The two women nodded, and Catherine winced inside. Probably half the county knew of Mama’s reputation for anxiety.
“I trust you’ll be feeling much better soon,” Catherine said, stroking the sleeping babe’s downy head, before glancing up. “And Mrs. Jones, if you wish to stay, I will convey appropriate excuses to Mama.”
“But, Miss, you cannot walk back by yourself.”
“Why ever not?” She removed her slippers, shoved her stockinged feet into the muddy boots. “I don’t imagine I will meet anyone on my return. It is less than a mile, after all.”
“But your mother—”
“Is probably still abed, and as such, need not be concerned. Which is probably how it should remain, would you not agree? Now, Mrs. Jones, regarding tomorrow. Shall I tell Mama you cannot come tomorrow, as you are caring for a sick relative?”
“Oh, Miss, I could never do that.”
“I think you could, if you so desired. I know I’ve never been a particularly adept student in the kitchen, but I don’t think I’ve completely forgotten all the instructions you and Cook were so patient in teaching me back at the Manor.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Jones said, “Thank you, Miss. I’d be much obliged.”
“Good.” She turned to Lizzie. “I hope to see you all looking better next time.”
“Next time?”
“If you’ll permit me to visit again. After all, young Mary and I need to become better acquainted.”
Gratitude flashed in the former maid’s eyes and was echoed in her words.
Catherine made her adieus then traipsed back along the path to the cottage. As she’d suspected, she encountered no other travelers on such a dire day, though once she glimpsed a horseman on the ridge. She blinked, but he remained fuzzy and indistinguishable. Did she now need eyeglasses? Wonderful. Surely such a thing would complete her transformation into an old maid.
She entered the cottage quietly, was met by Tilly who informed her that Mama had not stirred, and thus remained unaware of Catherine’s absence, so after bidding Tilly to silence she crumpled up her earlier note and hurried into clean clothes.
That night at dinner, having heated the stew from earlier, she mentioned Mrs. Jones’s dilemma.
“But who will cook for us?”
“Mama, you have scarcely eaten a bite in two weeks.” She eyed her mother’s barely tasted bowl of lamb and vegetables.
“But if I feel hungry tomorrow, I would want something more substantial than this.” She waved a dismissive hand.
Catherine swallowed a tender chunk of lamb along with her exasperation. “Mama, surely we should extend a helping hand to those less fortunate. Lizzie is not well, neither is her husband, and their newborn does not allow much rest.”
“They should have thought of that before deciding to have a child.”
“Mother!”
“Don’t ‘Mother’ me, my girl. I am still mistress of this house, and I do not give a by-your-leave for any of my servants running off to do whatever they will, simply because a relative has had the bad management to have a child when they cannot take care of it.”
“They are sick, Mama! And this is Lizzie, whom we both know to be—”
“Be that as it may, I do not see why we should be forced to suffer just because they took a notion to be unwell.”
“Took a notion? Mama—” She bit back the uncomplimentary comment about her mother’s inclination for invalidism. “Some people are actually unwell. If you could’ve heard her—”
Mama’s eyes rounded. “She was here?”
“No.” She winced internally at her slip. “Of course not.”
“You went there?”
“Mama, she was ill. Surely we must care for our neighbors in such situations.”
“Never tell me that you walked?” Mama looked aghast.
She kept her lips sealed.
“I hope you were properly attended!”
“Mrs. Jones was with me.” She refrained from mentioning her lack of escort for the return journey. Prudence did not invite sure condemnation.
“Well! I cannot approve, although I suppose it does show we are still concerned with the well-being of our tenants.”
We are? She bit down the acidic comment.
“But I still do not like the thought of being forced to eat warmed over food simply because you took a notion to be kinder to your neighbors than to your own mother.”
“Think of how positively the neighbors will view such kindness,” Catherine said tiredly.
“That is something, I suppose.”
A little something, she thought. A sop to her mother’s sensibilities, if nothing else.
The sun felt warmer today, drying the mud into thin slivers that cracked and crackled under Gulliver’s hooves. Jonathan breathed in the scents of hay and soft sweetness from the blossoms, glad to be back, glad to be outside.
His recent trip to London had left him weary of mind and body. The recent dividends were not to be derided, but he wished to do without the mercenary talk of the stockholders committee meeting. Rich men who desired greater riches without investing into socially beneficial schemes disappointed him as much as it had Harold Carlew. The foremost benefit of his time in the capital had been meeting Hawkesbury at White’s.
Despite their different social upbringings, it seemed their acquaintanceship was ripening into friendship, faith yet another trait they shared. When Jon had wandered into White’s dining room, the earl had invited him to join his table. Over a delicious meal of steak and kidney Jon had shared something of his frustration, until Hawkesbury reminded him of Jesus and the rich young ruler. “Some people count the cost of things of eternal significance as too high, whilst others are simply blind.” He gave a wry smile. “I know, because until I met my Lavinia, I was very blind, indeed.”
“You were very fortunate to meet her.”
“Fortunate, or was it God’s perfect timing? I think we both know the answer to that.”
“God made the way for you.” Unlike him. Miss Beauchamp was lovely, and the more he grew to know her, the more he agreed with his mother that the girl would make a very good wife. But … a wife for him?
“Yes.” The earl eyed him. “You must excuse what will seem an impertinence, but do I detect something of frustration concerning your own situation?”
Jon stilled. “My own situation?”
“Forgive me if I’m being obtuse, but is it not Miss Beauchamp whom you intend to wed?”
“Nothing has been settled.”
“I see.”
Something in the hazel eyes suggested the earl did understand. Gratitude bloomed in his chest when no further questions came, and they both finished their meals.
The plates were cleared swiftly, both men refusing the port offered by the waiter, Jon excusing himself on account of his need to return home.
“Winthrop, before you go, may I offer you words once said to me when I was in a similar quandary?”
“Of course.”
“What do you think your heavenly Father is saying about the matter?”
Jon glanced away to study the paneled walls. The room continued its gentle buzz of conversation, but within the question whirred loudly.
But that question was the problem. Whenever he tried to pray he only heard silence. Was that confirmation or a negative? Or were his head and heart too confused for him to hear anything at all?
He shook his head and said aloud, “I will trust for the Lord to direct my paths.”
“Amen.” The earl had nodded, before making his departure.
That prayer rose from Jon’s heart again as he nudged Gulliver to the southern farm, determined to think on less troubling things. Mr. Clipshom, his estate manager, kept him informed about his tenants, which had necessitated today’s visit. James Foley was a fifth generation tenant on the Winthrop estate, his dedication and forbearance evidenced by his willingness to listen to Clipshom’s suggestions about new farming techniques, de
spite his rich farming heritage.
Jonathan liked the blunt-spoken young man as much for his humility as for his common sense, his patience in answering his new landlord’s questions showing a deference some of the older farmers were yet to offer.
He crested the ridge and rode through neat yet muddied fields, evoking memories of the monsoon-ravaged fields of India. As he dismounted outside the farmhouse, a thin wail came from the top window. He half smiled. Knocked on the door. It swiftly opened, revealing the young farmer, a partially eaten meal on the table. Clearly Jon’s visit had been badly timed.
“Good day, Foley.”
“Lord Winthrop! We weren’t expecting you, not with all this mud.”
“I suspect if we ceased our duties every time a little weather made things difficult there would be few tasks completed.”
“Aye, that be the way of things ’ere.”
The crying from upstairs ceased. “I seem to have interrupted your meal.” Jon indicated the table.
“’Tis no bother.”
They chatted briefly about the recent rains, and the sad potential of the future harvest, when a creak on the stairs prefaced the appearance of the farmer’s young wife, holding the now-quiet baby. Her eyes seemed worried.
Jon smiled to relieve her fears. “Good day, Mrs. Foley.”
“M’lord.” She dipped a curtsy. “Has Jem offered you something to drink?”
“Thank you, but I’ve come to enquire as to your health. Clipshom tells me you’ve been unwell.”
“Aye. The missus and I have been quite sick this past fortnight. If it weren’t for Lizzie’s Maggie—”
“My sister,” the young wife said, shifting the babe in her arms.
“—we might have been done for.” Foley continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “She was here most days—”
“And nights.”
“—cooking, or cleaning, or just taking care of the wee one.”
“You are blessed to have such a sister,” Jon said to the farmer’s wife.
“And blessed she works for Lady Winthrop.”
“Oh? I do not recall a Maggie working at the Manor.”
“Oh no, sir. Maggie—Mrs. Jones she be now—still works for the Lady Winthrop, at the Dower House. Although, she hasn’t done much working there of late. I do hope she won’t get into trouble—”
“Now, love, remember Miss Catherine said she would see to things.”
Jon’s heart skipped a beat. “Miss Catherine?”
“Yes, m’lord. Miss Winthrop’s a right good one. She’s been here, too.”
“Whenever she can get away,” Mrs. Foley added. “Her ladyship can get awful anxious and gets these moods, you see.”
He nodded as if he did see. “And Miss Winthrop?”
“Comes to care for the wee one. She’s always apologetic for not doing more, but I tell her every pair of hands helps. You know how it is with babes, sir.”
“I don’t,” he replied, “but I can imagine.”
“Well, so could she. In fact, she was here earlier. I’m surprised you didn’t pass her on the way.”
He frowned. “She walks here?”
“Well, she certainly doesn’t fly, I know that much.” Foley grinned.
“Sir, you look surprised,” the farmer’s wife said.
He felt surprise. And a degree of admiration steal past his defenses. He hadn’t thought on her overmuch these past weeks; hadn’t dared—
“Lizzie here doesn’t like how she comes alone.”
“She walks without an escort?”
“Well, she don’t have a bunch of footmen now, does she?”
Alarm rose within. This part of Gloucestershire was hardly the back streets of London, but still, anything could happen. Anger at himself for feeling concern made him say, “I thought she knew better.”
“Well, and I think she does!” Mrs. Foley bristled. “But how else is she to get here?”
“But she should not walk alone.”
“That is what I tell her, sir, but she says it’s only a short distance.”
“I’m surprised her mother permits such a thing.”
Mrs. Foley glanced at her husband before looking at Jon. “I don’t know if her ladyship is always aware, sir.”
He nodded, his lips thinning. So her independent streak had not completely gone, then. “And you say she’s recently left.”
“Aye, sir. Not more than twenty minutes ago.”
Which should allow plenty of time for him to find her, then to wring her pretty neck.
HE SPOTTED HER halfway to the cottage, arms filled with yellow cowslips, shoulders slumped. “Miss Winthrop.”
She turned. Mud spattered her rosy cheeks, drenched her hem. Her dark eyes widened.
Something twisted deep within, as for a moment, he was lost in their depths, in his memories. He forced his thoughts away, forced himself to focus on the mess, on the mud. “What are you doing?”
“Picking flowers.”
His brows rose.
“As you have just come from the direction of the Foley farm, I suspect you know what I’ve been doing.” She lifted her chin. “We take care of Winthrop’s people.”
Perhaps she did, but his conversations with many of the farmers revealed her father’s decided lack of care. He tempered his tone. “That is most admirable.”
She shot him a look as if disbelieving then glanced away.
His heart panged. She did not believe him? “Please allow me to escort you home.”
Half a dozen emotions crossed her face. “There is no need, sir.”
“But you should not be walking alone.”
“Perhaps. But there are many things in this world that are not as they should be.”
Was this a veiled reference to his assumption of the title? He forced down the spurt of resentment, forced himself to repeat his offer.
Her fists clenched, then relaxed. Her thank-you sounded like it came through gritted teeth.
Without a sidesaddle, and dressed as she was in her simple gown, he couldn’t very well lift her onto his horse, so he slid down and accompanied her, wondering what his mother and guests would say when he returned in such mud-spattered condition.
Miss Winthrop did not speak, which suited him well, as he had no words to say which might not sound condemning. So he walked alongside her, taking the moment to enjoy the crisp breeze on his face, the tang of wet grass and damp earth, the soft swish of her skirts. Gulliver nickered, seeming to object to the thick mud squelching and sucking beneath them.
While wrestling with the reins he caught her sidelong glance. She glanced away.
“It seems Gulliver is more precious than some and dislikes being dressed in mud.”
“Do you mean to imply something, sir?” She stopped, eyebrows lifting.
“Of course not.”
Now her eyes narrowed, chin rose. She marched on.
Bemused, he hurried after her. The thick hedge came into view, behind which huddled the yellow-gray stone of the Dower House. “The Foleys mentioned your good deeds.”
“I have no wish for them to be advertised, sir.”
And with a mother inclined to worry he could well understand why. “I think you most magnanimous. Except, I do not like you visiting alone.”
She sighed, slanted him an upward look. “Do you plan to accompany me each time I visit?”
“I … no. Of course not.”
Her lips tightened, so he couldn’t tell if she was relieved or disappointed.
“But I do not want you walking alone.”
“Well, we do not always get what we want, do we?” Her eyes flashed, and she hurried up the path to disappear inside the cottage.
Leaving him torn between resentment and reluctant admiration, and conscious that this conversation was the most they had exchanged in over two years.
The nerve of him! Spoiling her happiness at finally feeling useful. Acting so concerned, like he cared for her well-being, when past actions made
it obvious he did not. She huffed her way inside. Shut the door so she needn’t glimpse his concern and feel that twinge of regret again.
“Catherine? Is that you?”
She sighed. “Yes, Mama.” She removed her cloak, hung it on a peg beside the door, then moved to the sitting room to meet her mother’s frown.
“Where have you been?”
“Walking in the lane.” It was the truth. Mostly.
“Was that Mr. Carlew I saw outside?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Her mother’s brows pushed together. “What was he doing?”
“Walking, Mama?”
“Don’t take that tone with me! I could see that he wasn’t riding. Was he walking with you?”
“Yes.”
“Was he talking with you?”
“Why? Are you worried he is going to proposition me?”
“Catherine!”
“Mama, I do not understand why you would object to his escorting me home.”
Mama sniffed. “Home from where? And why would you need his escort? Surely you were not walking alone?”
Catherine swallowed.
“I do not like you being so thoughtlessly independent! Who knows what might happen?”
“Lavinia always did,” she muttered.
“You are not to compare your conduct with hers. And I daresay that now she has a little more knowledge of the ways of the world, she does not do so any longer. Can you see the earl countenancing such behavior?”
“Actually—”
“Catherine!”
“But Mama, who is there to accost me?”
“That is enough! I do not want you visiting anywhere alone anymore. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She bit her lip, willing the tears away, as her heart bowed to the inevitable, and her precious glimpse of freedom was snatched away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“OH, LORD WINTHROP! Look what Julia and I found!” Miss Beauchamp pointed to an antiquated gig. “Would you mind if I drive around in this little contraption? I requested your groom to make it ready, but he seemed a trifle reluctant.”
Jonathan nodded to the older man. “Wilson, please assist our guest.”
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