He turned away, avoiding the reproach in the stableman’s eyes, as Carmichael and Miss Beauchamp exchanged pleasantries about the day’s fine weather. Well he knew his decisions were sometimes less than pleasing to his staff, but few dared question the new baron openly.
Was there something wrong in his request? His fingers clenched. How he hated to second-guess. Hale’s and Carmichael’s return this morning had coincided with the confusion that had steadily risen in the night. Miss Winthrop’s obvious aversion yesterday had fueled memories, fueled regrets. He had thought himself in hand …
Miss Beauchamp’s laughter tinkled. He met her open, warm gaze with a small smile.
She beamed at him, turning aside to answer Carmichael once again.
Daily interactions with his visitors had done what house parties were doubtless supposed to do: encouraged new appreciation and understanding of his guests, particularly this pretty, unaffected, sweet-tempered guest. Would she accept his suit?
He knew from the way Mrs. Beauchamp eyed the artwork and expensive furnishings what she would recommend to her daughter. There seemed no hesitation over his possible disreputable antecedents for that lady. And yet …
Something still did not sit well. His prayers on the subject seemed to meet with neither a yes nor a no. Which meant—what, exactly? God wanted to bless him, so his Bible told him. Surely finding a wife was simply more of the blessing.
Shaking off his thoughts, he soon joined Hale and Carmichael in riding alongside the ladies, Julia having joined Miss Beauchamp in the little carriage.
Miss Beauchamp was soon swiftly passing along, smiling hugely as she gently snapped the reins. “Look at us! I feel like a grandmother, driving this odd little thing.”
“We must look like grandmothers, too,” said Julia with a laugh.
Jon smiled indulgently, ensuring their excursion would not traverse too many awkward hills for the gig to pass over. They rode along the back lane to St. Hampton Heath. Near the top of a rise he could see two figures. He nudged Gulliver to a slower pace as Carmichael raised a hand against the glare of the sun.
“Old man, is that Miss Winthrop ahead?”
Jonathan nodded, before realizing Carmichael could not see him. “I believe so, yes.”
“Why the deuce is she walking about without a maid?”
He swallowed the reply: Doubtless because she could no longer afford one.
“Who is that?”
“I believe … young Jack.”
“Young Jack? He looks a trifle too tall to be termed ‘young’ Jack,” Carmichael muttered with a sidelong glance.
“He is young of mind,” Jon murmured.
“You mean—wait, why is he standing so close to her?”
Jon squinted. Saw the young man lift a hand. Lean closer.
Tightness banded his chest. Was Mrs. Beauchamp correct? Was Jack a threat to others?
He prodded the stallion into a canter, a gallop, his pulse racing faster than Gulliver’s hooves. He nudged Gulliver closer, closer, his gaze pinned on them.
Miss Winthrop took a step back, but Jack moved too close again. She held out her hands, saw Jack hold them—
“Miss Winthrop!” He pulled up short, slid from Gulliver’s back, hurried to her, eyes, thoughts, only for her. “Are you quite well?”
She glanced up, shading her eyes, her mouth pulled down, as if displeased by his intrusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is anything the matter?”
“No.”
“You are not harmed in any way?” He glanced at the gangling youth, holding a covered plate, his slack-jawed face devoid of comprehension.
“Jack? Harm me? Have you lost your senses?”
“I thought—”
“Jack would no more harm me than would a butterfly!”
Her quelling look forced his step back. “I beg your pardon.”
“It is Jack who is owed the apology.”
“I, er, I am sorry, young Jack.” He eyed the plate dubiously. “But I suspect your offerings to Miss Winthrop are not always appreciated.”
Jack looked vacantly at him. Jon turned to Miss Winthrop, whose face held two bright spots of color.
“I do not know what gives you the right to presume to know my feelings upon any matter—”
His lips twitched. It would not be off the mark to presume she was angry.
“—But I resent your interference, sir, and wish you would refrain!”
His amusement faded, as the icy contempt in her eyes and voice sent a shiver across his soul. He bowed. Stepped back. Fiddled with Gulliver’s reins, pretending not to watch as she turned to the gangling youth and smiled.
“Now, Jack, please tell your mother I hope she enjoys the pie.” She lowered her voice. “I trust she will find it palatable.”
“Palatable?” Jack said in his not-so-quiet voice.
She encouraged him on his way, before her attention returned to Jon. The warmth in her expression drained away. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Carlew. Good day.”
She moved to leave but he stepped in her way. “Are you quite sure, Miss Winthrop?”
“Sure about your concern or that it is a good day?”
“I wish you would know my concern is real. I would not like for y—for anybody to be in danger.”
“Jack? Dangerous?” She stared at him. “I have known him all my life. Perhaps he is not as clever as some, but neither is he cruel. He is, in fact, as gentle as a lamb. I assure you, I am as safe with him as I am with anybody in Winthrop Manor. Now, please excuse me.”
She stepped around him, just as Miss Beauchamp drove toward them. Miss Winthrop stilled, paled. Her hand fluttered to her mouth.
“Catherine!” Julia called, a big smile lighting her face. “Do you not agree we look like perfect little grandmothers in this contraption?”
“No.”
The broken whisper caused a strange pang to strike his chest.
“Miss Winthrop? Is something the matter?” Miss Beauchamp asked. “I’m afraid you do not look at all well.”
The dark eyes so fixated on his guest swept to him then back again. “I …” She swallowed. “W-where did you get the gig?”
“This old-fashioned thing? We found it in the corner of the stables, didn’t we, Julia?”
Something like a wince crossed Miss Winthrop’s features.
“I thought it looked quite quaint and vastly amusing. It looks like it hasn’t been touched in years! Would you like to have a turn?” Miss Beauchamp added kindly, “The seat is not very wide, but then neither are you, so I can move—”
“That will not be necessary, thank you,” Miss Winthrop said stiffly, before murmuring an excuse and hurrying away, barely acknowledging Carmichael’s offer to escort her home.
He watched her departure, conscious of his rising irritation. Why was she always so rude to his guests? Why did she always treat him with disdain? It was almost like she held him at fault for their estrangement.
He continued to ponder her strange reaction on their return to Winthrop Manor, responding with single syllables to Carmichael’s commentary on the countryside as Hale danced attendance on the ladies.
When they rounded the drive, Wilson hurried out to help the ladies from the gig, and the small party drifted toward the house ahead of him.
Jon nodded to the head groom. “The reins appear to need repair.”
“Yes, sir.” Wilson, usually so affable and obliging, refused to look at him.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, my lord.”
He frowned. “Miss Beauchamp said you were reluctant to fulfill her request this morning.”
The groom’s cheeks flushed. “If I might speak candidly, sir?”
“I always prefer that.”
“Y’see, I did not feel quite right about her using it, seeing as the gig was a gift from his lordship and all.”
“The former Lord Winthrop?”
“Aye, sir.”
He had a qu
easy feeling he already knew the answer, but asked the question anyway. “A gift for whom?”
The man’s weatherbeaten face lifted to his. “Miss Catherine. He gave it to her nigh on two years ago. Picked it up in London.”
His heart twisted. Two years ago. Had the gift been reward for rejecting him? Regardless, it was little wonder she had seemed distressed.
“She loved it, would use it all the time, old fashioned though it be. Some days she’d be out for hours, visiting the tenants, or Miss Lavinia—pardon me, I mean the countess, up at the Hall. And while it hasn’t been used for months, I still did not imagine anyone but she using it.”
“I see.”
“But I’ll get right on it, sir, and have those reins fixed up in no time.”
“No hurry,” he surprised himself as well as the groom by saying. “Should anyone request its use, say it is in storage for its rightful owner.”
Wilson blinked before a wide smile split his weathered face. “Well, that I can do, sir. Although I don’t quite see how Miss Winthrop could use it, seeing it needs a horse, and the stables at the cottage are none too big—”
“A gift is a gift, and I would be loathe to impair someone’s pleasure through my ignorance. Tell me, are there other items of which I should be made aware?”
The man shuffled his feet. “If I may be so bold, sir, I suggest you speak to Mr. Geoffreys.”
“You may.”
A smile twisted the man’s face and he muttered something about getting back to cleaning the tack room before he swiftly disappeared, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts, his memories, those gnawing regrets as he made his way back to the Manor.
“Carlew!” Hale called from atop the stone steps leading to the terrace. “Beg pardon”—he chuckled as if he’d uttered a witticism—“your lordship! Wanted to see if you were free for a game of billiards.”
“Billiards?” Jon forced his thoughts to disentangle, forced himself to act the good host. “Of course.”
“Good.”
Jon nodded. Perhaps it would be good. Distraction through a game or two might counter some of the turmoil he’d felt in the last few hours. Focusing on the here, the now, the certain had to be better than dredging up the past.
“I need to know if you’re as good as you were back in India.”
Jon pushed out a smile. “Now I’ve established a billiards room here”—one of the few changes he’d made at Winthrop—“I’m sure to be much better.”
It wasn’t until much later, several wins later, that he finally got the chance to speak to Geoffreys privately in the study. “I need your help in a sensitive matter.”
“I am at your service, my lord.” The impeccably groomed man bowed.
In the months since Jon’s arrival he’d found the butler required a delicacy of manner in order for him to unbend a little. He obviously preened himself on his knowledge, and seemed to believe Jon’s own knowledge was severely handicapped by his unfortunate connections in trade.
“It’s recently come to my attention that certain things which belonged particularly to the family of his late lordship have not been passed on to their rightful owners. I cannot help but wonder if there are other elements in the house which might also be thus affected.”
“If I may say, sir, your sensitivity shows a great deal of consideration.” Geoffreys gave a thin smile. “There are, you understand, certain difficulties in ensuring everything was distributed appropriately, given the”—he coughed—“given the circumstances, as it were.”
The near bankruptcy. Jon nodded. “I understand. I just wished to know if anything personally belonging to either Lady Winthrop, Miss Winthrop, or Miss Serena still remained in the house. If so, I wish to ensure it is either given to them, or protected, as the case may be.”
Thus followed a conversation that left him by turns unsettled and relieved, though concerned that several of his mother’s plans would need to be halted immediately. It even left him wondering whether his trip to London on the morrow should be postponed.
And that night, surrounded by his guests at the dinner table, dressed in their finery, laughing, enjoying spirited conversations and mild flirtations, a tiny part of him again wondered about the girl who had lost almost all.
CHAPTER THİRTEEN
September
CATHERINE FROWNED AS she studied the waving fields outside her bedchamber window. Shorter than previous years, she hoped—she prayed—the harvest would provide sufficiently for the farmers. Every so often the village encountered a family straggling from the north or from as far away as Wales. She had heard of hardship and famine due to the crop shortages caused by the unseasonably low temperatures, such news causing many prayers to rise from her heart. Such perspective also alleviated her feelings about her own situation—she had much for which to be thankful. Even if at times she struggled to remember to be grateful.
A visit from Serena in celebration of her birthday had been small comfort this past fortnight, her delight at their reunion tempered by her younger sister’s obvious shock at their new accommodations. Now forced to share a bedchamber, Serena’s whispered dismay had further disheartened Catherine. “This place is so small and cramped. I feel like I can barely breathe, let alone paint anything!”
Her artistic sister’s relief upon leaving to go visit another friend was apparent to anyone who truly knew her, her placid countenance effective disguise to the less observant. But though she was glad Serena did not have to suffer boredom also, her departure only reinforced Catherine’s own loneliness.
“Catherine!”
She sighed. Sometimes it was hard to be thankful. Mama was not easy, her attitudes grating against the peace Catherine strove to find in her morning devotions. And she did not want to impose on Lavinia’s friendship too much, especially as time drew near for the babe’s arrival. And she could not bring herself to return Julia’s occasional visits; she did not dare kindle the heartache of seeing Mr. Carlew with his younger, much prettier—
“Catherine!” her mother called again. “Where are you?”
She gritted her teeth as verses she had read that morning about honoring parents arose in her memory. Lord, help me honor Mama. It is not always easy—
“Here you are.” Mama burst into Catherine’s bedchamber without knocking. She held a white paper, thickly scrawled, dotted with a blob of red sealing wax. “Drusilla has replied at last. She wishes our arrival for next week.”
Catherine blinked. “Next week?”
“Drusilla says she would welcome my company—and yours, too, I suppose—especially as society is a trifle thin at the moment.”
“But …” A hundred thoughts cramped her brain, crammed in her throat. She swallowed. “How would we get ready to leave in time?”
“We shall not need much, some clothes, that is all. Most of what we have is so outdated we shall have to buy more.”
“But we cannot afford it. Mama, you know we must economize—”
“Do not say such dreadful things! If I need new gowns, I shall have more. Who are you to say no?”
Only her daughter, whose marriage settlement was fast being spent on unsustainable living expenses. “I need nothing more. We shall remain in black, shall we not?”
“I will wear black my remaining days. You, however …” She paused, frowning. “Black has never become you, Catherine. It makes you look sallow.”
“Thank you, Mama,” she replied, unable to hide the hurt in her voice.
Her mother harrumphed. “As you are approaching half mourning, I think you may wear gray. We do not want any young men thinking you are ineligible.”
“Mama! I cannot, that is, I do not want—”
“To make a suitable match? Nonsense, my dear. You are still a Winthrop, even if that name doesn’t count for as much as it once did. And though you might not bring a dowry quite as large as before, you will have something.”
A very little something, she thought, if Mama’s spendthrift ways continued.
> “Now, do not spoil my anticipation of the future with reminders of the past.” Mama glanced out the small window, her expression one of discontent. “The sooner we can leave this place the better.”
And Catherine, heart filled with misery, agreed.
The sound of carriage wheels outside drew Mama’s loud sigh and snapped, “Oh, for goodness’ sake! Who is it now?”
She joined her mother in peering out the window, saw the crest on the coach.
“Well! The earl condescends to visit us again,” Mama said in a tone that managed to sound both plaintive and smug. “It is good to see some still recognize what I am due.”
Hurrying downstairs, Catherine informed Mrs. Jones of the need for tea, whilst Mama, her woebegone ways vanished, stood at the door as though heading the receiving line of a grand London ball.
Mama’s voice carried down the short hallway. “My lord, how kind of you to condescend to call on us again.”
The earl murmured something as Catherine hurried to meet them. After greeting the earl, she clasped Lavinia’s hands. “I did not think to see you visiting at this stage.”
“We had hoped to see Serena,” Lavinia said. “It’s been an age and I wondered how she was finding school in Bath, and how her art studies were progressing.”
“Oh, but she is not here. She is—”
“The Aynsley girls collected her yesterday,” Mama said, the note of pride in her voice unmistakable. “Serena will be in Somerset until classes resume. I do like how she has the good sense to cultivate those sorts of friendships. And the viscount’s daughters are quite charming. But it is good of you to visit. Especially as we are quitting the neighborhood.”
“You are leaving?” Lavinia’s brows arched. “This is a surprise.”
“We are to visit my aunt—”
“We shall visit my sister in Bath,” Mama interrupted, as if Catherine hadn’t been speaking. “I find I simply cannot abide staying here.”
Lavinia and the earl exchanged glances. The door opened and Tilly entered with the tea and a plate of tiny currant cakes. Tilly poured as Catherine handed around plates, ensuring everyone had something to eat.
Mama spread a cake with clotted cream and took a bite.
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 13