by Liz Carlyle
“Yes, perfectly natural,” answered Helene smoothly, hiding her amazement. Catherine seemed wholly accepting of both her and her notorious mother. Indeed, she had wanted Maman as her own? This was a light in which Helene had never viewed her mother.
“Cat,” said Cam in a gently warning tone, “perhaps we should not rehash old memories?”
His sister looked affronted. “Why should we not? Mrs. Middleton was a part of Papa’s life for rather a long time. And you must admit, Cam, that Papa was a little more—oh, I don’t know—more settled when she was here.”
“Not a day in Father’s life passed by in which the word settled might be accurately applied to him,” answered Cam sardonically. “Shall we go into the parlor, ladies? Milford will bring us a spot of tea or a glass of cider if you will have it.”
Helene stepped away from the trio. “Thank you, but I should see Ariane upstairs now.”
“Oh, pish!” said Catherine, turning around to look at Cam and Ariane. “You have obviously been at their mercy all day, Miss de Severs. I can tell you that this pair will make a slave of you, should you be fool enough to permit it. Martha—see, there she is now—Martha will take Ariane up. You must have some tea. You must rest.”
As Martha swept down the stairs to take up her charge, Cam clasped his hands behind his back and gave a mocking little bow to Helene. A sly smile seemed to lurk in his eyes. “There you have it, Miss de Severs! Her Royal Highness, Queen Catherine, has spoken.”
Helene glanced back and forth between them uncertainly. “But I should not wish—”
“Perhaps not!” he smoothly interjected. “Nonetheless, you must. Now, resign yourself to tea, before my Lady Presumption shouts ‘off with your head!’, or orders you to scrape her miry boots. I vow, I hardly know which would be the worse.”
A boyish grin flashed across his face as he jumped neatly aside to avoid his sister’s flashing elbow. “And Cat!” he cried, turning to face her as if recollecting something important. “I have a task for you.”
“Of what sort?” she asked warily.
“A simple matter, really. Milford has warned me, in the sternest, most butlerly terms, that the parlor draperies offend his sensibilities. I’ve left out the fabric samples the draper sent. Choose what you like.”
With a groan of laughter, Catherine patted her brother lightly on the cheek. “I think not, Cam! That’s a task best left to Joan. Or better yet, Milford may choose it himself. Lud, I can assure you I have no eye for fripperies.”
“Don’t be foolish, Cat.” Cam looked suddenly ill at ease. “It is just fabric. No more than a half-dozen scraps. Anyone can choose between—”
“Lord Treyhern?” Milford’s rather haunting voice echoed through the vast hall behind them and Cam spun smoothly about. In the rectangle of afternoon sunlight that spilt through the still open door, the black-garbed, bloodless butler seemed literally to flutter in the wind which blew in from the front lawns.
“Yes, what is it, Milford?”
“It’s Mr. Kelly, my lord. He’s just come up from London not five minutes past. I’ve put him in your study. Mr. Brightsmith has sent some things for your signature. And there is a messenger from Devon, too. I think you’d best make haste.”
Catherine turned her back on Milford and her brother. “Well, that’s that! Come along, Miss de Severs,” she said, taking Helene’s arm. “We may as well leave Cam to his business. You shall have tea with me instead. You must tell me about your work with Ariane. And I shall tell you all the village gossip!”
As Helene murmured her reluctant acquiescence, Catherine turned back to peck her brother’s cheek, then whirled about in her worn gray habit to stride toward the parlor. Then abruptly, she halted, and spun back again.
“Oh, Cam? I also came, you know, to discuss the dinner party...?”
“Dinner?” His hands still clasped behind his back, Cam paused, his brow furrowed.
Catherine tapped her toe impatiently. “Oh, Cam! You have not forgotten my birthday? You promised to give my dinner party here at Chalcote this year.”
“Ah!” said Cam, obviously mystified. “Indeed! Did you tell Mrs. Naffles?”
“Of course!”
“Then all will be in readiness, I am sure,” he answered vaguely.
“But have you sent the cards?” retorted Catherine.
“Cards?” Cam cast an uneasy glance at Milford.
“A fortnight past, my lord,” answered the butler.
An expression of relief passed over Cam’s face. “There, you see! I have taken care of it.”
This sister looked unconvinced. “Well, to whom did you send them?”
Cam hesitated. “Why, to whomever was on your list. Aunt Belmont, I collect. And, er ... Joan, of course. The rector and his sister ...”
“And ...?” Catherine’s tone was impatient.
“The curate,” whispered Milford audibly.
“Ah!” said Cam. “And that curate ... the quiet fellow. What the devil’s his name?”
“Rhoades,” intoned the butler. “The Reverend Mr. Rhoades.”
“Exactly so! Rhoades. A small group, in keeping with our mourning.”
Silently mouthing the names, Catherine began to count on her long fingers. “Well, with Bentley and Will, that shall give us but nine. Oh, Cam! We shall have an odd number at the table.” Her pale brow furrowed in thought. “Well, indeed! What a muttonhead I am, Miss de Severs! You must come as well, and not just to make up our number.”
Helene demurred politely. “But Lady Catherine—”
“Just Catherine. Or Cat.”
Helene smiled. “Catherine, then. You are exceedingly kind, but I fancy—”
“Well, I fancy you shall come,” Catherine cut her off. “And it is my birthday. Oh, do say you will,” she wheedled, suddenly sounding very much like her younger brother. “Why, I would have put you on my list from the very first, but I did not know you’d arrived!”
As Cam departed with Milford, Helene followed Catherine into the parlor. With the casual grace of one who has lived in a home all of her life—and still accounts it so—Catherine yanked the bell-pull and sent for tea. Apparently, the matter of the birthday dinner was settled as far as Cam’s sister was concerned.
Despite the sunny weather, the old stone walls of Chalcote were slow to warm, and Milford had ordered a fire to be laid. The women settled into chairs on either side of the hearth. Catherine pulled off her shabby hat and tossed it onto an adjacent table.
It was obvious that Cam’s sister was curious about her, and Helene got the distinct impression that Catherine was the sort of woman who bluntly spoke her mind. As if reading Helene’s thoughts, Catherine drew a deep breath. “Well!” she said. “Now you must tell me what you have done with yourself, Helene, since last we saw one another. I collect that you went away to school?” She smiled expectantly.
“Yes, I was three years in Switzerland,” replied Helene. She prayed that Catherine knew nothing of her removal from Chalcote. “And afterward, I went to Vienna to teach.”
Unexpectedly, Catherine gave her a wry smile. “It must have been lovely to ... to get away from Chalcote,” said Cam’s sister pensively. “I have almost no education at all. The schooling of females—nor of males either, come to that—was not a priority for Papa.”
Helene was not surprised to hear it. “But you had a governess, did you not?”
Yet as soon as she spoke the words, Helene knew the answer to that tactless question. To the best of her recollection, she had never seen a governess at Chalcote. And no tutor for Cam, other than the local rector, who hadn’t darkened the door with any frequency. There had been no one but an ill-tempered nurse, and she had had her hands full chasing after Bentley, who’d been but a toddler.
“No.” Catherine shook her head. “No, Papa did not believe in educating women. I was sent to my Aunt Belmont’s sometimes, to study with my cousin Joan. But she’s four years my junior.”
Helene felt a fleeting sen
se of guilt. Had her mother’s bargain with Randolph Rutledge cheated his own children out of a proper education? On a rational level, she knew the answer. Her tuition might have caused Randolph’s vintner and haberdasher some inconvenience. But his children would have probably suffered regardless. “Catherine, I am sorry,” said Helene quietly.
Catherine blithely tossed her hand. “Oh, it was no great loss, for I can assure you I never harbored any academic inclinations.” She smiled, and the act lit up her face, emphasizing her wholesome, fresh-faced beauty, and reminding Helene yet again of Bentley.
“Look!” said Catherine, suddenly darting out of her chair and crossing the room to take up a little pile of cloth. “These must be the draper’s samples. I suppose I must choose something.” Snagging her lip between her teeth, Catherine settled back into her chair and spread the fabric across the table between them.
It was time to change the subject. For all her sunny demeanor, Catherine was clearly hurt by the recollection of her father’s selfishness, and it did not take a student of human nature to discern it.
Collegially, Helene leaned forward to run her finger across one of the swatches. “They are all quite lovely, Catherine. Which will you choose?”
Catherine’s wide brown eyes darted uncertainly from one swatch to the next. “Well, it matters little enough,” she said dryly, “for Joan will be sure to renounce my taste by making another choice altogether!” She gave a little laugh, devoid of any bitterness. “And do you know, Helene, I daresay she’d be the wiser for it! But tell me, which do you fancy?”
Joan would choose? It was the second such comment Catherine had made. Deliberately stalling for time, Helene took the fabric samples into her lap and spread them one by one across her skirts. What did Joan Belmont have to do with Chalcote? A heavy, cold sensation pressed down upon Helene’s heart as she wracked her brain.
She was vaguely aware of the existence of Cam’s cousin. Joan was the young daughter of his maternal aunt. Indeed, the family lived nearby. With a hand that trembled slightly, Helene picked up the sample nearest her left knee, a heavy ivory damask overlaid with wide bands of yellow, alternated with red pinstripes.
“Why I ... I think there is no doubt,” Helene finally said, her voice less than steady. “It ought be this one. That is to say, if he means to keep this carpet. If he does, then nothing else shall perfectly match, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, just so, ma’am!” intoned a deep, melancholy voice just behind her.
Helene gave a little squeak of surprise, and jerked about in her chair. The remaining samples went slithering onto the rug just as Milford loomed up beside her. How the man had silently slipped through a closed door with a heavy tea tray was beyond her comprehension.
“Put the tray here, Milford,” said Catherine quickly, her nerves obviously unaffected. She patted the low table between them.
Smoothly, the butler set down the tray, then knelt beside Helene’s chair to gather up the fabric samples, handing them up to her one by one.
“Forgive my impertinence, ma’am,” he said, handing up the last swatch, “but your taste is faultless. Indeed, I endeavored to explain to his lordship that the red pinstripe was required with these Turkish carpets ... but alas, he could not understand.”
“Am I to believe he bothered to voice an opinion?” asked Catherine laughingly as she leaned forward to pour. “Pray do not tell me, Milford, that he chose that dreadful shade of orange!” She cast her eyes toward a particularly hideous piece nearest her elbow.
Gloomily, the butler shook his head. “No, my lady. I fear that Lord Treyhern’s view was not quite that strongly held. His lordship spread them out, took one glance, then muttered something about being needed in the stables.”
Helene, however, barely took in the friendly banter between the butler and Catherine, for she was still trying to make sense of Catherine’s remarks about Joan Belmont. As Milford departed, she could not suppress her curiosity. “I am afraid I have not the pleasure of your young cousin’s acquaintance, Catherine. Is Miss Belmont often at Chalcote?”
Catherine passed a teacup across the table to Helene. “Not as often as her mother might wish, to be sure!” She flashed her mischievous grin. “But there—! I daresay I am meddling where I have no business.”
“Meddling?”
Cam’s sister scowled, and dropped her hands into her lap in a rather frustrated gesture. “Oh, I am being unfair, I confess it! But I have just come from my aunt’s, and have had quite enough of her subtle hints. If and when my brother chooses to announce his betrothal, it will be all of his own doing, and none of mine, to be sure.”
As Helene’s hands clutched her tea, she felt her fingers go numb, then cold. Abruptly, she set the saucer down with an awkward clatter. “Do I take it, then, that your brother has formed an ... an attachment?”
Her high brow creased thoughtfully, Cam’s sister shook her head. “No, I fancy there is little attachment on my brother’s part, but... there is a very strong expectation. A match between Cam and a Belmont cousin was my late mother’s wish, one her sister has fervently resurrected.” Delicately, Catherine selected a cucumber sandwich from the silver tray. “And I must say,” she mused, absently studying the morsel, “Cam has thus far seemed amenable to the scheme.”
“Oh?” asked Helene weakly. “Then Miss Belmont must be all that one could wish for in a wife.”
Catherine nodded vaguely and swallowed a nibble of her sandwich. “Oh, I suppose. She’s pretty, of course, and very well brought up. Her late father was descended from noble blood on both sides, a circumstance of which my aunt is ever fond of reminding us. And I daresay my brother does need a wife, for he has no heir save Bentley, who has no interest in estate matters. Moreover, Aunt Belmont is forever warning Cam not to repeat the mistake of what she so haughtily calls ‘marrying beneath his station’!”
“Beneath his ... station?”
“Oh, indeed,” said Cam’s sister. “Joan was still in the schoolroom, you see, when Cam found it—well, necessary to marry the first time. Cassandra’s family was in trade, but exceedingly rich. At the time, Aunt Belmont’s nose was only slightly out of joint over the match, for Cam wasn’t much of a catch then.” Catherine shrugged equivocally. “We were all drowning in the River Tick, you understand. There was no guarantee of a title, and Papa was always embarrassing us with one scandal or another.”
“But now things are different.”
“Ah, indeed they are!” Catherine set down her cup with a clatter and leaned across the table. “Now that Cam is both rich and ennobled, Aunt Belmont has discovered an enthusiasm for the match. Suddenly, it is her dear sister’s dying wish, and all that rot. She cautions us that our family can ill afford another scandal—or another ignoble marriage.”
“And your brother believes her to be sincere?”
“Lord, no!” Catherine giggled, then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But out of a strong sense of duty, Cam does listen. And his first marriage—well, it was not a good match. Though for all Aunt’s dire warnings, the mésalliance had nothing to do with the fact that Cassandra’s father was in trade.”
Helene tried to keep her voice from quaking. “But I collect that your cousin is still quite young.”
“Joan is exactly Bentley’s age, and out of the schoolroom these last six months or better. She is to make her debut in town this season. If Cam has not announced the betrothal. My aunt made that much plain today.”
“Oh,” was Helene’s only response.
Pensively, Cam’s sister sipped at her tea, letting her eyes settle on a portrait over the mantel. “I find it all rather ironic, to be perfectly honest.”
“Indeed?” answered Helene numbly. “In what way?”
“Over the past year, anxiety over Papa’s deportment kept Aunt Belmont from pressing too hard for the match. But now that he has turned up his toes, our year of mourning precludes a wedding. My brother could get away with announcing the betrothal in few months
, I suppose ... but he cannot marry until we put off our black.” She let her eyes drift from the mantel to the fire. “Yes, Joan is pretty enough, I vow,” she mused. “But I wonder Cam does not welcome the delay.”
“You do not know his feelings in this regard?”
Catherine shook her head, and seemed to think nothing of Helene’s curiosity. “My brother keeps his own counsel, Helene. He always has done. But then, the two of you have long been acquainted, so I expect you knew that.”
“Yes,” said Helene softly, blindly staring over Catherine’s shoulder and through the window. An inexplicable well of bitterness almost choked her. “Yes, he is a very private man.”
“Forgive me, Helene. You must be bored to tears by our family gossip.”
“No, not ... not at all.”
“It is just that Cam and I—well, we have always been so close. With our mother gone, and Bentley so much younger ... at times, it has been just the two of us. Or so it seemed. He has always taken care of me. And I him, as best I could. We are inordinately attached, I suppose.”
“I envy you that, Catherine,” Helene softly replied. “I was an only child, and so often I longed for a sister or a brother.”
Catherine nodded. “Indeed. That is one thing in favor of Cam wedding Joan. I am gravely concerned about Ariane, and another child would be a comfort to her, I do not doubt.”
Helene wanted to suggest that that might depend upon the stepmother, but she bit back the words. It was none of her concern. Miss Belmont would undoubtedly make the perfect wife for a man of Cam’s stature.
Helene fought a second wave of despair. Surely Miss Belmont would love and protect Ariane as if she were her own? The little girl would be both her cousin and stepdaughter. “Yes,” Helene agreed at last. “Moreover, I am sure Ariane would benefit from a stepmother. I daresay she feels the loss of her own mother very deeply.”