He eyed his cousin. “Why do you let your mother control you?”
“She … she has my best interests at heart.”
Jon merely studied him until the boy flushed again.
“She does! I know it may not seem so at times, but she wants me to be happy.”
“I’m sure she does. But are you?” Jon nodded to the Avebury plans stretched out across the table between them. “Is this what you want? To be master of this?”
The boy was silent for a long moment. “Mother always said it would come to me.”
“That was not my question. I repeat, is this what you want?”
“Of course.”
Jon raised a brow and waited.
A multitude of expressions crossed Peter’s face before he eventually sighed. “No.”
“And what do you want?”
“I … I want to study rocks, and shells, and fossils, and see if I can find ancient specimens like that Mary Anning girl did.”
Jon nodded. “She has found some remarkable treasures, hasn’t she?”
For the next fifteen minutes he watched the boy’s face light as he expounded upon recent discoveries of dinosaur bones and other artifacts. Now here was passion.
“Does your mother know any of this?”
The light faded, the boy’s posture drooped. “She thinks such things fanciful.”
“She does not understand you, perhaps.”
Peter shrugged.
“Perhaps you could take a trip to the coast to see some of these things.”
“Really? Oh, sir, I’d give anything to go!”
Jon’s smile turned wry. “But I gather this is not what your mother is expecting you to say?”
“No.” Peter’s face fell. “She wants money for Avebury.”
“I thought as much. And after all, I am a rich merchant’s son, aren’t I?”
“Are you?” Peter asked, ingenuously.
That was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Though not a question that could be answered here.
Jon took a sip of whiskey, taking care not to show his wince against the burn. “Regardless of what my relations believe, I still have the means to help you. Which is what I want to do.”
“You’ll give us money for Avebury?”
Jon smiled. “Let’s call your mother and aunt in, shall we?”
Moments later, the door opened, and Clothilde followed the footman in, wearing a slightly disgruntled expression.
“Is Elizabeth joining us too? I rather hoped she would.”
Clothilde issued the footman instructions then turned as he left the room. “Now, what has been decided?” She looked expectantly between them.
“Let us wait a moment until—ah, Elizabeth. Thank you for joining us.” Jon waited until both ladies had settled themselves before resuming his seat and steepling his fingers. “Forgive my frankness, ladies, but after all, I am merely a rich merchant’s son …”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. Peter blushed. Clothilde’s mouth turned down.
“Although apparently not quite so below notice, seeing as I now head the family,” he continued in a thoughtful tone. Then he said in a louder voice, “Regardless, I’m well aware that your invitation for me today was for no other reason than you thought I’d be a soft touch, and you would perhaps somehow try to shame me into giving you money to restore this house to its former glory.”
Clothilde’s mouth fell open. Then closed. Then, “Sir, I dislike such insinuations!”
“Forgive me, madam. I thought I spoke plainly enough.”
Elizabeth shot him a glance that mingled amusement and approval. “Come now, Clothilde. Now is not the time for prevarication. Let us hear Cousin Jonathan’s ideas.”
He inclined his head to her, before eyeing the other woman. “I’m well aware, madam, that you neither like me nor think me most suitable for my new role, but I ask you, would your son here suit?”
“Of course he would!” She sat straighter in her chair. “Peter was born for the role.”
“Really?”
“He … he would suit most admirably.”
“He would suit some things most admirably, but steering a grand estate from near bankruptcy is not one of them. Do you know how much capital this house would require to bring it up to a satisfactory standard?”
She named a sum.
“Try tripling that, and you’re halfway there. Over the past few months I have spent a considerable amount of time on Winthrop and am well aware of what is required, as my solicitors in London can attest. Clothilde, Elizabeth, I regret most heartily but I will not be investing my capital into Avebury.”
“What? No, you cannot be serious. You must!”
“Why? Because this is your pet project? It certainly isn’t your son’s.”
“Peter?” Frowning, she turned to her son, who shrank in his chair. “What have you been saying?”
“The truth,” Jon continued, “which is something you do not appear to want to hear. So let me make it abundantly clear: I will not be investing in refurbishing Avebury. I will endeavor to seek other ways to ensure Avebury’s long-term future, and I will support Peter in some other venture, but giving him management over such an estate I believe—well frankly, I believe it would kill him.”
“No!”
“Yes. And I know I must seem a black-hearted villain, clutch-fisted as the rest, but it is for your son’s sake that I do this. He does not want this responsibility, nor does he seem to have the capacity for it.”
“But he has worked hard—”
“He’s done nothing of the sort. He has followed others’ instructions, mostly yours, if I’m not mistaken, but Peter clearly possesses little inclination for making this work.”
“What would you know? I am his mother! And you are nothing but—”
“A merchant’s son, I know. But surely that qualifies me to speak? I have worked with enough business-minded men to know what is a good investment and what is doomed to fail, and I’m afraid that unless drastic measures are put in place, Avebury will need to be sold.”
“But you are rich! You should help us!”
“Why?”
“You … you are our cousin!” she sputtered.
“You now think I am?”
She stared at him, terror edging her eyes. “But we need you.”
“You do, that is true. And so this is what I propose we should do.”
For the next hour he laid out a plan, which met with fierce resistance from one lady and quietly spoken approval from the other. Peter was silent, obviously afraid any word might further incur his mother’s wrath.
“I will need to have my solicitor look into this,” Clothilde eventually conceded.
The same who was to look into his legitimacy to the barony? He suppressed the retort, concentrated on conciliation. “I would expect nothing less. Now, have we time to look at the gardens? They must be most attractive in this late afternoon light.”
His hostess agreed, grudgingly, and he spent the next hour or so working to appease his relatives’ ruffled sensibilities. So successful was he, the evening meal even managed to be surprisingly pleasant, in spite of the attendance of Aunt Elizabeth’s giggling girls, who gazed upon him with a mix of coquetry and alarm. Better still was the time afterward, when he and Peter lingered in the dining room after the dessert course was cleared away and the ladies had withdrawn, and Jonathan saw beneath the stammering nerves to the educated young man below. Clearly something would need to be arranged for him, preferably away from his mother.
And clearly Jon’s new role was one that, if others truly knew the responsibilities involved, few would envy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“NO!”
Catherine glanced up from her knitting as her mother continued scanning the letter clutched in her hand. “What is it, Mama?”
“Clothilde says he refused to help save Avebury!”
“Really?”
“Yes! No, wait …”
Catherine p
laced the yarn and needles aside as she waited for her mother to finish reading. Words arose from the devotional Lavinia had lent her, words from the Gospel of Matthew about honoring one’s parents. She drew in a quiet breath and released.
“Well, it seems he will provide assistance, but only on the condition that Peter accepts a new estate manager! The nerve of him! Thinking he knows best all the time.”
“It is his money, Mama.”
“Be that as it may, he should have more respect for what is due the family, and treat us accordingly.”
“It is probably a good thing he does not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you remember Aunt Clothilde’s comments after the funeral, I think it shows a great deal of forbearance from him that he would even go to Avebury, let alone offer to help.”
“Well! I can see I’ll have to be very careful what I say around here from now on.”
Catherine bit her lip as her mother sniffed loudly. She said in a quiet voice, “Mother, I do not believe him to be quite the villain so many make him out to be.”
“But—”
“And don’t you find this constant resentment tiring? I know I do.”
Mama sniffed again. “I do not understand you. At all!”
No. Catherine stared sadly at her parent. It was obvious she did not.
Her mother picked up the letter again, and held it high, screening her face, her stance and pout suggesting deep offense had taken root.
Catherine swallowed a sigh and glanced at the small table between them, where Lavinia’s latest epistle lay awaiting reply. Each stroke of ink had sung Mr. Carlew’s praises, listing his various accomplishments before noting his provision of sufficient funds to provide a teacher. Of course, by supporting Lavinia’s long-held dream of establishing a village school, in the countess’s eyes Mr. Carlew could now do no wrong.
The past few evenings had seen Catherine composing then rejecting several replies, for while she wanted to rejoice with the news of his good works, still she felt a tugging sense of disloyalty in admitting these were in fact good things. And how could she reconcile these good things with the man she knew capable of such betrayal?
Mama placed her embroidery in her lap. “I’ve a good mind to write to Drusilla and see if she is amenable for a visit.”
Hope flickered in Catherine’s heart. “A visit to Bath would be wonderful.”
“I refuse to be chased away from our rightful sphere of influence, but I believe it would be beneficial for us to get away from here, at least for a little while. I do not think I can stand any more of that man or his insufferable relations’ presence in our community.”
Outside a horse’s neighing preceded a knock at the door. Seconds later Tilly opened the door to the sitting room. “Excuse me, madam. Miss Carlew is here.”
“Miss Carlew?” Mama glanced at Catherine before saying to the maid, “You may admit her when I ring.”
Mama put away her workbasket then patted her hair, gesturing to Catherine to remove her apron and tuck it under the cushion on the settee. She then sat quietly, her posture one of ease, whilst avoiding Catherine’s gaze as the seconds ticked by.
“Mama,” Catherine whispered, after nearly a minute had passed. “Miss Carlew is waiting.”
“Yes.”
Catherine blinked. “Do you not mean to ring for Tilly to admit her?”
Her mother shook her head, her gaze sliding away. When sufficient time had passed for their unexpected visitor to grow cool waiting in the drafty hall she finally rang for Tilly to grant admittance.
The door opened and Julia Carlew entered.
“Miss Carlew!” Mama, all graciousness, gestured to a seat. “Such an unexpected pleasure for you to condescend to visit us.”
“Good morning, Lady Winthrop, Miss Winthrop.” The pretty blonde with perfect doll-like features smiled, albeit seeming a trifle nervously. “I do hope I am not interrupting anything of great importance.”
“No, no, not at all,” Mama said, as if forcing their visitor to wait unnecessarily was not part of her plan. “I trust your dear mama and brother are in good health?”
“Yes. That is, I believe so.”
“You do not know so?” Mama’s brows rose.
“Well, my brother tends to leave early in the morning to visit the tenants, so I often do not see him when I go downstairs to breakfast.”
Mama’s expression hardened slightly. “He seems very dedicated.”
“Oh, yes! He always has been, when he has put his mind to something.”
Except when it came to the one thing that could have ensured Catherine’s happiness. A new pang of regret formed, kneaded by Julia’s words. He had obviously not “put his mind” to pursuing her.
“And your Mama?”
“She is well, thank you. It is a message from her that I came to give.” She glanced shyly at Catherine. “You may be aware that Mama has invited several of my friends to come and stay for a time, and they arrive later today. She is hopeful Jon will be drawn to one and make her his bride.”
Her insides fisted. Her smile froze. No, she had not been aware. She barely heard the murmured invitation to dinner that night, or her mother’s regrets.
Julia seemed to shrink. “Oh. I’m terribly sorry.”
She was terribly sorry? How would Catherine cope? What would she do? Oh, if only they could leave … Somehow, amid the welter of conflicting emotions, Catherine became aware of Julia’s gaze, a gaze that demanded she school her features to neutrality, and tamp down her pain. For despite everything, she found herself liking the young woman. Julia, with her mix of shyness and girlish confidences, seemed to hold an almost pleading look in her blue eyes, as if hoping Catherine might be her friend.
Her heart thawed a little. “Perhaps another time.”
When no visitors remained. For while she had no desire to mingle with the young ladies deemed suitable as his prospective bride, she did possess some curiosity to visit again.
To see Winthrop Manor again.
That was all.
THE NEXT MORNING, having stayed up late reading one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s ridiculous tales in an effort to ignore the agony of wondering what Winthrop’s guests were like, Catherine returned from her now daily walk to the end of the lane to find the gleaming coach bearing the Hawkesbury crest near their door. Her heart lifted, her steps hurried. Surely a visit from Lavinia and the earl would be a highlight for the day. Her lips twisted. A highlight for the week, even.
“Livvie! Oh, and Lord Hawkesbury”—she hastened to offer a slight curtsy—“how do you do?”
Tilly brought in tea during which they exchanged social niceties about the weather. Upon the maid’s exit, the earl’s gaze lifted to the ceiling where the large crack splitting the plaster seemed to have doubled after recent rain. “And how do you find your new accommodations?”
Thus began a familiar litany of complaint from Mama. Catherine drew in a restorative breath, lowering her eyes to her teacup to avoid exchanging a too-speaking glance with Lavinia.
“Lady Winthrop, I am indeed saddened to hear such things. But have you not spoken to your cousin? He seems quite a decent-hearted man, whom I’m sure would be grieved to know you feel so.”
“Carlew?” Mama snorted inelegantly. “He would do nothing save what would serve his own interest. And as for that woman, his mother, she is an abomination!”
“Really, Mama, that is taking things too far. Lady Harkness is—”
“Oh, what would you know, child!”
Catherine clutched the teacup until she thought it might break, mortification blooming across her chest, quite unable to meet anyone’s gaze.
“I cannot for the life of me ask anyone from that family for assistance. They have made their lack of interest well known, which has decided me upon removing as soon as possible.” Mama waved a hand. “I cannot stay here. You can see it is barely tolerable for a servant, let alone the wife of a baron—”
“I think it
holds a certain charm,” Lavinia offered.
“Because you need not live here,” Mama sniffed.
“I’m sure if you only spoke to him—”
“No, I’m sorry, Lord Hawkesbury, but that is not possible. Did you know he refused to help my poor nephew at Avebury? Refused! When he’s as rich as Croesus. That man has no conscience.”
“I’m sure there is some misunderstanding.”
“There is not, I assure you! I cannot tell you what it is like to be forced from your home, only to have to endure the likes of him living there, having parties we should be invited to—”
“But Mama—”
“And dinners, at which we should be included. Now nobody invites us anywhere. Nobody!”
Catherine chewed her lip as Lavinia offered soothing words of placation. Was it their mourning that had isolated them from the social doings of the neighborhood, or was it Mama’s bitterness? Was the little news that came their way simply because people did not want to run the risk of offending Mama even further?
“And I cannot but admit to a certain degree of resentment at being issued last-minute invitations, as though I’m of no greater importance than someone just to make up the numbers!”
Lavinia and the earl glanced at each other, then rose as one. “I fear we have outstayed our welcome.”
No! Catherine wanted to cry out.
Lavinia caught her look and smiled. “Lady Winthrop, I do hope you’ll condescend to allow Catherine to continue her visits. I confess I’d be quite lonesome without her.”
“Of course she may,” Mama said, pettishly.
Lavinia clasped Catherine’s hand in farewell. “Come tomorrow?”
“With pleasure.”
Anything to escape this house of distress, and distract her from the inhabitants of the much bigger house a mile away.
THE NEXT DAY she escaped early, glad to be freed from the cottage’s confines, glad to flee Frank’s grumbles about preparing Ginger for her ride to Hampton Hall. Her heart lifted at the thought of spending the bulk of the day with Lavinia. How long it had seemed since she had not felt trapped by misery.
She found the countess practicing in the music room, and sank into a seat, listening to the matched voice and pianoforte fill the room. When she finished, Catherine clapped appreciatively.
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 7