For the second time that day, his black-gloved hands reached for her, but closed on nothing but air.
“I must see you again,” he said.
She swallowed hard, the taste of him still sweet in her mouth. She straightened her shoulders, and told herself to stand firm—both for him, and for herself. “No doubt you will. But this sort of nonsense must cease as of this moment.”
“So you keep saying, Miss Middlebrook. And yet, when I touch you, your body tells another tale.”
She was shocked that he was so indelicate as to mention her body. Even so, his words brought a shiver along her spine. She wondered at herself, that it was a shiver of pleasure.
“That may be, Mr. Waters, but I stand firm. I am for marriage, and you are not, and there is an end on it.”
“Let me woo you.”
“To what end?”
“Let us discover that when we come to it.”
She scoffed, and opened the door for him. “Good night, Mr. Waters.”
“Please, Catherine. At least make this concession. Don’t decide on the Englishman until you have spoken again with me.”
“I think it best if we forget about each other altogether. You must leave me be, Mr. Waters. We must both get on with our lives.”
Though her heart twisted in her chest at her own words, she felt grown-up and sensible saying them. They were what her grandmother would counsel her to say, if she had been there.
Her heart rose in joy at his answer.
“I will do anything for you, Catherine, but not that.”
“Would you indeed?”
“Yes.”
The next words were out of her mouth before she thought. “Then discover for me who Mr. Pridemore is and what he wants with my mother.”
“You would have me spy for you?”
“Yes.”
They faced each other in the dark hallway, and for a moment she thought he might reach for her again. She tensed, though she was not sure if she would flee his arms or run to them. But she did not have the choice, for instead of touching her, he bowed low, his hair falling across his face, so that he had to toss it back over one shoulder as he stood again.
“So be it, Miss Middlebrook. I will do as you ask. But do not marry that Englishman. Not yet.”
“He has not yet asked,” she said.
Alex kissed her, swift and sure, his mouth like a memory of the pleasure she had found with him in her mother’s coach. Then he was gone, off into the London night. She stood staring after him like a fool, until she recalled her good sense long enough to shut the door behind him.
Twenty-two
Catherine tried valiantly to set Mr. Waters out of her mind, and mostly failed. He was a puzzle, an enigma. He seemed very forthright and honorable on one hand, but still refused to court her in truth. All the while, his kisses made her forget her reason.
It was a conundrum.
She slept tolerably well, by some strange miracle, and went downstairs to breakfast. Her mother, fresh as a daisy, peered at her from over her demitasse cup of chocolate. Margaret, completely recovered, sat beside her, eating her weight in breakfast bread and bacon. Catherine did not comment on the expensive fare, but focused on the events of the night before.
“Good morning, Mama. Good morning, Margaret. Are you feeling better, Maggie?”
Her sister blinked at her from behind the giant slice of toast and jam she held aloft. She took a huge bite, chewed, and swallowed before she said, “I am quite well, Catherine. I thank you. How are you?”
“You are not feverish? Not ill at all?”
Margaret, always fair, tilted her head to one side as she thought seriously about her answer. She took another huge, meditative bite of her bread. “Yes,” she said. “I am quite well. I would like a pony, however.”
“We will see about getting you one, my sweet, so that you might ride in the park.”
Catherine glared at her mother but did not contradict her. How they would find the funds to purchase said pony, much less feed it, along with all their other cattle, was something her mother would have no answer for. She pushed aside all thoughts of her mother lying outright the night before simply to leave her alone with Mr. Waters. Mama liked the Highlander, which was well and good, though Lord Farleigh was the only true contender for her hand, if not her heart.
It was best not to think of that inconvenient organ. Nor of the heat in Alexander Waters’s eyes that always raised an answering heat under her skin. Such things must be set aside, and realities like mortgages must take their place.
“Mother, I have an appointment with Mr. Philips at ten of the clock this morning. Will you be joining us?”
“Ten of the clock? Good heavens, my dear, that is a bare hour and a half away. I could not possibly be ready in that space of time. My hair alone takes an hour, once my maid has set it. Then I must select a proper gown. I could not be seen in the City any time before two in the afternoon, at the very earliest.”
Her mother reached for a scone, and covered it with clotted cream.
“But I don’t mean to spoil your fun, my dear. If you wish to speak with tiresome people like our solicitor about trifles, you must go on and do so. Take Jim with you. He will keep you safe.” Her mother’s eyes widened and her expression turned frighteningly innocent. “Unless, of course, you wish to bring Mr. Waters with you. He would make a fine addition to any law office, no matter how temporarily. It would do those pale-faced clerks some good to see a real man in their midst.”
Catherine sighed heavily, feeling the cloak of martyrdom fall on her shoulders. She straightened her back, and shrugged it off. “No, Mama. I will not involve Mr. Waters in our financial peccadilloes. I will take Jim with me, if you are certain you will not go.”
Mrs. Middlebrook waved one hand. “The Waterses will be joining us for tea in the garden this afternoon in any case. Be sure you’re back by three.”
Catherine finished her tea and toast, and stood. She needed to call for the carriage and collect Jim.
“Watch out for pickpockets,” her mother said cheerfully, waving at her with her demitasse cup.
“Excellent advice, Mama. I will endeavor to avoid them.”
Her mother smiled brightly at her, and Catherine got out of the room before she said something she knew she would regret.
* * *
Traffic was quite fierce, but John Coachman made it to Lincoln’s Inn with ten minutes to spare. Catherine was shown at once into Mr. Philips’s office, while Jim waited outside in his under butler’s finest, standing and staring among the clerks. She wondered who would be answering their front door in his absence. Perhaps Margaret would see to it, or her mother herself.
The thought of that was almost enough to cheer her, but the stones in the pit of her stomach reminded her vividly why she was there. She did not hesitate, but did as grandmother might do, and plunged right in.
“Mr. Philips, as you know, I have come to discuss the mortgage my mother took out against our Devon property. I must know, is it a considerable sum?”
Mr. Philips cleared his throat, moving papers about the surface of his desk in an effort not to meet her gaze. She kept her eyes firmly on his face until he gave up and looked at her over the rims of his half spectacles.
“I’m afraid there has been a mistake,” he said.
“A mistake? What do you mean?” Her heart leaped with hope and began to thump in earnest. “There is a mortgage out against our home, as your letter suggested, is there not?”
“Indeed, Miss Middlebrook, indeed. There is a mortgage. I mean to say, there was. It was paid off first thing this morning.”
She felt a moment of silent elation, the joy of being freed from the threat of debtor’s prison before she had ever seen inside its dreaded walls. Then her mind caught up with her heart and started whirling.
“I do not understand, Mr. Philips. My mother and I have no money to pay.”
Her solicitor looked even more aggrieved, and went back to noodling with the papers that covered his desk. He rearranged them twice before he would look at her again.
“There is no question of you or your mother covering the debt,” Mr. Philips said at last. His watery blue eyes peered at her from behind his glasses, and a lock of his graying hair fell across his forehead. “The debt has been discharged, with no cost to you.”
“But that is impossible.”
He smiled for the first time since their interview began. “Indeed, Miss Middlebrook, it is not only possible, but true. In this instance, we must simply thank our stars, and resolve to take out no further mortgages in the future.”
Catherine shuddered to think of her mother doing all of this again. She had only known about the debt for a day, and her heart had suffered under the strain, along with her nerves. She prayed earnestly to God that her mother would never do such a thing again, knowing all the time that she had no way to stop her, if she chose to do so.
Perhaps she would marry well, save the family, and her mother would have no call to take out a mortgage to cover the cost of Margaret’s first Season.
“If the debt is paid, may I ask by whom?”
Mr. Philips grew even more uncomfortable. This time, his papers were not enough to shield him. He rose from his desk and called for tea, which was quickly delivered in a serviceable earthenware pot. She took a cup out of politeness, and let him play mother, as it was his office.
When he handed her the sweetened cup of Assam tea with a splash of milk, she took a perfunctory sip before she asked again. “Really, Mr. Philips, I must know. Who has paid our debt?”
He met her eyes at last. “I fear the donor to your welfare wishes to remain anonymous.”
Catherine felt truly sick. She set her teacup down, and tried to draw breath, but her stays seemed too tight against her ribs. She felt darkness creeping in around the edges of her vision. She ordered herself to buck up and be the man of her family, as she had been since the age of thirteen.
“We cannot accept charity of any kind, especially from an unknown source. Please thank the gentleman in question, but tell him that his money is not needed.”
Mr. Philips opened his hands wide. “I am sorry, Miss Middlebrook, but it is already accomplished. The debt is already paid.”
“Then we must pay it back,” she said, feeling desperate as she grasped at straws.
“Forgive me again, Miss Middlebrook, for being indelicate, but I believe that you know the party in question. Indeed, the gentleman indicated to me that he has a strong interest in your family, and in caring for you and your mother for the rest of your lives.”
She felt the door to her future closing then with one heavy, loud slam. She had not known how much she truly wished to bring Mr. Alexander Waters to the point of making an offer until the moment in which she knew she could never in good conscience or honor accept it.
Only one man knew about their debt, save for the man before her. Lord Farleigh had paid the mortgage, and no doubt would offer for her within the week. And she would have to accept him.
She thought of Alex, and the heat of his gloved hand on her arm, and the other on her waist. She thought of his kisses, of how sweet they were, and of how she would never taste them again.
Tears rose in her throat, and with a great deal of difficulty, she swallowed them down. She had not realized how dearly she valued her choices about her future, as limited as they had been, until the moment when she knew they had been taken away.
The ride home was not as long as the trip to the City had been. Catherine wanted to stare out of her carriage window, but London stared back at her. She closed the leather drape and closed her eyes, willing herself to slip into the oblivion of sleep. Of course, she did not. She thought again and again of the debt that had been paid, wondering all the while how much it had been, and how she would ever be able to begin her married life in good conscience with such a thing hanging over her head.
She had heard of wealthy gentlemen settling large sums on their wives before they wed. Perhaps the debt had not been too much after all. Perhaps the purchase of her future had been at a bargain.
Catherine told herself to stop whining, even in her own mind. Lord Farleigh had made it clear that he wished to help her, and clearly, he had. The fact that she now had no other choice but to marry him was of no matter. She had never truly had any choice. Her time with Alex had simply been a stolen season, a few heated moments that had nothing at all to do with the here and now, or the time to come.
Jim handed her down from the carriage. Instead of going inside, she approached the garden gate, hoping for a little time alone among her flowers before she gave her mother the news that their debt was discharged. She touched her gloved hand to the latch, only to hear her sister shriek with mirth.
She moved quickly into the garden to find Margaret dangling from the window of her bedroom above, clinging to what looked like a hemp rope. The girl swung to and fro along the side of the house, as Mary Elizabeth Waters gave her directions from below.
“You must not make it swing so, Margaret. It is not a toy or a game but something that may well save your life. Come down at once, and let us try again.”
Margaret did as she was bid, and clambered the rest of the way down until her feet rested safe on the grass. Catherine felt her throat close over any words she might have spoken. Her day had been too bizarre already, and it looked to become only more strange as it wore on.
“We came early to tea so that I might show you and your sister the use of this rope ladder. It will save your life if ever your house catches fire.”
When Catherine said nothing, Mary Elizabeth talked on. “You keep it safe under your bed, and when you wake in the night to find your house ablaze, you secure it to the window frame and toss the ladder down to the ground below.”
“Indeed?”
Catherine did not know what else to say. After the morning she had spent, she was simply grateful that she could speak at all.
“Will you try it?”
The look on her friend’s face was so open, her smile so genuine, that Catherine felt her sense of decorum slip away along with the rest of her reality. She had had enough of reality for one day. Let her embrace whimsy then, and take what came.
“Why not?”
Twenty-three
Alex Waters was brought into the Middlebrook house through the front door. Jim did not judge him for having cornered his mistress in the foyer the night before. Alex wondered if the man noticed anything that went on under his nose. That lack of awareness was a rare and wonderful trait to be found in a servant, if it was real.
Jim released him into the back garden as if he were a hound, closing the door behind him. Alex stood, taking in the sweet scent of his angel’s garden. It was three in the afternoon, and the sun was slanting gently to the west, bringing out the deep greens and golds among the grasses and flowers. The fruit trees had finished blooming, and now offered a simple light green in their branches that made him feel strangely welcome. As beautiful as his Highlands were, they were never as green as this.
Still, he felt a pang of homesickness twist in his gut like hunger. Suddenly, he wished himself home by the burn that ran cold whatever the season. He would walk there one day with his angel beside him.
He looked for her then among her kin, but did not find her. Mrs. Angel sat on a blanket beneath a greening tree, the last of its pear blossoms falling onto the lawn around her. She drank tea from a china cup, and seemed to listen with bated breath to the man who sat beside her.
Mr. Josiah Pridemore looked quite at home among the flowers and the ladies, though Alex knew him to be a man of action. A man who had helped conquer the Mughals in India, if such a brave and uncompromising people could ever truly be c
onquered. A man who had given up his place in the army to turn to business, where he now made a great deal of money shipping silks and spices for the East India Company. All this and more he had discovered that day. Only he had failed to acquire the knowledge his angel had sent him for—namely, what Mr. Josiah Pridemore, lately of Mumbai, wanted with Mrs. Olivia Middlebrook. Alex’s contacts in shipping could not tell him that.
Alex continued to peruse the garden, taking in the company from the doorway to the house, where he had not yet been seen. His sister, no doubt abandoned among the Middlebrooks by their brother, was peering up at the house as if she would paint the shutters, calling directions to someone he could not see. He smiled. His sister was a managing baggage, but he loved her. Someday soon, he prayed to a merciful God, she would make some poor blighter a loving—if bossy—wife.
Miss Margaret stared up at the house as well, leaping up and down in excitement as she waved to whoever was doing the painting. Alex stepped out of the shadow of the doorway then, and went to his sister’s side, so that he might see what amused the two girls so greatly.
As he looked up, he saw his angel swinging from a rope ladder along the side of the house.
He saw a pair of shapely calves encased in thin cotton stockings, tied at the knee with cunning pink bows. Her gown was pink, as was her bonnet. Her white cotton gloves seemed to give her some purchase against the harsh fibers of the rope. He thought to look farther up her skirts, and then remembered that he was a gentleman.
“Blessed Mother! Stay where you are, Catherine. I’ll come for you!”
He ran to the rope ladder and caught the end of it, anchoring it against his body so that at least it stopped swaying. She was still twelve feet above the ground, climbing steadily down. She did not heed his voice at all nor the panic in it but continued her descent as calm as you please, until first her calves, now hidden by her gown, and then her hips, were before him. He stepped back then, his hands flexing in an effort not to touch her.
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