by Judith Lown
“I am certain she is,” Aunt Prunella affirmed, before Katherine could think of how to frame an answer.
Katherine glanced to where Miguel sat on the floor, examining a small toy soldier that Lizzie had brought him.
“Does he like Princess?”
Katherine explained that Miguel had not yet met Princess. She had not wanted to risk frightening him.
Lizzie found such hesitation incomprehensible.
“He must meet Princess! Is she in the kitchen? I’ll go fetch her.”
Katherine realized that keeping boy and dog separated indefinitely was impossible.
“I’ll fetch her,” Katherine told Lizzie. At least that way she could keep the eager spaniel from knocking over the little boy.
She had feared the worst, but when she carried the black-and-white dog into the sitting room, Miguel smiled for the first time. He reached out to pat Princess, and chortled when he received a doggy kiss on the nose. And when Katherine lowered Princess to the floor, she curled up next to Miguel and let him pet her.
Lizzie looked at the contented pair with satisfaction.
“I knew Miguel and Princess would be friends.” Then her face clouded. “Trinket is getting worse. She wouldn’t leave her place by the hearth yesterday to go with Papa to the festival. I hope Miguel won’t mind sharing Princess with Papa.”
“Perhaps you should give Lord Dracott time to get over Trinket’s death, when she does die. And perhaps he would be just as happy to find a replacement for her himself,” Aunt Prunella suggested.
Lizzie looked doubtful, but she was too intrigued with Miguel to let questions about who was most entitled to Princess distract her.
“How old is he? He looks pretty little.”
It was a good question, one that Katherine had puzzled over. Miguel was too tall for a two-year-old and he lacked the baby fat typical of that age. He was steady on his feet and used a spoon for his breakfast porridge. Moreover, Katherine had discovered to her relief that Miguel had been trained to use a chamber pot. She was fairly certain he had passed his third birthday. But it was unlikely, from his size, that he was four. She had done the mathematical calculation, blushing in the darkness of her room last night. Richard had arrived on the Peninsula in March of 1809. If he had met Miguel’s mother within six months of his arrival, it was perfectly possible…
“I think he must be about three years old,” Katherine told Lizzie.
“When will he talk?” asked Lizzie. “He hasn’t said a word. Not even to Princess. Not even in Spanish.”
That was another good question.
“He will talk when he is ready to, I am certain.”
Katherine hoped he would be ready soon.
“Mrs. Clarence Brampton,” Sally announced.
Once more, Sir Clive had chosen to send his mother as an emissary rather than coming in person.
“I could not give the stories credit,” Aunt Brampton began without ceremony. “But I see that you did bring the urchin home with you.” She glared at Miguel through narrowed eyes.
“What’s an urch…?” Lizzie asked.
“Why do you not take Miguel and Princess to the kitchen?” Katherine intervened. “I believe Hephzibah has some honey biscuits fresh out of the oven. Aunt Prunella, perhaps you might provide some supervision,” Katherine thought to add.
Aunt Brampton watched with disgust as the procession of children, old lady, and dog departed the parlor.
“You really have no concept of maintaining even a modicum of dignity, have you?” she charged.
“I was not aware that preserving one’s dignity required turning defenseless little boys out into the cold.”
Katherine had never before parried one of Aunt Brampton’s verbal assaults so emphatically. She felt an inner glow of satisfaction.
Aunt Brampton, settling back in her chair, decided to change tactics.
“I had hoped to bring Leticia for a call. She is, after all, so very eager to re-establish acquaintance with you. But given her youth and innocence, and the delicacy of the subject that would be discussed, I came alone.”
Katherine repressed an urge to laugh. Leticia Brampton had recently spent an entire season in London, a month in Brighton, and had been the guest at any number of country house parties. To suggest, after such experiences, that any young lady could be shocked by the discussion of a soldier’s natural child, was absurd.
“I see no need for discussion, Aunt Brampton. I am certain that Miguel is Richard’s child. There is, of course, no reason to believe that Richard married Miguel’s mother. There is no reason for you or Sir Clive to be involved in his care. As Richard’s sister, I am more than willing to see to it. And that, I believe, is all that needs to be said on the matter.”
“Miguel!” Aunt Brampton exclaimed as if she were naming a disease. “What a dreadful name for an English child. But then, he does not appear to be at all English, does he. He’s foreign in every way. Even if Richard did father him on some Spanish …”
Katherine stood.
“I will not have you or anyone else speaking so in this house! Do I make myself clear, Aunt Brampton? Miguel is Richard’s son. I am certain of it. And I will not have his mother’s name sullied within this house, or within my hearing, for that matter. As for his name, it will be Miguel, until or unless he chooses another. And you may inform Sir Clive that if he has anything to say to me on the matter, he may say it in person!”
It was not until after Aunt Brampton had departed in a rage that Katherine began to tremble. Whatever had she done? Whatever had possessed her? She was behaving like a vixen with one cub. A cub that was not even her own.
But he is mine, Katherine told herself. And I will defend what is mine.
Chapter Eight
“Does she visit here frequently?” Leticia Brampton nodded toward the parlor door recently closed after Lizzie Dracott.
“She knows she is always welcome here. Poor lamb. Misses the mothering she lost so tragically.” Aunt Prunella paused to wipe a tear from her eye. “Katherine and I do what little we can to compensate for her loss. She is a spirited child and not always amenable to the tedium of lessons. But since the arrival of our dear Miguel, she stops by almost daily; has taken a decided fancy to him. She has even spent more time with her letters and sums, so she can teach him when he is older.”
Leticia took a sip of tea and settled the cup in its saucer.
“Actually, I had hoped to see Miguel. I understand he is a handsome child. But does not speak? Perhaps now that he is settled in…”
Leticia looked from Aunt Prunella to Katherine for rescue, having found just enough courage to broach the awkward topic that was apparently the purpose of her unexpected call.
Katherine was grateful that Miguel was napping. She disliked sending him out of the room, but she disliked even more when people talked about him in his presence, as if he were some inanimate object.
“I am certain he will speak when he is ready.”
Katherine wondered how many times she would utter that affirmation.
“I know that Mama visited you and voiced concerns regarding Miguel. But you must not assume she speaks for either Sir Clive or for me.”
When bullying failed to accomplish his purpose, Sir Clive sent a new message with a new messenger, Katherine surmised.
Leticia leaned forward slightly and said confidingly, “Mama has never quite accommodated to the ways of the world, you know. One does not spend much time in society before one learns of the occasional lapse in behavior, and the occasional evidence of said lapse. It happens in the best of families. And, if handled with discretion and tact, no one gives it a second thought.”
Katherine wondered how Sir Clive would define “discretion and tact.” She was certain that she would learn eventually, if not from Leticia, from Sir Clive himself.
“So, I do hope that you will not take Mama’s little outburst to heart. I believe that its source is in her deep concern for your well-being.”
/> Katherine barely managed to keep from dropping the teapot she was holding as Leticia made this startling pronouncement.
“Indeed?” Katherine asked.
“She must not fret for us,” Aunt Prunella reassured. “Lord Dracott has been most generous in honoring his father’s commitment to our lease. And he very kindly had his housekeeper, Mrs. Lamb, send down clothing and other necessities for dear Miguel. What the poor child brought with him was not fit to be worn.”
“Lord Dracott sounds most generous. I must confess, I was not sure what to make of him upon our first meeting.” Leticia frowned fleetingly. “I am not at all certain that without having been introduced, I would have guessed him to be the most important gentleman at the Harvest Home Festival. Unless, of course, one is judging on size alone.”
Leticia permitted herself a little laugh.
“But one could expect a peer of the realm to pay more attention to his appearance. Scuffed boots, worn coat cuffs, and a button hanging by a thread from his waistcoat. Not to mention his rather abrupt mode of speaking. A decent valet might remedy his deficiencies of attire, but more than that, he seems to be crying out for the need of feminine influence.”
It required too much effort to refrain from laughing aloud for Katherine to comment. Once more, Aunt Prunella came to the rescue.
“You must be forbearing of Lord Dracott,” Aunt Prunella cautioned. “He has suffered, you know. Losing his beloved wife and newborn son, and then going off to war. Quite tragic.”
“That was years ago, and I am certain it will not take long before Lord Dracott realizes that he prefers to leave his estate to an heir rather than to some distant relative—or let it revert to the Crown!”
Leticia Brampton shuddered at such waste.
“And he has such potential.”
She half closed her eyes, concentrating on a mental image.
“I can picture Lord Dracott in properly tailored attire. How the ladies of London would swoon at the sight of him in a multi-caped driving coat! He does wear one, I trust.”
“Never that I have seen,” Katherine replied.
She did not add that Lord Dracott favored his old greatcoat that had literally been through the war.
“I am certain that with sufficient feminine wiles, he can be charmed into paying more heed to his appearance,” Leticia declared.
It might be amusing to watch her try, Katherine thought.
“I am certain the improvement would be marked, even if he is lacking the refinement that makes a man truly handsome,” Leticia added.
Katherine wondered what Leticia considered to be sufficient “refinement” for a man to be thought “truly handsome.” The fastidiousness of Sir Clive, perhaps? Katherine thought it unlikely that she, herself, could admire a gentleman who was more involved in his toilette than she was in her own. Sally had called Lord Dracott “better’n handsome.” Katherine quickly abandoned that line of speculation. She would not want to explain a blush to Cousin Leticia, when the topic of conversation was Lord Dracott.
*****
Katherine stood at the foot of the chancel steps assessing twin arrangements of russet foliage on the altar of St. John Chrysostom’s. Perhaps evergreens would be more appropriate for the beginning of Advent, she thought. But she was somehow reluctant not to use the very last of the leaves that had been bright green the day she had received the fateful news of Richard’s death. Before long the year 1813 would pass, and the loss of her father and brother would begin to fade from other peoples’ memories—never from Katherine’s.
It would be months before the trees that had borne those leaves would once again bear new, green life. But a new life had arrived for Katherine—Miguel—and he would make the dark days of winter, and the first anniversaries of her father’s and brother’s deaths, bearable to a degree she had not hoped for.
An unwelcome voice came from the back of the church. Having been visited by both Aunt Brampton and Leticia, it should not have come as a surprise that Sir Clive would seek her out. But his presence here, in this holy place, interrupting her reverie, was jarring.
“I must compliment you on your artistic talent, Katherine, my dear. You seem to have the knack for making do with very little. Although, taking on the care and the needs of a growing child might tax even your ingenuity.”
“As you must be aware, Aunt Prunella and I both have portions from the Summersville family. We shall manage, Sir Clive.”
“Quite modest portions, I understand.”
Sir Clive Brampton strode down the center aisle, attired in just the sort of multi-caped driving coat that Leticia longed to see Lord Dracott wearing. Katherine realized the coat had cost more than hers and Aunt Prunella’s annual incomes combined.
“As I said, Sir Clive, we shall manage.”
“You are in looks, Katherine, my dear,” Sir Clive pronounced as he approached her. “One can only surmise how stunning you will be when you emerge from your interminable mourning. But then, I wonder where you will find the funds to refurbish your wardrobe?”
Katherine refrained from saying that she would dress herself from the poor box before asking him for a penny.
“But where has your maid disappeared to? Off flirting with that riding officer again? Not that I am complaining about having you all to myself.”
Katherine sat at the end of the first pew, placing the basket that had held foliage beside her as protection against any unwanted advances.
Sir Clive laughed.
“Give me credit for knowing better than to make romantic advances in a church, Katherine. I did not come to talk romance. I came to talk sense. Not that you have ever been susceptible to such talk. But circumstances have changed, have they not? You do go from folly to folly. Whatever possessed you to accept that strange, silent child as belonging to Richard? Have you any idea just how many bastards British soldiers have sired in Spain? And the boy that you have welcomed could belong to any one of them.”
“I will not have that name used in connection with Miguel!”
Sir Clive’s eyes narrowed.
“Surely you are not imaging him to be Richard’s legitimate son—even if you insist that he is, indeed, Richard’s son at all?”
“You may rest easy on that count, Sir Clive,” Katherine said through gritted teeth. “I may be lacking in whatever sort of sense you admire, but I do not live in a fantasy world. I have no illusions about Richard’s behavior. And I am not so naïve as to lack understanding of the likely result of that behavior. But I will not have ugly words used to describe either Miguel or his mother within my hearing!”
Sir Clive shrugged.
“You can insist on anything you wish. And in this parish, I suppose people will try to oblige you. But little boys grow up. And society has a cruel way of deciding who is a gentleman and who is not. It takes means, Katherine, my dear, the coin of the realm in plentiful supply, to pay for the necessary schooling and accoutrements, to convince society that a—I will use the delicate designation—‘natural child’ is a gentleman. For Miguel’s sake, if not for your own, you will have to marry. And you will have to marry a gentleman of means. Meanwhile, consider giving him an English name. Being a dumb bastard is of sufficient disadvantage, do you not agree?”
Katherine stood, meaning to run from the church, but in her haste knocked her basket to the floor. Sir Clive picked it up and handed it to her with a courtly bow. She knew there were unshed tears in her eyes, and she exerted all her will to keep from shedding them in Sir Clive’s presence.
“Your basket, sweet cuz. And may I say, your beauty is greatly enhanced when you are aroused—to anger?”
Katherine snatched the basket and fled. If she had remained a second longer, she could not have resisted slapping Sir Clive. If she engaged him in battle, she had better do it in ways that she could win.
*****
The old house was quiet. Katherine bid Aunt Prunella good night before the old lady had retired to her room. Arthritis prevented Prunella Su
mmersville from climbing stairs now, and the second parlor on the ground floor had been converted into an apartment for her and her maid, Hephzibah.
Katherine knelt with Miguel beside his cot in the nursery that she had created for him just down the hall from her own room. When she steepled her hands in prayer, he followed her example and she recited her own bedtime prayer.
“Now I lay me down to sleep…”
After the amen, Miguel gave Princess a gentle pat and shyly bestowed a feather of a kiss on Katherine’s cheek before permitting himself to be tucked in for the night, the old toy soldier— Lizzie’s gift—clasped in his hand.
Sally had added nursemaid to her duties with no complaint, and Miguel seemed to be perfectly content in her care. But Katherine’s presence was required for him to settle into peaceful slumber.
She watched as the straight, black lashes brushed the top of his pale cheeks and his regular breathing told her he was asleep.
Now she was alone in her own room, a time that she treasured at the end of each day, a time when she reviewed the day’s accomplishments and planned the next day’s tasks. But tonight she could not sit quietly in her chair by the fire as she usually did. Sir Clive, however mean-spirited and self-serving his motives, had confronted Katherine with painful realities. She paced, Princess by her side.
What had made Katherine convince herself that Miguel would be suited to a trade when he grew up? Becoming a tradesman would separate him from all the society he would come to know. In the short time he had been with her, she had come to believe that such a life would be totally unsuited to him. Child that he was, his manner was amazingly dignified. It was as if she had brought a miniature Spanish grandee into this old English house. Even his silence seemed reflective more of reserve than handicap.
The law, the church, and the army were the usual answers to the ambiguities of sons whose parents had not married. But entry to any of those fields required money, and before that, schooling, which also required money—money that Katherine would never have apart from marriage.
Sir Clive had implied that he was the only solution to the problems posed by Miguel’s future. She stared into the glowing coals in the fireplace. She would not hesitate to walk on those very coals to rescue Miguel from harm. Why was it so very difficult to contemplate marrying Sir Clive Brampton to guarantee Miguel’s future? She turned her back to the warmth of the hearth and strode to her dressing table, now lighted by a single candle. Princess padded after her. Katherine sat and regarded her shadowed image in the looking glass.