Mama’s face crumpled. “Oh, what are we to do?”
“Now, now, Elvira.” The general patted her on the shoulder. “Let us have a bite to eat then we can think some more.”
“Are you dangling for an invitation for dinner, General Whitby?” asked Aunt Drusilla.
“Not dangling. Asking plainly.”
Catherine chuckled.
“Oh, how can you laugh at a time like this?” Mama moaned.
“Because, Mama, words are but noise carried away on the wind.”
“Hmph!”
They had to be. Gossip couldn’t really hurt her. Could it?
CATHERINE’S FINE IDEALS about the power—or lack thereof—of words were sorely put to the test the following day at services. For despite the hymns and message on forgiveness, despite the gracious prayers and time shared in Holy Communion, still people eyed her askance as she returned from the Communion rail to her aunt’s pew. And later, as the congregation gathered in the square to chat outside the church’s huge wooden doors, she could not help but notice the friendly smiles of a week ago were no longer being returned. Instead the ladies looked through her, without acknowledgment, as though she was not even standing there, their snubs as cutting as a whip.
She forced herself to smile past the sting. To breathe in. Exhale. Pray. Lord, give me wisdom. And grace. And vindication …
As Mama and Aunt Drusilla spoke with some ladies, their brittle smiles doubtless designed to show their lack of concern for the insinuations whirling around Catherine, she noticed another lady standing nearby, a Mrs. Plume whom she’d met whilst visiting Serena at Miss Haverstock’s seminary.
“Good day, Mrs. Plume.” Catherine smiled her most winning smile. “How is your daughter? Is she enjoying her studies?”
“Oh, er, yes, I believe so.”
“Our Serena writes to say how much she is enjoying learning art. We never had much opportunity to learn whilst growing up.”
“Oh. I, er, believe the art master is considered to be quite handsome.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Her stomach tensed; was this turn in the conversation veering into insinuation? She would not allow Serena’s name to come into question. “Haverstock’s is a fine institution, would you not agree? Which subject does”—she thought desperately to remember the daughter’s name—“Victoria prefer?”
“I couldn’t say.”
The sun, weak though it was, pushed through the clouds to highlight the cross poking from her Bible.
“That is a lovely piece,” Mrs. Plume said, motioning to the bookmark.
“Thank you. It was a gift.”
“From the general?”
The words slammed into Catherine’s hard-won peace. She stifled a gasp, feeling as though she’d been forced to run the curved length of the Royal Crescent and back. She drew in a deep breath. “Actually, it was a gift from the Countess of Hawkesbury.”
“Oh!” The woman blinked. Stepped back. Looked around.
“Yes, Lavinia is a dear friend of mine,” Catherine persisted. “She and the earl have often dined with us.” Back when Papa was alive, but still …
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“I imagine most people don’t, but then, we don’t like to advertise our connections with such eminent members of the Peerage.” In a move Perry would have approved of, Catherine flicked an imaginary speck off her spencer.
“No. No, of course not.”
“It would be considered vulgar, would you not agree?”
“Yes.” The woman glanced away.
“I often find there is a great deal too many idle tongues at work in small towns. People say the most outlandish things, without having any true knowledge of the facts.”
“Y-yes.” Mrs. Plume’s desperate gaze had secured the approach of a Mrs. Lampscombe, whose severe bearing belied the fact she was oft considered the most malicious gossipmonger in all Bath.
After an exchange of nods, Catherine smiled. “Mrs. Lampscombe, I was just telling Mrs. Plume about my dear friend Lavinia’s marvelous stitchery.” She pulled the bookmark free, held it up to the light. “Would you not agree?”
Mrs. Lampscombe eyed it before giving it a dismissive “Hmph.”
“Lavinia, the Countess of Hawkesbury.” The lady’s eyes widened, Catherine noted with satisfaction. “I’m humbled that someone so grand would take time to stitch such a wonderful token of affection.”
“It is a very fine piece,” Mrs. Lampscombe said, now deigning to admire it properly. “She must be quite young, if she is your friend.”
“We are of similar years, but I am not exclusive about the age of my friends. I believe it is important to show respect to and be friendly with all people. Even those old enough to be my grandfather,” Catherine added daringly.
“So I have heard.” Her look was disapproving. “I cannot imagine what a young person would have in common with such a man as General Whitby.”
“With such a hero? To be sure I possess little of the heroic, but what he enjoys is something you could ask of him yourself.”
Her eyes flashed. “Young woman—”
“Do you think me so young?” Catherine asked. “I am nearly six-and-twenty. I’m sure most people would think that quite ancient.” She leaned closer. “In fact, I believe some think I am at my last prayers.”
“Whether you are at your last prayers or not does not interest me in the slightest.”
“Then may I suggest you do not act as though you do?” Aunt Drusilla moved beside Catherine, her voice acerbic. “Gossipers do the devil’s work.”
Mrs. Lampscombe’s brows lowered, her mouth opening to reveal pointed teeth.
Catherine’s mind flicked to the verse about abundant life, the first part of which stated the devil came to steal, to lie, and to destroy. How true this proved of gossip.
“My niece is owed an apology,” Aunt Drusilla continued. “I trust if you would prefer not to have all your indiscretions bandied about as common fodder, then you’ll keep your tongue under control.”
Mrs. Lampscombe blanched, stepped back, bowed stiffly, and walked away.
“Come.” Aunt Drusilla grasped Catherine’s hand. “Your mother cannot bear to be outside a moment longer.”
At luncheon, Catherine’s adrenaline at her battle had drained away, leaving her feeling flat and dispirited, as though this was the biggest blunder of her life. And she had brought Lavinia’s name into things? The earl’s? What would happen when they discovered this?
Mama’s distress could not be hidden. “Mrs. Lampscombe is a person of influence!”
“Is that not what we are?” Aunt Drusilla’s eyes flashed. “I must admit to a great deal of resentment that one woman’s vicious tongue can sway opinion so quickly. How dare people attend to such a mushroom?”
The image ignited a brief smile.
But the weight of innuendo soon snuffed it out, and it was only by rereading David’s trials in the Psalms that Catherine was able to sleep that night with any degree of peace.
Winthrop Manor
The guttural sound ricocheted round the drawing room.
“Julia! How many times have I told you? Please try to cough more discreetly.”
“But Mother, sometimes one’s cough cannot be contained.”
“Be that as it may, you would be well served to learn to withhold it as a proper young lady should do.”
“Does the same hold true for sneezes?”
Jonathan peered across his newspaper and met the amusement in Julia’s eyes.
“Julia …”
“No, really, I want to know. For last night when we were dining with the Hawkesburys, I distinctly heard the countess sneeze. She was not at all embarrassed.”
“But she is a countess, and need not worry what others think.”
“But, Mama, why should we? She wasn’t always a countess. She must have sneezed prior to marrying the earl.”
Jon caught his mother’s stony glare. He lowered his paper. “Julia, perh
aps it would be better to forgo arguing the finer points of etiquette. I cannot think you will win.”
“But I don’t—”
“I believe complaining is not considered socially acceptable, either.”
“Hmph!” Julia shot him a scathing look and a muttered “traitor” before flouncing out.
“And neither would stomping.”
His mother’s frosty gaze remained fixed on him, compelling Jon to pick up the newspaper.
Well he knew her concerns about etiquette, seeing as they stemmed from his refusal to act in the matter of Miss Beauchamp.
A twinge crossed his chest. Yes, he knew his own behavior to be rather less than what could be considered socially correct. He had led her on, so the gossips said. He’d overheard mutters in the club: as flighty as that mother of his. Even Julia’s name was bandied about, linked in some ridiculous way to some military gentleman she’d danced with too many times at a recent ball. All in all it had hastened his decision to return to the wilds of Gloucestershire, where such rumors and innuendo did not exist or matter.
Except his worries chased him even here. What could he do? He could not, in all good conscience, continue to dance attendance upon a young miss of which he was not sure. But how was he to become sure?
His chest constricted again. He’d once been sure of a lady, but had so thoroughly misjudged the situation he could not help but be extra cautious now. He’d even hinted of his dilemma to Hawkesbury yesterday, as they’d shared a moment’s quiet over port, but the earl could offer nothing more than ask what God wanted.
And that was where he stayed. He stared at the page blankly. God remained silent. His confusion thundered on.
“I gather from the fact that you have not turned a page in almost ten minutes, that either there is an article of immense value and worth, or you are wool-gathering.”
He folded the paper, placed it on the table, and eyed his mother. “Was there something you wished to say?”
A tight look crossed her features. She exhaled. “I am concerned about Julia.”
“Yes?”
“She has become quite obstreperous of late, and I cannot like it.”
“Julia has not been herself.”
“No. She doesn’t mind me, but that’s to be expected somewhat. But when she doesn’t mind you …”
He nodded slowly. It had grieved him for Julia to ignore him lately, to lose his status of beloved big brother, the one she’d always turned to, especially after the passing of their father. But then Julia wasn’t the girl she’d been when that happened six years ago.
“She is becoming a young lady,” he began, “and—”
“She should be, but these hoydenish tendencies greatly concern me.”
“Perhaps it is just a stage.”
She shook her head. “I am not so terribly strict, am I? I have been, perhaps, even more liberal than some. I cannot think I have completely unrealistic expectations?”
His amusement at her “liberal” comment died under the bite of remorse. It was so rare to see his mother stripped of her customary confidence. He moved beside her, grasped her hand. “Mother, you have been a rock.”
Her eyes shimmered.
“A shining, extremely modish rock”—he squeezed her hand as she smiled—“but a rock nonetheless. You cannot hold yourself responsible for Julia’s behavior all her life.”
“But she is so young, so unaware of how easily a woman’s reputation can be damaged.”
He hid the grimace. That had been exactly the concern behind his recent plain speaking with his sister, as he’d warned her of just what her fast ways could lead to. How men like Hale could take advantage. And even if a man was innocent, he knew, only too well, how an innocent girl’s ardor could kindle passion that could never truly be doused. His spirits sank. Was it his idealistic expectations that had turned Julia’s heart away?
“I will speak with her again.” His words sounded hollow in his ears. “Would you?”
His mother’s face, so pleading, sent another shaft of regret through his heart. “Of course.” And he would continue to pray.
“I cannot feel that without companions she is acting more from boredom than anything else.” She sighed. “But London was too full of distractions, and people I do not think appropriate for her well-being, I thought it best perhaps to remove her.”
“And where do you think she might be better suited?”
He felt a prickling sensation as soon as he said it, and knew just what her answer would be.
“It was the cough that decided me.” She smiled, an echo of her usual brilliance, yet her eyes remained watchful. “I think we should go to Bath.”
CHAPTER NİNETEEN
“GOOD MORNING, MISS.”
“Good morning.”
Bess drew open the curtains, tied them back with twin sashes of gold silk. “Looks to be another rainy day, I’m afraid.”
“Thank God we don’t have more snow.”
The maid nodded politely and moved to kindle the fire.
Catherine drew the blanket closer. There was much to be thankful for, even if one had to be shut up due to inclement weather. Aunt Drusilla’s house did not leak, nor was it drafty. And the servants here were so well versed in ensuring guests had their morning hot chocolate and had comfortable rooms that one could almost spend the entire day in bed, should one be so luxuriantly idly inclined.
“I believe the letters have arrived. Dobson said the mail coach was delayed due to yesterday’s storm washing out a bridge. I will go and see if there be any for you.”
“Thank you, Bess.”
Another blessing was that Mama was no longer in any position to see, let alone open and read, Catherine’s mail. Which was probably extremely fortunate, considering her recent correspondence.
She shifted up against the pillows, pulled her Bible close, and read through several psalms. These ancient songs had proved a lifeline this past week, the promises ones she had clung to amidst the storm of speculation that continued to rage. Her words to Mrs. Lampscombe and those of Aunt Drusilla had only ignited a fresh crisis. Little had they known she was Lady Milton’s cousin by marriage, and the accusations had been carried back, causing a fresh wave of lies. This time, taking aim at her father. Lies—ridiculous lies—about his so-called gambling!
Such accusations were so patently untrue that the inhabitants of Six Gay Street had scarcely given it a second thought. But she wondered to what extent this would spread, and just what might be necessary to douse the speculation once and for all. Perhaps, as Aunt Drusilla hoped, Bath might soon feast on some other poor unfortunate’s new scandal. Perhaps, as Catherine prayed, this recent spell of rain would keep the gossipmongers away from each other.
“Excuse me, miss? A letter for you.”
“Thank you.”
She closed the Bible and placed it back on her bedside table. Saw the franked envelope, the direction, and opened it, her pulse loud in her ears. Had she been forgiven?
Dear Catherine,
To say your letter was a surprise is something of an understatement, seeing as I had only received one the day before, but upon reading it I completely understood. I cannot conceive how such a person as LM deigns to be so bitter. I shared my concern with Nicholas, and neither he nor I mind your claiming friendship; indeed I’m of a mind to pay you a visit, just to lay any concerns to rest, but N urges me to wait until these dreadful rains cease. But I encourage you, dear friend, to use my name and all that is associated with it as much as necessary to your best advantage. Surely those with such toplofty notions will find what they seek if you do so. As for me, I will be very happy to know any status gained upon marrying N will be well used.
Catherine sighed. God bless her friend, and the earl. A smile flitted across her face. How she longed to see the faces of the scandalmongers when the crested carriage appeared—but only if it meant no distress for Lavinia. She resumed reading.
I trust and pray these trials are not weighing you
down, but propelling you into faith and God’s Word. These verses were quickened to me recently as I was reading Second Corinthians, and I thought of you, “We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed … For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.” So I implore you to think on good things and be of good cheer. I hope you will be encouraged as I.
Catherine blinked away the moisture. Picked up her Bible, ruffling through the pages until she found the verse, read it, and read it once more. Her heart quickened; the hurt eased as hope renewed. God was using Catherine’s trials for His purpose. She just needed to trust Him.
She marked the position with the stitched cross and picked up the letter again.
In other news, baby Grace has recently started to smile, revealing herself the proud possessor of two dimples, which N believes she owes to me, whilst I am equally positive he is responsible, as I have tried to show in the foolish little sketch I have enclosed.
Catherine pulled out the underlying paper, and her heart caught. A watercolor of a smiling baby with rosy cheeks. Oh, to have such sweetness in one’s life. She swallowed the stab of envy. Lavinia deserved to be so blessed.
The letter continued.
We live in constant expectation of hearing that Winthrop is to have a new mistress, but as yet this is not the case.
Her heart stabbed again. Think on good things. Think on good things!
We are to have dinner with LH and LW on Saturday, before they depart.
Depart where? Her mouth dried. What if he returned to India? What if she never saw him again? Had Lavinia explained further?
We hope to also see J, but she does not always attend, and there are rumors she’s grown a little wild. Of course, this does not trouble me greatly, as we know such things often stem from misunderstanding, and we both know a certain young lady who was also described in such a way. Nevertheless, I am sure LH and LW would appreciate your prayers, as no doubt would the young lady in question.
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 19