But for all its magnificence, it held a homelike feel, far more than that of the Carlew London residence where he’d grown up. Whilst large, indeed, somewhat showy—for as Harold Carlew always said, a successful businessman should be seen to be prosperous, for how else would people trust him with their money to invest?—the Portman Square mansion was all sharp lines and angles, a little too new, a little too sterile.
The Manor, on the other hand, possessed a gracious charm, like Carmichael’s paternal grandmother, whom he’d once visited during the Long Vacation whilst at Oxford. The dowager countess possessed beauty, faded perhaps, but her generosity and whimsical humor had smoothed away any awkwardness Jonathan, a merchant’s son, had felt upon meeting such a lady. This house held a similar appeal, as though she had known her worth for many a generation, and did not need any of the fancy trinkets and furbelows a less beautiful version might require.
A tiny sparrow danced by, as if celebrating Jon’s good fortune. His heart lifted fractionally, and he smiled at his foolishness. But one thing he could be sure. Even Carmichael, whose family’s grand estate in Derbyshire Jon had visited more than once, would be impressed and pleased for him. He could imagine the viscount’s words: “Well, you’ve certainly fallen on your feet, old man.”
Yes. Or more precisely, God had placed his feet here.
Jon wandered through the hedge again, veering left, to where a stained stone fountain sat silent at the end of another rose-lined path that led to the house. He studied the three French doors facing the garden. The drawing room perhaps? He assessed his bearings, nodded, and walked back. Sweetness lifted as he brushed past a few peach-colored roses.
He peered through the glass. The room was dim, but he recognized the position of settees. And it was unoccupied. He tried the handle. It moved easily, silently. So the servants at least oiled doors—clearly his predecessor had odd notions about prioritizing the manor’s maintenance. As he entered, the drawing room’s gentle ambiance rose to meet him, and he stopped behind a high settee, once again feeling the deep peace permeate his soul.
He glanced around the room. The Reynolds above the fireplace was perhaps not the artist’s finest work, but its tones of gold and amber suited the room’s mellow feel. How long had it been in Winthrop possession? Or was it an asset for which he could gain a return that would benefit more than just the casual visitor to this room?
Lord, give me wisdom …
His prayer, one uttered many times over the past few years, floated up, past the plaster fruits and—he squinted—angels that adorned the painted ceiling.
“Oh, Papa …”
He froze. Glanced around. Down. Saw the mass of black huddled on the settee directly before him. Positioned as she was, sprawled most unladylike with her hands covering her face, she had not seen him. And the high backs of the other sofas hid her from view of the door that stood ajar, through which came the murmur and bustle of servants. Amid the afternoon shadows he saw the black-edged handkerchief. A sigh fluttered, closing in a sob.
Compassion propelled him forward.
Resentment halted his step.
His fingers clenched. While part of his heart tugged at her pain, he could not help feel she would not want him to see her. Wasn’t she the young lady whose actions ran counter to her claims? Her gentility but a mask …
Yet he could not help contrast this sad, faded picture with the young, vibrant creature he had once known. And be irrationally relieved that the man who’d destroyed his life had at least one person who mourned him.
The weeping continued, a rawness so deep his skin tingled.
Despite his misgivings, his heart twisted. He took another step toward her then paused. Would she welcome his sympathy? Sympathy born from an event that by its very nature led to his social promotion? She would not appreciate his words, however heartfelt. She had not before.
Better to leave. Better to keep from unnecessary intrusion. He had no desire to dine with the Winthrop clan tonight, though he must, for everything felt like he was stepping unwelcome into pain. Perhaps it would be best if he could prevent further distress by removing himself without her notice.
Perhaps if he found a maid, or her sister—he rather doubted her mother would be of any use—someone who could comfort her … Yes, that would suffice.
He stepped back. Onto a creaking floorboard.
Cursing himself inwardly, he hurried to the French doors—
“Who’s there?”
The figure sat up, smeared hands down her face. Glanced around.
He could hide no more. He stepped forward. “Excuse me.”
And with a bow, and a glimpse of her shocked face, he exited into the garden again.
Calling himself every kind of fool. For feeling. For caring. For wishing the past could be undone again.
His jaw hardened. But that was exactly the point. The past had passed. It could never be revisited again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dower House
One month later
CATHERINE’S GAZE TRACKED up to the web of cracks radiating from the upper corner of the sitting room doorway. Her nose wrinkled. Clearly Papa had not given much thought to the future of his wife and daughters upon his demise. This truth had become appallingly clear over the past weeks, as the flurry of activity had eventually given way to desperate reality once Catherine and Mama had moved into the Dower House and realized just how different life would be now.
She shook her head and returned an unseeing gaze to the wall. Poor Papa, always living in the moment …
The horror and humiliation following Papa’s funeral had soon succumbed to the weight of a thousand other worries. Mr. Carlew—for forever he would remain so, according to Mama, none of the Lord Winthrop for the likes of him, thank you very much!—had graciously given them three weeks to move, which was something, at least, despite Mama’s protestations to the contrary. As the new baron, Mr. Carlew could have insisted they move immediately to enable his swift possession. But permitting the extra weeks had allowed time to sort what they could take, time to receive calls, time to conclude aspects of estate life they had always known—which Catherine had foolishly thought she would always know—in order to begin the new chapter elsewhere.
A shudder wracked her body in remembrance. Poor Papa’s bills were so extensive she doubted they would be welcome among the village tradespeople. Mr. Whittington had gone over matters with her again, once everyone had left, giving her to realize just how dire their financial situation was. She was relieved to discover enough coin in her reticule to pay Mrs. Jeffcoat for the berries, but the others … A fresh wave of shame washed over her. How could Papa forgo paying the very people who depended on him? As it was, Mr. Carlew had promised to settle whatever bills remained, so Mr. Whittington assured her, a gesture as magnanimous as it was humbling—and shaming.
Her vision blurred, then sharpened as she gazed out the window of the cramped room. Instead of a peaceful vista to distant hills, this window—complete with broken shutter—looked out onto an unkempt hedge, beyond which lay the hay pastures, soon destined for cutting.
She should be counting her blessings that they had a place to stay, and did not need to live with someone else, like Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Clothilde, who, upon the demise of their respective husbands, had been allowed to live at Avebury, under Papa’s good grace. She should be thanking God that at least they had food to eat, that their meals were adequate, if not exactly tasty. She should be thankful that at least Serena was away at school, and away from circumstances so straightened and unfamiliar. She should …
But couldn’t.
Gone was the sense of freedom that living in a thirty-room manor provided. Now they resided in just six rooms, where every footfall above loudly creaked its owner’s trail. Gone too were the things with which she’d filled her days: the well-stocked library, the pianoforte, the gardens, the opportunity to ride out in her gig whenever she felt the need.
Yet worse than this was Mam
a’s despondency. Nothing seemed to satisfy, her complaints about everything from the food to the loss of her paintings and furniture. Mama had insisted her favorite pieces move with her to the cottage, where now everything looked too crowded and cramped. Mr. Carlew had not protested, although Catherine was sure that his own mother’s presence would have prevented a single stick of furniture from leaving the Manor.
“I should not have to ask that man for anything!” was Mama’s most recited cry.
That man could only be Mr. Carlew, and truth be told, when she wasn’t worrying about when the drips in the roof could be fixed or what was happening at the Manor she, too, would like to dismiss that man from all thought. She would like to.
But couldn’t.
Her thoughts traced back to that awful moment following the fiasco after Papa’s funeral. She’d thought she was in a safe space, thought nobody would dare intrude upon her grief.
Yet he had.
She cringed again at the memory. Clenched her fists about her embarrassment. Why should she care what he thought? So her crying bout had left her with blotched cheeks, a red nose, and tiny eyes—why did she care if he’d possibly noticed? Why should this still concern her so many weeks on?
Yet it did.
He’d tried to visit yesterday. As soon as she’d seen his big gray gallop up the lane she had hurried inside, leaving him to her mother. Her lips flickered. Mama had put him in no doubt about her feelings, at least, ensuring he rode off without chance to dismount, then entering the cottage with a look of satisfaction, crowing about her skill in refusing the interloper admittance. “For why should we want the likes of him here?”
Catherine had nodded, though a tiny part regretted such harsh measures. After all, he had been quite gracious in giving them extra time to move.
She groaned as her traitorous heart, her foolish thoughts, refused him absence. And even if she had been successful in refraining from conjecture, everywhere she went the neighborhood was rife with speculation. Would the new baron pay the tradesmen bills? Would he attend services? Would he—or more likely his mother and sister—begin “improvements” at Winthrop Manor?
It was this last one that remained troublesome. She was glad—for the tradesmen’s sakes—that Mr. Carlew had paid their bills so promptly. She hoped that he still held faith of such importance that he had attended services, even though she would doubtless feel discomfort at seeing his blond head in the pew where she had always sat. But for her heritage, her home, the memories of a lifetime to be cast aside, painted and papered over, this she could scarce abide.
“Miss? Are you ready?” Tilly, the one maid they could afford now, came forward with Catherine’s cloak and Bible. “Madam will be down in a moment.”
“Thank you, Tilly.”
Probably the chief reason why Mama had elected Tilly to stay was because she always addressed Mama as Madam, without a hint of awareness of any lost status. Of course, it helped that Tilly had no near relatives to take her in, and that she was a compliant girl, willing to do far more than her previous duties had demanded. So amid the sadness in leaving Winthrop and the servants who had proved so faithful for so many years had come a small ray of light that they weren’t so completely poor that they could not afford any servants. Their domestic staff had reduced to three: Tilly, Mrs. Jones, their cook and Lizzie’s sister, and Frank, who acted as their general outdoorsman, and very occasionally as their groom.
Moments later they were on their way to St. Hampton Heath. Their new abode made the church far nearer than before. Attending services meant they would be able to connect with some of their older acquaintances—and hopefully avoid some of the new.
The gig pulled up outside the square-towered church, its gardens a mass of fading bluebells.
There was a rustle of expectation as Mama and Catherine moved down the aisle. She kept her chin up, looking straight ahead at the trio of stained glass windows above the altar.
The minister nodded, waiting for her mother’s slow progress to finally attain their pew. Catherine almost stumbled when Mama stopped and loudly sniffed.
The occupants of the front pew glanced up, their expressions ones of complacency, triumph, and concern. Mr. Carlew rose. “Pardon me, madam, we seem to be in your place.”
Catherine’s cheeks flamed and she refused to meet his gaze, though she approved his actions. Mama’s pride needed salving these days, rubbed raw as it was through the whispers and speculation concerning the mounting debts Papa had left.
“You are,” was Mama’s ungracious reply as she lifted her chin. “We shall sit elsewhere.”
“There is room here, Lady Winthrop.” His hand reached out, a gesture of conciliation.
Mama ignored it, only tipping her chin higher as she moved to the pew across the aisle.
Catherine tilted her gaze to glimpse Mr. Carlew’s tightened lips before she turned after Mama.
The service could have been conducted in Chinese for all she was aware, so concerned was she with Mama’s stiff, unbending posture beside her. The reverend’s words floated past her, the songs and prayer, too, for nothing seemed to settle, nothing felt real anymore.
How many humiliations must Mama endure? Wasn’t the loss of her house and money enough? And how much did God want Catherine to suffer? She’d long ago reconciled that she would not marry for love, but had not been quite at her last prayers, had held out a thin sliver of hope that some man might marry her, even if it were only for the dowry Papa would bestow. Which he would not now. Her eyes pricked. She blinked until tears no longer threatened.
God felt so remote, so unkind, and so disinterested in her life.
Eventually the sermon concluded, the prayers were prayed, and the doxology sung. She followed Mama outside into the sunlight, their progress slowed by the villagers’ murmurs of condolence, to which Mama replied far more graciously than she had to Mr. Carlew earlier.
Lady Milton bustled forward, her penetrating voice drowning out the soft sympathy offered by Eliza Hatton, one of Lavinia’s protégées, now the wife of the blacksmith’s son and mother of two.
“Ah, poor Lady Winthrop. How are you?”
“I confess, Cornelia, it has been very hard. Walter was such a good husband. I miss him so.” Mama dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. Surely Mama wasn’t enjoying playing the grieving widow? She caught her mother’s eye; Mama looked away, began talking rapidly.
She turned, feelings of nausea at her mother’s duplicity crawling up her throat.
“Ah, Miss Winthrop. How are you finding your new accommodations?” Lady Harkness smiled, her gaze trickling over Catherine’s sober attire.
“It is”—horrible, antiquated, musty, she wanted to say, but such things would only reflect badly on Papa—“adequate.”
“I’m so glad. You must come visit when you get a chance. I’d be delighted to show you the samples for the new wallpaper in the drawing room.”
Heat splintered across her chest. Catherine swallowed, drew in a deep breath. “Lady Harkness, do you intend to live at Winthrop?”
She raised an elegant burgundy-draped shoulder—no black for her. “For the moment, until Jonathan is properly settled. And until then, I want to bring the tired place to join us in the nineteenth century.”
Properly settled? Catherine stared at her. Did she mean until he … found a wife?
“Dear child, there is no need to look like that. Surely one must expect a young man possessed of good fortune and title—humble though it may be, a mere baron, after all—to desire a wife? Yes?”
Catherine nodded.
“Yet I sense some hesitation. How very interesting.” Lady Harkness turned, and gestured to her son and daughter, who drew near. “Come. I fear we have disconcerted the locals quite long enough.” With a small smile and smaller curtsy, echoed by Julia, she moved away.
Mr. Carlew nodded stiffly, his gaze half meeting hers, but not touching, before he too joined his sis
ter and mother at the carriage, the Winthrop carriage, for the journey home to Winthrop Manor.
Pain twisted like a knife. Winthrop Manor was his home. Not hers. Not anymore.
Winthrop Manor
“Of course, Lord Winthrop. I’m happy to oblige.” Geoffreys inclined his head and moved through the door that led to the servants’ hall.
Jonathan swallowed a smile. Geoffreys’s continued eagerness to oblige led him to suppose that the former Lord Winthrop had been either a tyrant or so lackadaisical in his manner that the servants were happy to have someone finally give orders. The paltry state of affairs around the estate made such truth plainly evident.
The only quibble he had with his staff was their insistence on addressing him as Lord Winthrop which, while saying much of their respect, also served as a constant reminder of the loss of the old name. Harold Carlew had been the father Jonathan had always known, his marriage to the newly widowed Lady Winthrop when Jon was only a babe the most fortuitous occurrence of his life, even if it had led to speculation as to why the marriage had taken place so quickly.
His mood dipped, and he strode to the oak-paneled study, closing the door behind him with a firm click. He moved behind the desk, the initial mess now cleared away, thanks to Mr. Whittington’s efforts, and those of the Winthrop steward, Mr. Clipshom.
He sharpened the nib of his quill, looked up and met the imposing stare of his grandfather’s portrait. His hands clenched. Yes, he’d heard the whispers, rumors he was powerless to quell, especially as he’d grown older and taller, and, some said, looked more like old Carlew than any Winthrop before him. But a man could scarcely ask his mother if she had been unfaithful. And in truth it never had seemed a problem, his chance at the Winthrop title so remote he had never bothered to attend any but one Winthrop event in his nine-and-twenty years. His knuckles turned white. Well he knew the reason Mama had not been invited to any more, those Winthrops proving quick to judge and quicker to believe hearsay.
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 4