by Judith Lown
Sir Clive turned and looked directly at her. The satisfaction she read on his face told Katherine he saw her sickened shock. She clung tightly to the phaeton seat and reminded herself to breathe.
Katherine felt like a fool. She should have considered such a possibility, but she had not. She had just been coping with all the changes—Sir Alfred’s death, Richard’s death, Clive Brampton inheriting her beloved home, Lord Cecil Dracott’s kind offer of the Dower House, Lord Cecil Dracott’s death, Lord Henry Dracott’s return, Miguel’s arrival, Aunt Prunella’s illness, Lord Dracott’s proposal, his fury with her just last night. When had there been time for setting her mind to business matters for which she had no training, no experience? But her excuses rang hollow in her own mind. Miguel was her responsibility, and she had to take full responsibility for him. That included the essential matter of money to feed, clothe, house, and educate him. Katherine’s portion alone would never spread that far.
Sir Clive pulled the phaeton to the side of the road. For a fleeting moment Katherine thought he understood she might be ill. But if he considered the possibility, it appeared he saw it only as an advantage in the battle they were fighting over Katherine’s future.
“I believe the time has come, Katherine, my dear, to speak plainly with one another. To clear the air over the precipitous ending of our engagement and come to an agreement that will be mutually advantageous.
“When I offered for you—how long has it been now . . . just over two years, I believe—you were nothing if not grateful. I did not insult you with protestations of undying love. In spite of your low opinion of me, I am an honest man.
“I told you plainly why I was offering: you were blossoming into a unique sort of beauty. Not the sort that would ever be the toast of a season.”
Katherine felt the memory of her disastrous foray into London society like a slap on the face, just as she knew Sir Clive had intended.
“But the sort of beauty, properly attired and displayed, that would inspire the jealousy of every gentleman who did not possess it. A most appealing prospect, from my point of view.
“And what did you gain in the bargain? Social and financial security and respectability. Which, even in your naïveté, you recognized as a reasonable exchange. You showed every indication of delight in the prospect of becoming my wife.
“But, what did you chose to do when you witnessed my—lapse—from your notion of ideal gentlemanly behavior? Did you seek me out for a private word? That, Katherine, would have been the thoughtful thing to do, the ladylike thing to do. Did the possibility of a private discussion never occur to you? Did you take one moment’s reflection before running off crying to that old maid of a vicar?”
“For heaven’s sake, Cousin Clive! You yourself said that I was naïve. I was panicked! Where else could I have turned? To Papa? And have him either pat me on the head and tell me that gentleman had always behaved thusly, or challenge you to a duel? With Papa, one could never be certain just how he would react.”
“But you have no excuse to act the naïve girl now, Katherine. I continue to hope that you will use your intelligence, but I am tempted to fear that you will choose not to do so before you land yourself in a mare’s nest from which even I will be challenged to extricate you.
“Your decamping from Oak End to the Dower House with Miss Summersville, her decrepit maidservant, and that featherbrained Stokes girl was hardly the model of rational decision making.
“And your open-armed acceptance of a Spanish—waif—as Richard’s son was a piece of impulsiveness without parallel. You simply cannot go on careening from one indiscretion to the next without making some hard, cold, practical decisions.”
Katherine tried to assume the look of a composed and objective listener. What would Sir Clive say if he knew the full extent of her most recent indiscretion? What would he say after he had laughed himself to tears?
“I am perfectly capable of making cold, practical decisions.”
Katherine concentrated on keeping her voice level and her gaze directly into Sir Clive’s.
She was rewarded with a slight nod and a small smile.
“I am glad to hear that, Katherine, because I wish you to listen carefully to what I have to say.”
He looked away for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then turned to face her.
“I am willing to put away the past and make a fresh start between us. Oak End is your home. You belong there. Do not concern yourself with Mama and Leticia. They are already bored to tears and longing to be off to London. I daresay Easter Monday will see them embarked for the metropolis, whether or not Leticia is successful in her little campaign to become Lady Henry Dracott.
“You can come home, Katherine. Run the place as you see fit. Decorate it as you like. Be as involved or uninvolved in the daily business of the house and estate as you choose.
“In exchange, I would ask you to spend the occasional fortnight in London. Attend the opera, accept a few unexceptionable invitations for balls and whatnot. And, of course, put yourself in the hands of a skilled modiste and hairdresser.”
“You are proposing a marriage of convenience, then?”
Sir Clive smiled broadly.
“If you are asking if I intend our marriage to be convenient—to both of us—yes. I would not consider a marriage that was in the least inconvenient, to me, at least. But if you are asking if I intend ours to be some sort of ‘in name only’ nonsense, of course not.” He cast a glance from her face to her scuffed half boots and back to her face. “The man who would agree to such an arrangement with you, dear cuz, is either a fool or a eunuch. I am neither.”
He set the horses in motion again. Neither spoke for the balance of the journey. Katherine thought Sir Clive believed he had made a sufficiently strong case that she would accept his offer, if she were reasonable and had a modicum of common sense.
What startled her was that she was seriously considering marriage to Sir Clive Brampton. She admitted that since finding him with a maid in a pantry at Oak End so close to their wedding, she had mentally elaborated his perfidy. By the time he had inherited the baronetcy from Richard, he had become something close to the evil villain of ladies’ novels. A caricature.
The real Sir Clive Brampton, Katherine reluctantly admitted to herself, was really not too different from a typical English gentleman. She could do worse in a husband. Many ladies had. She would walk over coals for Miguel’s sake. Her impulsivity had led her to throw Lord Dracott’s offer to the wind, the best possible offer she could dream of receiving. Sir Clive was being reasonable—some would say generous—in light of the public insult she had twice given him. Another gentleman offering for her any time soon was unlikely.
The idea of returning to Oak End as its mistress was suddenly appealing. Plenty of servants to keep the place warm and clean when the snow fell and winds blew. Plenty of coal for the fires. Plenty of help with difficult or tedious gardening chores. The love and respect of servants and tenants who had known her since birth. And young boys foolish enough to be running messages for the brethren would not be so foolish as to ask Sir Clive Brampton for shelter.
She would not be impulsive this time. She would not give an answer. She would think about it from every possible angle.
Sir Clive pulled up in front of the Dower House. His smile was tender as he kissed one, then the other, of her gloved hands.
The front door opened and beside Sally stood Miguel, who swept Katherine and Sir Clive a fluid bow.
“That child is amazingly graceful. He could have a future as a dancing master.”
Katherine looked at Sir Clive in horror, her eyes filling with tears, which impeded her hasty exit from the phaeton before her escort could assist her descent.
*****
That evening, after Miguel’s black lashes had shuttered his eyes in sleep, Katherine stood by his cot, unable to take her eyes off him. He was completely vulnerable and totally dependent upon her.
Dear Lord, how had she
, in spite of sincerest good intentions, put this child in such jeopardy? What had made her hesitate for even a second when Lord Dracott had made his astoundingly generous, if less than flattering, offer? Why had she thought that she, alone, could rescue Jimmy last night? And why, when confronted with evidence of her own failure to tell the whole truth—lying was too harsh a charge—did she not own up and contritely ask forgiveness? Too late now.
Sir Clive had been very convincing today. In her mind, she had almost started packing to move back to Oak End. Home. Since moving to the Dower House last July, Katherine had made it a fast rule never to think about Oak End. She believed if she did not think about Oak End, she would cease missing it. That was just one of any number of mistakes she had made. Today, when offered the opportunity to return, her longing for Oak End had lodged as a dull pain just below her heart.
She could return. Distressed as she had been at their parting, she had not rejected Sir Clive’s offer. She had burned her bridges with Lord Henry Dracott, but not with Sir Clive Brampton.When she had scrambled down from the phaeton, he had shrugged and said, “Take your time to think things over, Katherine, my sweet,” before setting the chestnuts in motion.
She leaned over the sleeping child and gave him a second good night kiss. Princess padded silently behind her. She could have used a cup of tea, but Sally was working in the kitchen, and Katherine could not bear to hear more wailing about the shortcomings of Sergeant Jones.
She sat in the chair by the hearth in her bedroom and patted her lap. An eager Princess jumped up and settled herself. Katherine stroked the silky coat.
Here we are again, Princess, she thought. Tonight, I am too weary to pace. But I must sort this problem out. Why has a solution become so urgent? Because Aunt Prunella is in poor health, and our household depends on both our incomes.
Did Aunt Prunella know the disposition of her annuity on the occasion of her death? Ordinarily, Katherine would feel perfectly at ease asking her. But her great-aunt was still struggling to survive the rigors of the winter. It would be unspeakably unkind, now that Aunt Prunella was slowly recovering, for Katherine to bring up the subject of her death.
Katherine needed to consult a lawyer. Her father had always used Mr. Stone in Petworth. But she had heard that Sir Clive had transferred all Oak End affairs to a London firm. Little difference that made. She was no longer a Brampton of Oak End, and she had no money to pay a lawyer. It had been as well that the snow had prevented an apothecary from tending to Aunt Prunella at the height of her illness. Katherine could little afford to pay him for his services or his remedies.
In a sense, Aunt Prunella’s income just delayed the inevitable day of reckoning. With it, they could continue to go on as they were, living as frugally as possible. But, when Miguel’s needs increased as he grew older, living frugally would not provide for what he would require if he were to rise above the level of a household servant.
A dancing master! Katherine shuddered. Princess looked up, wondering if she was about to be expelled from her sleeping accommodations.
Katherine patted the spaniel’s head to reassure her. Richard’s son, a dancing master! Or a valet. She saw, now, the direction of Sir Clive’s thinking. Marrying Clive would be better than going without adequate food and clothing, she reminded herself.
She was right back to where she had been the last night she had tried to sort out the problem: the fateful night she had discovered the priest hole. The night she had first reviewed potential husbands.
Lord Dracott and Sir Clive Brampton were not the only eligible gentlemen of the parish. There was another option—a last resort. Did she dare? She looked at the coals in the fireplace. Coals she said she would be willing to walk on for the sake of Miguel. What would she be willing to do to spare him a future as a dancing master?
Chapter Thirteen
“I am quite certain I shall be strong enough to return to divine service on Easter, perhaps even by Palm Sunday. But the kneelers will not be ready for Easter as Mrs. Sythe-Burton and I had hoped. We are now working with Whitsunday as our goal.”
Miss Summersville’s frailty has not daunted her spirits, Gus thought. He had delayed this visit, knowing it was his duty as a priest to visit the sick, but not wanting to tax her depleted strength.
“It has been a wonderful treat to chat with you, Mr. Wharton. My dear late father, Archdeacon Summersville, would be delighted to know that St. John Chrysostom’s has such a diligent, caring priest. But now, I fear, I must ask to be excused. The very young and the very old require their afternoon naps.”
With the assistance of her maid, Miss Summersville rose slowly from her chair, executed a curtsey, and walked with deliberation from the parlor.
“I shall just see that Aunt Prunella is tucked in. Please, do not feel you must leave. Perhaps you would like a glass of sherry?”
Gus strolled to the table under the multipaned window to which Katherine Brampton had gestured. As he poured sherry, he heard the sound of a torrent of rain. At least the Dower House has a modest stable for Brutus, Gus thought. How long had it been since he had spent an afternoon with a beautiful lady under the pretext of waiting for a storm to pass?
“Your visit was a tonic for Aunt Prunella’s spirits, Mr. Wharton.”
Miss Brampton settled herself in a chair by the table where Gus stood. A black-and-white spaniel followed her into the parlor and jumped onto her lap. Miss Brampton scratched the spaniel’s ears. Gus took a fortifying drink of sherry, wishing it were something stronger, and sat opposite his hostess on the other side of the table.
“I hope it did not overtax her.”
“Aunt Prunella adores visitors—particularly clerical visitors. As you well know, she has enduring pride in being the daughter of an archdeacon.”
Katherine Brampton’s green eyes twinkled.
“I trust one can be forgiven for being relieved that the formidable Leo Summersville is no longer striking fear in the hearts of humble vicars of this diocese, Miss Brampton.”
“I have heard that Archdeacon Summersville did make life difficult for my poor grandfather. My grandmother, the archdeacon’s younger daughter, was married to the vicar of St. John Chrysostom’s, you know. Mama grew up in the vicarage.”
And had elevated herself from the ambiguous social ranks of the clergy to the more substantial ranks of the landed gentry, Gus thought.
Rain pounded the old house and wind rattled the diamond-paned windows. Miss Brampton’s attention was concentrated on the spaniel in her lap. Gus thought he detected a delicate flush on her pale cheeks. Had he said something to embarrass her? He took another sip of sherry.
Miss Brampton looked about the room, then back to Gus, and smiled.
“Did you notice how Miguel has grown? I believe he is going to be just as tall as Richard.”
“I believe you have the right of it, Miss Brampton.”
Gus would like to have found more likenesses to Richard in Miguel than just green eyes. But in all honesty, when he saw the lad, what he was put in mind of was a Spanish aristocrat, not an English gentleman. Whoever his mother had been, Gus thought it unlikely that she was of common peasant stock.
Once more, Katherine Brampton concentrated on the spaniel, stroking it slowly from head to tail. She looked up, met Gus’s eyes, looked away, then back again.
“I am beginning to realize, Mr. Wharton, that I must plan for Miguel’s future.”
Gus finished his sherry. He was mystified about where the conversation was leading, but Katherine Brampton was uneasy. Experience told him that when a lady is uneasy, a gentleman has reason to be uneasy, too. Better to be faulted for overindulgence than to need a drink and not have it available. He poured another glass.
“Mr. Wharton…” Katherine’s voice was even lower and huskier than usual. “Mr. Wharton,” she chewed her lower lip, and looked at him earnestly. “Is there not a rule that one may tell a priest something, and it cannot be repeated? Not that I would think for a minute you would e
ver repeat anything told to you in confidence. My problem is…that ladies are obliged not to discuss certain matters, but, if you are to understand my dilemma in full…”
The last thing Gus wanted to hear was some dark confession from Katherine Brampton, but why else would she have invoked the seal of the confessional? He was obliged to honor it.
“Of course, Miss Brampton,” he said with sinking heart.
She settled back in her chair and gave the spaniel three light pats.
“I have never discussed it with a soul, Mr. Wharton—other than your predecessor—but just over a year before you arrived at St. Chrysostom’s, I was engaged to be married to my second cousin, Clive Brampton.”
Gus felt an iron weight lift from his chest. So that was Katherine Brampton’s dark secret of which a lady could never speak. Of course! A lady was forever forbidden to discuss a broken engagement. A sop to the pride of the rejected suitor. The entire parish might natter on endlessly about Katherine Brampton refusing to marry Clive Brampton after the banns had been read—and it was, indeed, still talked about—particularly on occasions when Sir Clive Brampton departed the King’s Arms having been more insufferable than his usually arrogant self. But, as a lady, Miss Katherine Brampton was required never to acknowledge the matter by so much as a flicker of an eyelash.
“It was not a love match, Mr. Wharton. That must be said in Sir Clive’s favor.”
Gus nodded; not quite understanding how asking Katherine to marry him without loving her was in Clive’s favor.
“So, I can understand why he believes that I reacted too strongly and acted precipitously when I discovered him… in a pantry…with a housemaid.”
Her last three words were almost inaudible, but Gus knew what they were without hearing them. He had been familiar with Clive’s behavior from the time they were both on the town. Clive preferred servant girls. Gus had preferred jaded society ladies.