Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  “Miss Winthrop?”

  She blinked. “Pardon?”

  “You seem a little pale. Are you quite well?”

  No. “Yes, thank you, Julia.”

  She pasted on a smile, glanced across to encounter Lady Harkness, eyeing her with a frown. “Are you sure?”

  “I … I have something of the headache.”

  “I expect it’s this heat,” said Miss Beauchamp. “After all the recent rain it’s enough to make us all feel out of sorts.”

  A gnawing feeling filled her heart. She would only ever be a visitor here. Her house would become less and less familiar as it became more and more strange. And when dear sweet Lydia became his wife, how would she ever find enough excuses to stay away?

  Oh Lord, help me …

  Catherine pushed away from the table. “Please excuse me.” She hurried past the astonished guests and rushed blindly from the room, turned to go up the stairs, then paused. Placed a hand to her head. This was not her house. Her bedchamber no longer hers.

  “Miss Winthrop?” Lady Harkness had followed her, the green eyes troubled. “Please, allow me.” She guided Catherine to the yellow drawing room, leading her to a sofa. “I have a maid collecting smelling salts,” she said, gently pressing her to be seated.

  Catherine sat, agitation pumping furiously through her limbs. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Christie—Mama’s maid!—returned, smelling salts in hand. Lady Harkness waved them under her nose. The pungent scent sharpened her brain, speared fresh awareness … fresh pain. “Th-thank you.”

  “Would you care to lie down?”

  “No, ma’am, thank you, but I would prefer to return home.”

  “Send for the carriage,” Lady Harkness tossed over her shoulder.

  “Of course, ma’am.” Christie shot Catherine a worried look.

  Lady Harkness continued her odd perusal. “Tell me, what do you think of our sweet Lydia? She is a charming little thing. Will make a charming hostess, do you not agree?”

  Catherine’s hand clenched. “Y-yes, she will.”

  The soft voice continued. “I am pleased she has made your acquaintance, Miss Winthrop. It always helps to have a local’s knowledge when one is to move into a new area, do you not agree?”

  How long until the carriage would be ready? She pressed fingers deep into her forehead. “I … I suppose.”

  “And she is quite pretty …”

  “Very pretty,” she agreed desperately.

  “Jonathan seems to think so. I overheard him say so just the other day. But then, he has always admired that type.” The green eyes watched her carefully, as if begging her to disagree.

  “I … I am sure you are right.”

  She must be. For had he not rejected Catherine and her far more plain looks? Pain slivered her heart anew.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, the carriage is ready.”

  “Thank you. Miss Winthrop? Shall we go? I shall make your farewells if you prefer.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  A minute later and William had handed Catherine into the carriage. She had a moment’s sweet relief before Lady Harkness reappeared and climbed inside also.

  “Oh, p-please do not feel you need to accompany me,” Catherine said. Mama would have a fit.

  “Nonsense. I cannot permit my guests to go home so poor in spirits. Besides, it gives opportunity to feel I have accomplished something on this otherwise dull and dreary day.”

  Catherine conceded, having had years of experience in recognizing a formidable woman’s will. Somehow she managed a semblance of polite conversation until the carriage reached the lane.

  “Thank you, Lady Harkness. Your kindness is m-much appreciated.”

  “Is it?” Her lips curled, momentarily reminding Catherine of a cat. “Never mind. I’ll confess to a greater degree of curiosity than solicitude. I leave that to my son.” Her smile faded, her features melding into a frown as the carriage stopped outside the cottage. “This is where you live?”

  “This is the Dower House.”

  “Oh.”

  “Th-thank you.” Catherine stepped outside, turned. Gritted out a smile. “Good day.”

  “Good day.”

  As she entered the cold, dim cottage, the image of Lady Harkness’s frown remained, while the questions pricked her silent sorrow, leaving Catherine longing to hide in her room before—

  “Catherine? Is that you?”

  She closed her eyes, bit back a sigh. “Yes, Mama.”

  And spent the next half hour fighting desperately for composure, wishing she could be anywhere else.

  Jonathan sat in the study, correspondence unattended, his thoughts unable to divert from the unsettling incident at lunch. He supposed it was his fault; if he’d not finished matters so quickly he would not have returned, would not have been cast into this quandary of mixed emotion. He’d glanced at Miss Winthrop, but her gaze remained averted, as it had been nearly every time they had met. She seemed pale, wan, the black of her clothes, not nearly as fashionable as Julia’s, made her seem much older, like the spinster she was, the spinster she might always be.

  A pang of pity was chased by heat as his heart hardened. What sort of presumptuous person sought entrée to a lunch hosted by people they deemed beneath them, then refused to engage in civil conversation? Although … The anvil striking his chest reduced its ferocity. Although judging from the varying expressions on his sister’s face, perhaps it was her presumption that had invited one of Winthrop Manor’s previous inhabitants. Still—the old injustice flared again, refusing compassion. Miss Winthrop could have declined—

  Knock, knock.

  “It is open.”

  The door pushed open, followed by his mother. “Jon, dear, may I interrupt you a moment?”

  “Of course.” He shoved his worries to one side. Watched her move to study a picture on the wall.

  “How are you enjoying our little visitor?”

  He strove for noncommittal. “Miss Beauchamp is quite amiable.”

  “I think she will make someone an excellent wife one day.”

  “Mother—”

  “You cannot deny, Jonathan, that is why you brought her back to stay. It is best to know as much as one can about a prospective partner.”

  “You make it seem like I’m inspecting a horse.”

  “Marriages that are rushed into, well, we both know that can be a mistake.”

  Jon nodded, aware his mother referred to that of her brief marriage to Lord Harkness, whose tyrannical and jealous nature had reinforced Jon’s decision to leave the country—and left few mourning the peer’s sudden death from apoplexy only two months after the exchange of vows.

  Her eyes seemed troubled. She moved restlessly around the room, picking up then replacing one item after another. “May I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “I could not help but realize today at luncheon that you never look at Miss Winthrop.” Her gaze narrowed. “Why is that?”

  The old bitterness surged again, chased by an ember of long-buried emotion that refused to give satisfaction to his mother’s curiosity. He could say nothing.

  “How exactly did things end in London?”

  “Mother.” His hands grew clammy. “I do not wish—”

  “Was it possible a mistake was made?”

  He forced his face to remain impassive. “Her father made it very clear.”

  “And you never spoke to her?”

  Jon shook his head. She’d tried once to speak to him, but his hurt was so immense he could not bear to look at her, let alone hear her voice. “It was over two years ago, Mother.”

  “Two years ago, and you still cannot look at her.” She moved from her perch on the armchair to the door, pausing to look over her shoulder. “Why is that, I wonder.”

  She exited, and he slumped in his chair, asking himself the very same question.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CATHERINE PLACED THE needle down and glanced out the
drawing room windows. Rain sheeted incessantly. Everything within her yearned to leave the house, but she could not. The past week’s wet weather had turned paths to sludge, fields to mud. Neither she nor anyone else would be so foolhardy to travel, let alone visit, in such conditions.

  So she was forced to endure Mama’s company and needlework. The mending basket was now empty, leaving her to embroidery. She bit back a sigh and carefully drew the needle through the white cambric in a tiny, perfect stitch. If only she could similarly wield such control over her stupid emotions.

  “I declare if this rain does not soon cease we shall be fit for nothing,” Mama sighed.

  “Or be forced onto an ark.” Catherine tried a smile.

  Mama stared at her blankly. She had never understood Catherine’s levity.

  The brass clock ticked patiently on the mantelpiece. Ticking away the seconds, the minutes, the insignificance of her life. Outside, the relentless rain eased to a patter, echoing the equally stultifying conversation within. Mama’s world had shrunk to herself, her personal aches and pains, her miseries, her misfortune. Complaints about the weather, the poor condition of the house, and the injustice of it all were occasionally interspersed with commentary about the quality of Catherine’s needlework and how black did not become her, and sighing over reminiscences of bygone days.

  Mama placed her embroidery hoop aside and rose. “My lumbago kept me awake for most of last night. I think I’ll return to bed. There’s nothing for me here, anyway.”

  Wasn’t her daughter enough reason, insipid as their conversation might be? Catherine swallowed the hurt. “Shall I get Tilly to find your medicine?”

  “If you would.”

  As Tilly hunted amongst Mama’s various tonics and vinaigrettes, Catherine escorted Mama upstairs to the bedchamber, ensuring the fire was lit, the curtains closed, and her mother made as comfortable as could be.

  The door rasped as she pulled it to. Perhaps Frank could do something about that. Or—her lips twisted—perhaps not.

  Catherine returned to the damp coolness of the sitting room and picked up her needlework. Day after day of cold, miserable rain. Without functions to attend, without visitors to receive, without her gig, she was forced to remain inside, where the rooms only seemed to grow smaller. The only advantage was she could pretend last week’s events at the Manor had never happened. Thinking over her humiliation only increased the headache that had kept her awake for more than one night. Wondering, wishing …

  If only they could get away.

  If only they could be somewhere that did not forever remind of bereavement, of the past, of lost futures.

  Verses from this morning’s Bible reading flickered into memory. She winced. Sighed. Prayed. Lord, give me patience. Help me honor Mama. Help me be a blessing to others …

  She refocused on her needlework, dutifully stitching until the clock struck noon, then wrapped the needle in paper and placed it away in her wooden sewing box. Stitching was the merest distraction. The lack of physical activity had induced a lethargy that grew by the day. No walking. No riding. Nothing more strenuous than climbing the too-steep flight of stairs several times each day. Restlessness writhed, as though a dozen adders resided within. If she did nothing for too much longer, she might shatter.

  Her stomach groaned—yet another sign she lacked the ladylike qualities Mama was so insistent upon—admitting to hunger pangs. Although perhaps this desire for sustenance was borne from needing something to do, rather than genuine hunger. She moved to the kitchen, peering out the low window to note the rain had finally ceased.

  Mrs. Jones glanced up. Shadows underscored deep lines of fatigue. “Yes, Miss?”

  “Mrs. Jones, you do not look at all well.”

  “I am well as can be.” Her face hardened, then she resumed kneading dough. “I’m a wee bit tired, that is all.”

  “Pardon me, but is something the matter?” Catherine stepped closer.

  The cook sighed, clapped flour from her hands then wiped them on her apron. “It’s my sister, Miss.”

  “You mean Lizzie?”

  “She’s been a mite unwell, and her newborn is fractious. I’ve been that worried about her.” She shifted a tray of raspberry tarts on the large oak table centering the kitchen. “Jem has been sick, too, but can’t leave the cows in this weather, so I’ve been puzzling over what to do.”

  “But that is obvious.”

  “Miss?”

  “You must assist your sister until the family is better. Surely we do not require your assistance as much as they.”

  “I … I cannot just leave.”

  “You can if I come with you.”

  “But Lady Winthrop—”

  “Is in bed, and hardly likely to know if you and I are here or not.”

  “Miss, sure and you would not—that is, you do not need to feel obliged—”

  “I feel the same sense of obligation anyone who is a Christian must. Please do not worry about your work here. If the evening meal is prepared, then Tilly can serve it, I’m sure. Now, what remains to be done?”

  A quarter hour later, having informed a startled Tilly of their plans and written a note of explanation for Mama, Catherine rejoined Mrs. Jones in the kitchen, both now dressed in clothes more appropriate for a journey through mud.

  “Miss, I do appreciate this, really I do, but I cannot help but wonder—”

  “Mrs. Jones, I know I’ve not had much experience in nursing, but if nothing else, I can hold the baby while you attend your sister.”

  “Very well.” The cook eyed her shoes. “But you’ll want to wear your sturdiest boots, miss. The mud out there is fit to swallow those slippers.”

  Catherine dutifully exchanged her shoes, reappearing holding the slippers in one hand. “Thank goodness it has stopped raining. Now, have you got some food packed? Can I carry a basket?”

  “But we should not—”

  “Why? We have an excess of food, and I’m sure your sister’s family would be appreciative. Pack that fresh loaf, the cake, and those tarts. Mama will be glad to see them being put to good use.”

  Well, she would if she knew about it. And even if she wasn’t, she should be.

  Minutes later, they were squelching through mud, Catherine tasting something close to happiness at finally being freed from the cottage. The sun remained behind heavy clouds, giving the day a muted feel. Dampness from the morning’s showers clung to the leaves and grass, sprinkling them with moisture as they passed beneath each tree. The wind shivered through the hedges and oaks, skimming over the muddy ground, which—as promised—threatened to suck away her balance. The journey to Lizzie’s farmhouse was not long, but Catherine felt close to exhaustion by the time they arrived.

  She divested herself of mud-encrusted boots at the door and wobbled into her slippers as Mrs. Jones pushed open the door with an ample hip and a call. “Lizzie!”

  The red-cheeked young housewife looked up. Blinked. “Maggie! And Miss Winthrop! I”—she turned, coughed—“I did not expect you here.”

  “And when I woke this morning, neither did I,” Catherine said with a smile. “I understand you’ve not been well.”

  Lizzie coughed again. “It’s Mary that worries me. She won’t stop screaming.”

  “Where—?”

  Before she could finish, the baby signaled her whereabouts with a lusty yell. Catherine glanced at Lizzie’s crumpling features and said briskly, “Your sister is here to care for you whilst I care for Mary. Now rest.”

  “But Miss—”

  “Rest,” Catherine repeated firmly, then hurried up the creaking stairs to the ever-louder cry. She pushed open the door to an ear-splitting wail coming from the wooden cot.

  “Poor darling.”

  At her words, the babe silenced, staring at her with wide blue eyes.

  And promptly resumed her forceful cry, as she realized the stranger was not her mother.

  “There, there, dearest. I know I’m not your pretty mama, but yo
u do not need to act quite so disappointed.”

  Catherine picked up the tiny blanket-swathed girl, lifting her to her shoulder. Within seconds, a loud burp and wet feeling on her sleeve indicated what the previous problem had been. She wrinkled her nose at the sour milk smell, noting traces of baby sick now laced her hair. Wonderful.

  For the next three hours she did all she could to placate the child, singing to her, holding her close, changing her sodden clothes. Poor Lizzie. How challenging to care for a restless child when ill herself. A bubble of gladness rose within. How satisfying to know Catherine’s time was finally being put to good use.

  When the babe started nuzzling her chest she felt a moment’s blush before carrying Mary downstairs to her mother, then she returned to tidy the room. Once completed, she sat in the aged rocking chair, tracing the carved handles with her fingers. Obviously handmade, passed from one generation to the next, the chair displayed such workmanship, the pride of a husband and father-to-be. How many dreams had been spun as women rocked their children in this very seat?

  An acute yearning took hold. She wanted a baby. Her own. But that would take a miracle, hemmed in as she was by her mother’s expectations, and the lack of any suitors. Her eyes burned. Lord?

  Silence, save for chair’s slight wheeze and ker-thunk.

  Wheeze and ker-thunk.

  Catherine drew in a deep breath. Exhaled. Swallowed the rawness in her throat. Pushed to her feet. Stirring up dreams that could never be fulfilled was a fool’s game. She pushed out a tight smile. And the ladies of Winthrop were never foolish, were they?

  She returned downstairs to be greeted by the heady scents of yeast and beef stew. The place looked transformed. She complimented Mrs. Jones on her hard work, which was met by a shrug but pink cheeks.

  Lizzie smiled from her corner of the room. “You’ve been a godsend.”

  “I’m glad you’re looking a little more refreshed.”

  “I haven’t rested during the day for ever so long. There is always so much to do.”

  Catherine nodded, feeling like a hypocrite. If only she had something to do. “Well, I suppose I should leave you. Mama might be getting a little worried. I left a note, but …”