it may heal if the hare is left in peace. He has gone to have the house he was building for William brought at once that it may provide a place William may feel safe.”
Within the hour a servant returned with Woodforde and the box he had been constructing for the hare. Woodforde ordered the servant to put the open-bottomed box on the ground and very carefully and slowly lift it inch by inch until it rested within reach of the frightened hare.
“We do not wish him to take fright at such a large object,” Woodforde explained. “He might try to run and do more damage to his leg.”
Catherine and Woodforde kept their eye on the hare until the box was in place, ready to intervene should William take fright, but, still frozen in fear, the hare remained stationary.
“I think it best we leave now and allow William to recover from his fright,” Woodforde advised. “I removed the bottom slats that would have served to allow his droppings to fall to a box of earth for now, since the shelter will be sitting upon the ground, but I can replace them when needful. For the nonce he needs only a cover under which to feel safe. You should have an additional lock put on both the front and back entrances to the garden and give the keys to James’s keeping.
“I would also suggest,” he added, “that you write to Mr. Cowper and ask if he has any knowledge that might help. He had much experience during his years with his own three hares.”
“That is an excellent thought!” Catherine agreed. “I shall write Mr. Cowper directly.”
“If there is nothing further you require of me, I shall return to Woodforde Park.”
“I shall accompany you to the stables,” Catherine said, leading her neighbor to a side entrance and a g
raveled walk.
When they neared the stables, Catherine stopped in the path, forcing her neighbor to halt as well. “Thank you, Lord Woodforde,” she said simply. “I knew you would help.” She looked Woodforde full in the face, willing her expression to convey the depth of the friendship she felt for him, the gratitude that filled her very soul for his care of herself and the wild hare that had captured her heart. Never again would she allow anything to come in the way of that friendship.
“I would hope you know I shall always endeavor to assist you in any way I am able,” Woodforde responded gravely as the groom brought his horse forward. “Let me know how William does, and do not hesitate to ask me to return if you have more concerns.”
Grateful beyond words, Catherine offered her hand and they shook solemnly, a wordless promise to remain friends passing between them.
That afternoon when Lord Edgecombe arrived for dinner, he came bearing a small parcel which he handed to Catherine.
“I sent to Edgecombe Place for it, Miss Trevor. I wish you to have this from my collection of porcelain. I knew when I met you that you were the person for whom it was intended, although I did not yet know you when I purchased it.”
Trying, despite her worry about William, to act on her resolution to respond to Lord Edgecombe’s overtures with more enthusiasm, Catherine tore the wrappings from the parcel. A small white porcelain casket painted with a cabbage rose on each side lay revealed. Catherine lifted the gold-trimmed hinged lid to reveal four beautifully cut crystal scent bottles nestled inside. “It is exquisite! Thank you, Lord Edgecombe. It was most kind of you.” Catherine handed the porcelain casket to Lady Manning, who also exclaimed over its rare beauty. Judith, who would normally have been the first to demand to see it, sat in cold silence, while her husband tried to distance himself from everyone by hiding behind a sporting magazine.
Lord Edgecombe smiled at Catherine’s appreciation, but the silence of Judith was too unusual to pass unnoticed. “Has aught occurred?” Edgecombe asked in a low voice as he took a chair to Catherine’s left. “I cannot help but notice Mrs. Trevor appears in rather low spirits this afternoon.”