Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  And Harold Carlew, though untitled with a wealth derived from trade, had taught his stepson the values he still adhered to today. Faith. Honesty. Honor. It had served Jon well abroad and at home. Still, it felt like a betrayal to the man he’d respected to lose his last name and revert to the one he’d never really known.

  He spent the next hour dealing with correspondence before a knock on the door prefaced William. “Excuse me, Lord Winthrop, but Lady Harkness wishes to have a word.”

  “Tell her I shall be with her directly—no, I will come now. Where?”

  “In the drawing room, my lord.”

  He nodded, following the footman, refusing his offer to open the door. Why the previous baron had kept on so many servants he was quite unable to understand, especially for such trivial matters one could easily do for oneself. He was fast coming to the conclusion his predecessor cared more for appearances than economies.

  His mother looked up from where she sat with Julia. “Ah, Jonathan. I hope I did not disturb you from your duties?”

  “I was happy to be disturbed, ma’am.”

  A smile crossed her face. “I won’t keep you long. It’s simply I must have your opinion on the wallpaper.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The wallpaper. Does it not cry hideous to you?”

  “I confess I had not noticed.”

  “Then I suppose you won’t notice when I put something new up.”

  “But why should you do that?”

  She sighed, shrugging at Julia. “Spoken just like a man.” Her attention returned to him. “Next you’ll be telling me you have not noticed the state of these chairs.”

  “Why? Is something the matter with them?”

  “Dear boy, they are fraying! I have ordered new fabric—”

  “Mother, no.”

  “Why, Jonathan!” she pouted. “Surely you do not wish to spoil my fun.”

  “I have no wish to spoil your fun, but would prefer you to enjoy such things elsewhere, not here.”

  “Why ever not?” Her eyes rounded in astonishment. “You must admit the furnishings are sadly outdated. How anyone could live in such a hideous mausoleum I don’t know.”

  He half listened, waiting patiently until her familiar litany of complaints had run dry and she was more prepared to hear. This was important. “Mother, as you have a multitude of houses to choose from, I would rather you redecorate one of those. I am not prepared to spend money on Winthrop until I am certain it needs spending.”

  “Oh, Jonathan! I declare, sometimes you are just as much a clutch-fist as your poor papa.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “Of course,” she continued hurriedly, “Harold was a good-hearted man, as you are, too. And you can certainly afford to refurbish, as your papa left you so well provided for.”

  “He wanted the money spent to benefit people, not for redecorating for the sake of it.”

  “For the sake of it? Jonathan, anyone would think you have gone mad! Can you not see just how much work needs doing around here?”

  “No.”

  She made a moue of protest. “Your hesitation leads me to wonder if there is another reason you refuse to allow me to assist you.” Now her eyebrows rose.

  Like what? That she suspected he would prefer such things be attended to by his future wife? Jon refused to bite. “I have no desire to change things. I thank you for your kind offer but I am quite content.”

  “I don’t know how you can say such things! The furnishings are so passé.”

  “Thank you for your observations. I hesitate to mention this, but it has crossed my mind that you may perhaps feel more comfortable elsewhere.”

  She stared at him. “Surely you are not implying you want me to leave?”

  “I appreciate your support, Mother, but not the questions about my reasons and motives.”

  “Why, Jonathan! I don’t know what you mean.”

  He gazed at her steadily until pink stained her cheeks.

  “Can you blame a mother for hoping for her son’s happiness?”

  “I am happy, Mother.”

  “If you say so. But I couldn’t help but wonder just what you ever saw in—”

  “Mother,” he said warningly.

  “She’s nothing like what I remembered.”

  No, she was not. He swallowed the bitterness as his mother’s diatribe continued. The faded woman he’d seen yesterday at services was a million miles from the bright, vivacious girl he had first come to know. Indeed, he could have easily passed her on the street without a hint of recognition. But then, grief was a heavy weight to carry, enough to alter anyone, and black had never suited her.

  “I assure you, any feeling is quite gone, and I shall not be making the same mistake again.”

  She sighed, smiled. “I am relieved to hear it. That family has always given themselves airs. You need to find a bride, and now, with the title as well as your income, you can aim as high as you wish.”

  He nodded as if he cared.

  But inside, the raw hurt pounced again, like a savage animal, as the memories arose of her rejection. Perhaps his mother’s advice was finally worth heeding. Perhaps he should—no, would—show Miss Winthrop just what she had missed out on.

  CHAPTER FİVE

  Dower House

  “A LITTLE MORE to the left,” Mama called.

  Catherine nodded, wielding the garden shears even as she gritted her teeth, and wished for the hundredth time since breakfast that Frank had not decided to sicken with a bad back on the very morning Mama had decided the garden needed attention. Not one for patience, Mama had not allowed the loss of the groundsman to prove a hindrance to her plans, as she had enlisted Catherine’s assistance instead. Catherine would pray for him, except she rather doubted the legitimacy of his claims of ill health. It had come on quite suddenly, as it did on many occasions when something demanding more than a nominal effort was required. Catherine snipped more vigorously. Perhaps she would pray for the mending of his honesty instead.

  “Even great ladies must take an interest in gardening,” Mama’s voice continued behind her. “Why, I have heard that the earl’s mother herself takes a great deal of interest in the garden at Hawkesbury House. And remember our visit to Saltings and its lovely gardens? All the work of the dowager viscountess. So one can afford to take an interest in one’s garden, even get one’s hand’s dirty, and not lose any dignity in doing so.”

  Except it wasn’t Mama’s hands that were getting dirty, Catherine noted wryly, as she snipped off the final protruding twigs. “Better?”

  “What?”

  Catherine glanced over her shoulder. Mama had stiffened and was glancing down the lane.

  “What on earth does he want now?”

  She stepped down from the small stool, shifted the gardening shears from one hand to the other. But before she could remove either her dirty apron or herself, the gray horse was huffing at the gate, his owner dismounted, reins tied to the gatepost. Frozen by embarrassment, she studied the clippings strewn at her feet.

  “Good day, Lady Winthrop, Miss Winthrop,” Mr. Carlew said in his deep voice. “How are you today?”

  “Busy, as you can doubtless see.”

  Catherine swallowed, and dared look up.

  He wore a frown, his gaze not meeting hers. “Do you not have a groundsman to take care of such matters?”

  “We do,” Mother continued, “but he has been quite exhausted in attending to a myriad of other tasks.” Catherine shifted slightly to study the hedge, wishing herself invisible as her mother began listing some of the said tasks. If only she could hide away. If only she never had to see him again. If only she wasn’t wearing such an ugly shapeless gown and had thought to fix her hair …

  “Indeed.”

  His flat voice made Catherine steal another peek. His frown deepened as he looked around. “I will send someone over—”

  “Thank you, but that is not necessary.”

  His face stiffened
, before turning slowly to her. Catherine lowered her gaze to his neckcloth, wishing her cheeks did not heat at his notice. “Is there anything you would wish me to do to make your accommodations more comfortable?”

  Besides move out? Catherine bit her tongue. One acerbic Winthrop woman was probably enough.

  Her mother drew herself up. “We are to be much obliged, I’m sure, but require nothing from you, sir.”

  “Mama,” she whispered.

  “Are you sure, ma’am?” he said, his attention returned to her mother. “I know the accommodations aren’t quite what you are used to.” His tone sounded almost apologetic.

  Mama gave a loud sniff. “Are you implying I am unable to cope, or merely that my husband was not assiduous in all his duties in ensuring this cottage be adequate for my needs?”

  Were his cheeks reddening? His reply was smooth, “Neither, ma’am. It is simply a desire to know that you and your daughter are comfortable.”

  “We are. Extremely.”

  He inclined his head. “If you are sure.” He moved to untie his horse, his posture stiff, his countenance still determinedly averted.

  Her heart panged. How long would this display of indifference continue? Unless he really was indifferent to her … She returned her attention to the hacked hedge, her eyes blurring.

  “Do you doubt my word?”

  Her mother’s clipped reply made her blink, look up, catch his face veering away as he mounted.

  “Ma’am, I believe you. But please believe me when I say if ever I can be of assistance, you need only say the word and it will be done.”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  “Of course.” He tipped his hat, wheeled around, and nudged his horse away.

  “The nerve!”

  “Mama,” Catherine murmured, “he will hear you.”

  “I do not care. How dare he presume to come here?”

  “He dares because he is the new baron.” She winced as soon as the words left her mouth, as Mama began another tirade on the injustice of it all, and the presumption of one such as he to assume such airs.

  But to be fair, she had witnessed neither airs nor presumption. “Perhaps his motive is pure, and he merely wishes to be of service,” she ventured.

  “Do not let me hear such things.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “We know that man and his family play false.”

  Memories arose of the gossip surrounding Lady Harkness—she a widow of too many husbands—and others close to Mr. Jonathan Carlew. Papa had on more than one occasion dismissed Mr. Carlew’s questionable antecedents and links to trade, openly deriding his friendships with Henry Carmichael, an earl’s son and cardster who had sent more than one good fellow close to bankruptcy, and Major Thomas Hale, who had left a string of broken hearts as one of the more notorious rakes in town. Jonathan Carlew, so far as she was aware, was guilty of nothing but association with these two men, but as far as her parents were concerned, that was enough, especially considering the doubt over his true paternity.

  “I never want to see that man here again!” Mama declared.

  Catherine nodded, stooping to pick up the broken branches, conscious of a niggling sense of injustice.

  Despite his actions in the past, despite the mortification she felt whenever she was in his presence that forbade her to meet his gaze, she couldn’t help but have noted his persistent consideration today, despite her mother’s rudeness.

  Such consideration that plowed up the old questions she’d thought long buried, forcing her to wonder about her parents’ fixed antipathy, and why they’d stayed so well informed about the man they professed to despise.

  White’s Gentlemen Club, London

  One week later

  “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  Jonathan nodded at the doorman’s acknowledgment of his newly acquired title. Of course he would know. It was his job to know. No doubt Jon’s recent elevation to the Peerage would have caused a frenzy of conversation and wager of bets within the club’s plush surrounds.

  He bit back a wry smile as he walked through to the dining room. To think London’s most exclusive club had started out as an immigrant’s tea shop, its humble roots in trade conveniently concealed under decades of pretensions. Now White’s was a gentlemen’s club for the rich and aristocratic, where questions of birth could be forgiven by the heritage of Carlew wealth. He was quickly seated and ordered a late lunch, savoring the time alone as much as his boiled turbot dressed in a rich anchovy sauce. Yesterday and this morning had been a whirlwind of activity as he’d met solicitors, bankers, board members, and investors to run over figures, receipts, and accounts, using every ounce of his persuasive powers to convince shareholders that investing in the new venture of steam locomotion would be worthwhile.

  He felt drained. Yet somehow invigorated, as though the battles had reminded him of his purpose. And for the first time, he sensed a nudge of anticipation in returning to the peace of Winthrop.

  “Carlew!”

  He glanced up. Smiled. “Hale. How are you?”

  They shook hands. “Tell me, when am I to see this new place of yours?”

  “Whenever you come.”

  The major snorted. “As full of wit as ever.”

  “As you can see.” Jon grinned. “So when would you like to come? I must warn you, the house is not quite up to my mother’s standards. She is in attendance, you know.”

  “Oh. She has never really approved of me, has she?”

  “I think it’s more your liberties with the opposite sex of which she does not approve. And the way you talk with Julia.”

  Hale’s cheeks reddened. “Julia knows I mean nothing by it.”

  “But my mother does not, so you might want to steer clear of her during your stay.”

  “Hmm. Your sister is remarkably pretty—”

  “But not for you.” Mother intended her daughter for someone much higher socially than a mere major in His Majesty’s Armed Forces, even if that major had performed admirable service in Calcutta.

  “I suppose not, no.”

  “However, I know Mother is amenable to a house party soon, so perhaps we can arrange something for then.”

  “I would be much obliged. Now, I best be off to see my old brigadier. He wants to chat about India, and you know me, I can never say no.”

  “Of course not. Good day.”

  Hale nodded, offered a mock salute, and moved away.

  Upon concluding his meal, Jon rose from the table and proceeded to the saloon. In one corner he could see the major’s dark head bent near a gray one, the general’s loud voice leading to Jon’s decision to sit farthermost away. He picked up a newspaper and sank into a brown velvet settee, and was soon lost in the news of a world so much bigger than his new estate.

  “Lord Winthrop?”

  He lowered the newspaper. “Lord Hawkesbury! Good afternoon.”

  “I trust I’m not interrupting anything important.”

  “Not at all.” Jon gestured to the seat opposite, then folded the newspaper and placed it aside. “What brings you to London?”

  “A quick visit for parliament. I do not like to be away longer than necessary.”

  “Of course not. I trust the countess is well.”

  “Thank you, yes. Although inclined to become a little bored at times, I believe. She is thankful for the kind attentions of friends such as Miss Winthrop.”

  “I’m glad.” He schooled his face to a mask of polite indifference.

  “And you? I imagine you have much to garner your attention these days.”

  Jon filled him in on a little of his meetings, noting that here, at least, was an aristocrat who did not seem to deride Jon as a “cit” nor despise him for his business affairs.

  “You have been very busy. And now I have interrupted your moment of peace.”

  “No. I am happy for the chance to talk with you.”

  “And I you. I admit I have wanted to hear more about your time abroad.”

  H
e must have looked his surprise, for the earl chuckled. “I would much rather spend my time here learning about my new neighbor than trying to fend off wagers from the desperate.” He leaned back in his chair. “Please.”

  So Jon told something of the story of a lowly clerk working for the East India Company promoted through both hard work and his director uncle’s connections to being senior administration writer for the governor of Bombay.

  “And you enjoyed your time there?”

  “Yes. It was a time I needed to be away.” He drained his glass, looking up to see the earl’s lift of brow.

  Jon kept his mouth shut, thankful for the other man’s good breeding when he refrained from asking questions. Perhaps one day he might feel free to share more, but not now.

  “I cannot help but envy you. My uncle, the fourth earl, was an intrepid traveler, and collected many curios from his adventures.” Lord Hawkesbury’s lips twisted. “In my time abroad I only collected a bullet wound, which does not impress my wife very much.”

  Jon chuckled. “It does not hold the same cachet as a tiger skin or ruby necklet, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” the earl agreed. “And how are you finding Gloucestershire?”

  “It is a little cooler than Bombay.”

  Sometimes he longed for the heat of India, to smell the spice-laden air, to feel the warmth soak into his bones. Here, everything felt overly chilly, people’s attitudes seemingly reflected in the rain and cooler temperatures, most unlike the English summers he recalled. Or perhaps these feelings were simply the product of the cold shoulder he continued to receive from his predecessor’s relatives.

  What would it take for his offers of assistance to be accepted? For him to be accepted? Each morning he read his Bible and received nothing more than the sense he should forgive as Jesus taught, seventy times seven. He could understand their pain, even some of their misapprehension—didn’t fear do that to people? Yet their slights and offense grew wearisome, and he was becoming tired of having to check his heart to root out each new seed of bitterness that interaction with the Winthrop women seemed to sprout.