Lady Silence

by Blair Bancroft

  “Yes, but she needs your support—”

  “My library is here, Snow. This is where my work is. No one can be more aware of that than yourself.” Katy opened her mouth, closed it again, shoulders hunching in defeat. “I believe we have already retrieved from the shelves all the books I will need.” Damon swept his right arm in an arc, pointing her attention to the chaos surrounding them. There were piles of books on every table and chair, books stacked on the floor around his desk and in towers on each side of the broad mahogany surface. “And did you not send off to London for the others I need not a sennight ago?” Dumbly, Katy nodded.

  “So there you have it. I will go on here in perfectly splendid peace and quiet, bringing you my latest for a fair copy when I visit in Bath—” The colonel broke off, uttering—fortunately only to himself—a very bad word. Katy had pokered up so badly, he might as well have kicked her.

  “You preferred me when I didn’t talk,” she accused. “Is that not so?”

  “I preferred you when I didn’t know you were a liar and a cheat.” He should not have said it, of course, but the opening was too tempting—a man must defend himself, must he not? This beautiful young creature, the epitome of virginal innocence, blessed with intelligence and internal fire . . . infinitely tempting. She had been everything that was wonderful . . . a light shining in the darkness of his days, dimming the pain of war, the pain of grief . . .

  Then, lo and behold, he discovered his goddess had feet of clay. Yes, he hurt. And would be well rid of her.

  And, deep down, he knew his mother agreed. Serena Moretaine was going to Bath—and taking Katy with her—as much for his sake as for her own. And, perhaps, in spite of his mama’s dim view of her companion’s betrayal, she was doing it for Katy as well. The child deserved something better than the fate of becoming the plaything of a roughened, disillusioned old soldier. Even a colonel.

  Especially a colonel.

  Lucifer! She was sitting there, head bent, once again Lady Silence, crushed by his harsh words. Good. No more arguments. That was as it should be. “Before you go, Snow, please organize my sources, each stack with a similar topic, then draw up a key so I may find things easily.” His bookroom would be cold and dreary . . . and an incoherent shambles within days of her departure.

  “Of course, colonel.” A subdued Katy rose, bobbed a token curtsy, and went to work, attacking the stacks on the burl elm side table first, meticulously reading each title and rearranging as necessary.

  Damon knew she longed to run off, out of reach of his sharp tongue, but she wouldn’t. Not his Katy. She would stick like a burr, doing her duty, as she had for all the years she had been at Farr Park . . .

  Where else did the chit have to go?

  Damon picked up his quill, dipped it in ink. The words he had written not half an hour ago blurred before his face. Who really cared about Hannibal and his elephants anyway?

  His vision cleared enough to reveal his last sentence. It would seem, that according to Colonel Damon Farr, someone named Katy had led an army across the Alps. He stared at the page, blinked, looked again. Furiously, Damon scratched out the offending name . . . so well, in fact, that he put a hole through the page. Good! There mustn’t be so much as a trace of his mistake for Katy to pounce upon when she wrote out the fair copy.

  The colonel gritted his teeth, ostentatiously consulted one of the volumes on his desk, then settled down to write. The first day of February was scheduled for the removal to Bath. It could not come soon enough.

  Bath was much like a lopsided bowl, Katy decided as their coach wound its way down the precipitous slope into the city. Ancient tribes had settled inside the bend of the Avon at the base of the bowl, as drawn by the warm bubbling springs as all those who came after. The Romans had followed, building bathing structures and villas, of which a glimpse or two could still be seen. How much, Katy wondered, was still underground, waiting to be discovered?

  The city now spilled out of its ancient walls, with beautiful buildings in the Palladian style creeping up the steep hillside above the river, above the baths, the Pump Room, and the impressive Gothic spires of Bath Abbey. It was not Katy’s first journey to Bath. The countess usually paid a short visit to an old friend there at least once a year, but this would be their first extended stay. The first time they would have a house of their very own. And time to explore the marvels of a city that was infinitely fascinating, if no longer fashionable.

  If only the colonel were staying with them . . .

  If only she could be certain the Hardcastles would not decide to take the waters . . .

  Without Damon’s presence, there was no reason for the Hardcastles to make a winter journey to Bath. How could she not have realized that before?

  Katy brightened. Damon would be a regular visitor to their residence on Brock Street, but since the Hardcastles had access to him at Castle Moretaine, they were unlikely to pursue him further. Once again, Fate had been more kind than she deserved. Katy sat back against the squabs and closed her eyes, vowing to do her very best to show her dear countess that she was not an ungrateful wretch. She cared, she truly cared, about Serena Moretaine. Katy had no recollection of her mother and Grandmother Alburton, only hazy memories of her Grandmother Challenor. The Dowager Countess of Moretaine had been her mentor since she was twelve years old, the closest to a mother she had ever known. Katy loved her dearly. With narrowed eyes and lower lip extended into a pugnacious pout, she vowed that, no matter what the risk, she would do her best to make the countess’s stay in Bath as pleasant as possible.

  And there it was! The magnificent vista of the Royal Crescent, overlooking a vast sweep of parkland, the lower portion dotted with grazing cows and sheep. And then they were turning into Brock Street, each narrow townhouse distinguished by a colorful door or distinctive architectural touch. How delightful that Damon had been able to lease a house here, tucked on the narrow street between the Royal Crescent and the Circus and only a few steps from the Upper Assembly Rooms. Not that they would be attending the assemblies, but perhaps the countess would care to take tea there and talk to friends. They could listen to the music drifting in from the ballroom. Perhaps, by the end of six months of mourning, the dowager might even visit the card room.

  And only a short ways down the hill were a choice of baths—though Katy doubted the countess would be willing to indulge in total immersion in the midst of winter, despite the hot temperature of the water. But the new Pump Room, built some twenty years before, was just beyond, situated smack dab in the Abbey churchyard. And only a few niggling steps from a shop selling the famous Bath buns. Katy’s mouth watered at the thought. And beyond that were streets of small shops selling nearly everything under the sun to the many hopeful people who came to Bath to take the waters and plunge their aching bodies into the hot springs. A far cry from the meager offerings of the village of High Henton. Oh, yes, Bath was truly a delightful place.

  If the colonel did not care to join them, that was his loss. Foolish man!

  “I fear you will find it a trifle cramped,” Colonel Farr told his mother as he ushered her from the carriage, “but a house to let in this part of town is so rare, it was an opportunity I could not ignore.”

  “Do not be absurd,” Lady Moretaine pronounced as they stepped up to the front door, which was painted a rich burgundy red, accented by a shiny brass knocker, and topped by an elegant fanlight. “It is charming and could not be more conveniently located, for we are above the miasma of the baths and with only a few steps to the Royal Crescent. The entire vista of the city and surrounding hills is spread out before us.” She patted his arm. “And it is not as if we will be entertaining.”

  Fine words, Katy thought a short while later, but compared to Farr Park, their new residence was a doll’s house. The townhouse was a mere two rooms wide, with a long narrow hall down the center. Drawing room, dining room, and two parlors on the ground floor, with four bedrooms above and servants rooms in the attics. The basement, wit
h no more than high thin windows letting in the light on the lower side of the slope, contained the kitchen, a modest wine cellar, laundry, and a box room.

  She would recover from this feeling of being shut in, Katy assured herself, but somehow her explorations continued straight out the rear door, where, to her delight, she discovered a walled garden. Though the plants were brown and dusted with snow and the flagstone path glimmered with patches of ice, the garden extended the full width of the house, with perhaps as much as a hundred feet to the far wall, where a wooden door led to a street behind. There did not appear to be a mews, as in London. Horses and carriages must be kept elsewhere, Katy supposed, and sent for when needed. Not surprising in a city where streets were so steep sedan chairs and shank’s mare were more common transport.

  In spite of the shelter of the garden’s six-foot brick walls, Katy could only take pleasure in picturing its awakening over the next few months. At the moment, she had no desire to linger in air cold enough to frost her breath. The garden was, in fact, as cold and drab as her heart when she thought of Damon leaving them on the morrow.

  Miserable man. He had parked them here, where he could conveniently forget about them while he chased about the countryside, hotly pursued by Eleanore Hardcastle and the alleged Lucinda Challenor.

  And fended off Drucilla’s latest dramatic fits and starts.

  Poor man. Perhaps she should feel sorry for him.

  Pooh! If he was taken in by the Hardcastle’s maneuverings, he deserved his fate.

  No. No one deserved the dire destiny of being attached by a Hardcastle. And Katy Snow, née Lucinda Challenor, would protect him, even if it meant a full confession.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “There you are!” Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine, swept into the estate room as a footman stood at attention, holding open the door.

  Chairs scraped over a well-worn rug as the three gentlemen occupying the room leaped to their feet. Colonel Farr noted with some interest that Ashby’s secretary, Philip Winslow, appeared to be strangling on his cravat, his face an interesting shade of strawberry puce, as Lady Moretaine’s well-rounded belly proceeded her into the room. Castle Moretaine’s steward, a gentleman well along in years and accustomed to the vagaries of the aristocracy, turned a face of bland inquiry toward the young countess.

  With an impatient gesture—remarkably like a farmwife shooing chickens, Damon thought—Lady Moretaine said to her steward and her late husband’s secretary, “You may leave us. I wish to speak with Colonel Farr in private.”

  “My lady,” Damon protested, “we are nearly finished here. I will come to you in the drawing room as soon—”

  Drucilla skewered him with a glare of outrage. “Now, Colonel. I wish to speak with you now.”

  Even as Damon ground his teeth, he proffered a polite bow. While he was seating his sister-in-law in the most comfortable chair the estate room could offer, a scratched and faded leather of venerable age, the other two men scurried out, Philip Winslow still suspiciously red above the high white collar of his shirt.

  “Well, Drucilla?” Damon inquired, finding he was having some difficulty reining in his temper. He should not let her rile him, but she did. Every time. Making his visits to Castle Moretaine on behalf of estate business a duty he longed to eschew. How he could endure another twenty-one years of this agony until the babe reached its majority he could not imagine.

  There his Nemesis sat, in yet another new gown of mourning with falls of black lace at neck and cuffs, each banded at the top in jet beads that seemed to have the same shine as her raven hair. As usual, Drucilla’s cheeks and lips were rouged, standing in sharp contrast to her almost ghostly pale face. And—again, as usual—she was unhappy with him. An attitude she adopted whenever she was not openly gloating about her triumph over him.

  She looked up, amber eyes seething with a fine combination of fury and disdain. “My father tells me that you and he are named co-guardians for my son. That I have been completely ignored. I cannot believe Ashby could have been such a fool. Surely he was not in his right mind. I was so certain of being named that I did not even question the matter until Father mentioned it during a visit last week. It is vile, Damon, perfectly vile. I will not have it!”

  The colonel, who was still standing, thrust his hands behind his back and stared down at the countess, making a valiant effort to mask his loathing. “The Will was quite clear on the subject, my lady. Your father and I are named guardians for any child, boy or girl, born posthumously to the late Earl of Moretaine. Ashby’s clarity of mind was never in question. He knew exactly what he was doing. You are not named. “Ashby’s friend, Lord Hervey, and Mr. Benchley, the solicitor, are also named as Trustees, to help oversee the estate’s finances until the child should come of age.”

  “At twenty-five!” Drucilla huffed.

  Damon shrugged. “Hopefully, an age of reason. I shall be most happy to relinquish my guardianship at age twenty-one, I assure you.”

  Drucilla pressed three fingers to her forehead, then flicked them dramatically into the air. “Am I to have nothing to say about the rearing of my son,” she cried, “my dear boy who will be earl the moment he is born?”

  Damon almost applauded. For some seconds silence hung between them while he rejected the succession of pithy comments that chased through his mind. “Drucilla . . . no one wishes to take away your rights as a mother,” he said at last. “And I am sure your father and I will listen to your opinions about governesses, schools, and such. But it was Ashby’s decision to make us guardians, and we will exercise that right with care. We want only the best for Ashby’s child.”

  “Liar!” Drucilla spat at him, her fingers clenching the arms of her chair. “You wish my babe to the devil. My Moretaine, my little earl. How can I possibly trust you to take proper care of him when you would be earl if he is gone.”

  Damon’s hands tightened into fists. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “Drucilla, I fear grief has addled your wits. I will do my best to forget you ever made such an unwarranted remark. My duty to my brother is first and foremost in my life. Whether you are delivered of a boy or a girl, I will endeavor to see the child is raised in the rank, luxury, and education befitting a Farr. Even . . .,” Damon added softly, enunciating every word with cutting clarity, “even if I have grave doubts about the child’s paternity.”

  The countess opened her mouth, but got no farther than a sibilant hiss of outrage before Damon overrode her indignation. “I will be watching, Drucilla. If the heir to the House of Farr grows up to resemble Redcliffe or Philip Winslow or any other on a considerable list my agent has compiled, I will make life as difficult as possible for you. I loved my brother and would love and protect any child of his body. And, alas, the law forces me to respect the rights of any child born to you within ten months of my brother’s death. But you I will not forgive.” Did he look as implacable as he felt? He could only hope so. Drucilla, he noted with some satisfaction, had turned as uniformly crimson as her painted cheeks.

  “Come!” Damon responded to a scratching at the estate room door, exceedingly grateful for the interruption. Berating a woman so obviously enceinte was not the act of a gentleman, no matter how venal her actions might have been.

  Rankin entered, his customary butler’s façade spoiled by a slight flush about the ears. How long had he been listening at the door? Damon wondered. Not that it mattered. No household’s secrets were safe from its staff.

  “Lady Oxley, Miss Hardcastle, and Miss Challenor are here, my lady. Shall I ask them to wait?”

  Drucilla’s hands fluttered. “No, no. Tell them I will be with them directly.” She turned to Damon, a mean little smile curling her lips. “You need not look so pained, dear brother. Either girl would do quite well for you. Daughter of a baron or sixty thousand pounds. A fine consolation prize.” She levered herself to her feet with some grace and started for the door.

  “It has never occurred to you the babe
may be a girl?” Damon inquired softly.

  Drucilla paused, turned half-way toward him, chin high. “Do not be absurd,” she declared. And exited with all the dignity of Anne Boleyn confronting the headsman.

  Damon shook his head. Drucilla Moretaine was a trollop, but no one could say she did not carry it off with style. What mortification would be his if the babe were a boy born in Ashby’s image. No. He would rejoice. But the thought of humbling himself before Drucilla was too terrible to contemplate. Damon swore, with feeling, and steeled himself to face the phalanx of female visitors in the drawing room.

  Katy was reading aloud to the dowager countess when the thumps and thuds began. The poetry of The Lord of the Isles was swiftly cast aside, as neither lady cared for it as much as the author’s previous works, and the strange noises were loud enough to warrant investigation. A cold breeze wafted down the central corridor, insinuating itself into their cozy parlor overlooking the winter-ravaged garden.

  The front door was open.

  The ladies’ heads swiveled toward the parlor entrance, faces alive with speculation. Not only was the outside door open, but it was remaining open for an unwarranted amount of time for February. At Serena Moretaine’s nod of approval, Katy sprang to her feet and rushed into the hallway that bisected the house on Brock Street. Then, unable to believe her eyes, she dashed toward the front of the house, where four stalwart carters were attempting to wrestle something very large through the front door.

  It wasn’t possible. Surely not. Yes, it was! A pianoforte. Not as large as the one in the music room at Farr Park, but an instrument that would fit perfectly into the modest confines of their present drawing room.