Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  I remain, yours affectionately,

  Lavinia Hawkesbury

  Catherine drew in a deep breath. So much to digest; so much requiring reply.

  She slipped from the bed, moved to the small table and chair, pulled out her writing paper, goose quill, and inkpot. After sharpening the nib she began to write:

  Dear Lavinia,

  I cannot begin to tell you of my great relief …

  London Road

  “But I still don’t understand. Why do we have to go to Bath?”

  Jonathan drew breath and slowly exhaled, counting to ten. Ever since his mother had broached the idea Julia had transformed from mildly obstreperous to openly hostile. The carriage ride from Winthrop had been painful, his mother’s efforts at placation as ineffective as his own. The more miles they traveled the more he felt his patience pulling thinner, like a string about to snap.

  He glanced outside. Heavy skies brooded. The road carved into the hillside seemed more akin to a sloppy goat track, the recent rain responsible for the landslips that had delayed their journey thus far. Another movement of mud and earth now blocked the road, waiting for the grooms to clear the debris away, forcing him and his mother to dig even deeper for patience as Julia’s lack thereof was on full display.

  “I wish we were there.”

  He chuckled, relief at Julia’s contradictory words making his laughter louder than usual. “I thought you did not want to go.”

  She shrugged. “Anything must be better than this old and creaky coach.”

  Jon opened his mouth to respond when he caught his mother’s glance. He settled back into his seat. At the next change of horses, he would make sure to exchange his seat inside for his saddle. He did not care how wet or dirty he’d become.

  THE HOUSE THEY rented was in Upper Camden Place, one of Bath’s best addresses. A new house, three stories of golden Bath stone, it possessed the gracious perfect proportions of the town houses on either side, as well as a magnificent view across Hedgemead Park and the River Avon to Sydney Gardens and beyond. The interior held a grandeur that subtly hinted of his wealth without screaming vulgarity as some overdressed places were wont to do, so his mother said. She was well pleased with their situation, but Julia …

  Jon looked across the drawing room to where his sister stared out the window, her mouth a sullen line. He would not stay for the entire duration of weeks his mother believed necessary for Julia’s improved health—his business meetings in London and his work at Avebury and Winthrop still demanded attention—but he did not like his sister’s brooding nature. She was too like him, he realized with a pang, too quick to hold on to things best left forgotten.

  “I wonder if we’ll see anyone we know,” Mother said, with not a little desperation lining her voice. Jon mentally reviewed his list of acquaintances.

  “I doubt it,” Julia said. “Bath seems full of old biddies.”

  “But your friend is here,” Mother replied, casting him a quick glance before fixing her attention on Julia, whose face had lit. “Remember? Lady Winthrop is here with Catherine.”

  His heart snagged.

  Julia shrugged, her expression reverting to dejected defeat. “I doubt she’ll be very amusing.”

  “Well, we won’t know unless we see her.” Mother’s bright voice had dulled. She cast Jon a look that could be described as pleading.

  “Julia, perhaps you could decide to think of others for a change? I understand you have not been well—”

  “You don’t understand anything!”

  “Poppet”—he gritted out the pet name—“please try to remember we are trying to help you.”

  “I don’t want your help. I just want to be with—oh!”

  She turned and rushed from the room.

  “Leave her,” he murmured, as his mother moved to follow. “Give her time to calm down.”

  “Oh, Jon, have we done the right thing in coming here?” Her green eyes held the sheen of tears.

  He squeezed her hand. “Let’s pray so.”

  And she too left the room, leaving him feeling the renewed strain of what Bath might bring. His heart flickered. And not just in regards to managing Julia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “MY DEAR, I cannot tell you how glad I am your mother has consented to our little promenades again.”

  Catherine smiled, drawing closer to the general as one of the many people strolling through the Pump Room veered into her path. “It took not a small amount of cajolery on the part of Aunt Drusilla, I assure you.”

  “Well, I am thankful that sweet-talking has returned an old man his pleasure.”

  A gasp came behind them. She almost stumbled. Felt his hand cover hers. “Steady, Miss Winthrop, steady.”

  She nodded, lifting her chin a little higher, her smile tight as she walked arm in arm with the general and encountered the eyes that widened, the eyes that slid away. She was not responsible for other people’s foolishness and sordid thinking. But how could people seriously consider she would marry anyone the age of the general? Did she truly appear so desperate?

  A spurt of hysteria-laden laughter pushed past her shame. Poor Mama, who had spent her life always worrying over her eldest daughter. Only now had she truly something to worry about.

  “I am glad to see the return of your sense of humor.”

  “It has been under heavy fire of late.”

  He chuckled. “But we do not surrender, do we, my girl?”

  “No.” Even if Mama’s reservations about today’s visit to the Pump Room had sadly proved correct. She glanced about at the well-dressed perambulators. Today she had nothing of which to be dismayed concerning her attire, her lilac silk with cream lace, an early birthday gift from Aunt Drusilla, sent from the mantua-maker only yesterday.

  The general sighed. “I wish your dear mother would consent to another excursion. Perhaps you have heard of the Wakefield’s ball?”

  “I have heard of it.” Envy streaked hot within. If only she could go …

  “It is to be a masquerade. I so wish you could attend, but I suppose it is a stretch too far even for you.”

  “I believe so.”

  “Such a pity. Oh, well. I suppose I shall have to find another pretty girl to dance with.”

  “And cause my reputation to be utterly lost? For shame! Would you have everyone say ‘there goes poor Miss Winthrop, whose only conquest has quite given her up for younger, fresher fare’?”

  He laughed. “You do yourself a great disservice, young lady. I cannot believe you think me your only conquest.”

  “Well, there is Perry, I suppose.”

  His great booming chuckle reverberated around the room, drawing eyes their way again. “But seriously, my dear. Has no other young man caught your eye?”

  An image wavered, was smothered. “No.”

  “No? Your hesitation tells me otherwise.” He smiled. “Now I know you do not speak truthfully.”

  The next minute was filled with teasing enquiry, so that she was very glad when a figure drew near and bowed. “Major Hale!”

  “Miss Winthrop, General. How do you do?”

  There was an exchange of pleasantries, then the general gave a broad wink. “I wonder if you, sir, might be the answer to my young friend’s blushes.”

  Catherine fought to keep the frown from her brow. “The major and I are but acquaintances, sir.” She turned to the younger man. “Forgive me, but we did not expect to see you in Bath again so soon.”

  “I … er, have reason to believe a … close friend of mine shall soon be in town.”

  She studied him, wondering at the flush darkening his cheeks, the way his eyes had brightened before becoming hooded, the way he deftly veered the conversation to some innocuous topic before offering his apologies and a bow and then departing.

  Further contemplation of his odd behavior was cut short as the general’s musings about possible suitors resumed, until she soon, most gratefully, returned to the company of her aunt and mother.


  “Bath is so boring.”

  His mother closed her eyes. “Julia, we’ve only been here a day.”

  “And it’s raining.”

  “Bath cannot be answerable for its weather, poppet.”

  Julia made a face at him. “I suppose we can blame God for that.” She returned to her lookout by the window. “Oh, there is a coach!”

  “Good heavens. Who on earth can that be?” Mother complained. “I cannot understand those who think it necessary to call uninvited, especially under such abysmal conditions.”

  “Oh. It is only Lady Milton. I don’t like her very much. She always looks as though she smells something bad.”

  “Not everyone is so fortunate to have your sweet countenance, poppet.”

  Julia rolled her eyes at Jon and he grinned back, pleased as a reluctant smile crossed her lips. “I suppose I’ll have to talk to her son as well.”

  “He is here, too?”

  “Yes. He could quite possibly be the most boring man alive, even more boring than you, brother dear.”

  “Thank you,” he said drily.

  Her smile glimmered and was gone, her face settling into petulant lines again. “He never has a word to say that isn’t about himself or his possessions. At least you don’t do that.”

  “I’m glad to see my stock is rising.”

  “I never understand why he must talk of cows. Cows! I ask you!”

  A knock prefaced the footman’s entry. “My lord, ladies, Lady and Mr. Milton are here.”

  Jonathan nodded, caught his sister’s look of disgust, and his mother’s grimace. The door opened again, admitting a pungent cloud of something that smelled like stale roses and self-consequence.

  Lady Milton stretched out her hands, for all intents and purposes as though she and Mother were long-lost sisters. “Dear Lady Harkness. How good of you to see us.”

  Mother stepped back from the light embrace, her features cool as she gestured to the hard-backed sofa. “We usually prefer our visitors to give some advance notice.”

  “Oh, but we are such close neighbors, I felt sure you would not want to deny me.”

  Julia made a noise, halfway between a snort and a chuckle.

  Lady Milton turned to her, her smile dimming a little. “And dear Julia. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “Julia is here for her cough,” Mother’s voice was icy.

  “Quite so, quite so. Well, Bath is the place to be if one wishes to improve.”

  “Really?” murmured Julia, glancing between Lady Milton and her son. “I wonder how long it takes before one can expect to see improvement.”

  “Mr. Milton,” said Jon, casting a stern look at his sister, “I wonder if you would be so kind as to oblige us in a little matter.”

  Mr. Milton glanced at Julia, his face brightening. “Anything, anything at all.”

  “We were wondering just what attractions one might recommend to visitors new in town.”

  “Oh!” For a moment he looked taken aback, but soon began to list various entertainments, concerts, balls, and masquerades—this last said with a hopeful glance at Julia.

  “That sounds good, does it not, Julia?” Jon’s glance at his sister revealed a light in her blue eyes, light that shuttered when she noticed his gaze. She tilted her chin, and turned toward their younger guest.

  “And how are your cows, Perry?” Julia asked solemnly.

  The young man flushed. “I … er …”

  “Really, I am most anxious to know.” This was said with her hands clasped, eyelashes fluttering.

  Jon’s eyes narrowed. What game was she playing at now?

  Perry’s cheeks darkened to beetroot. “I am most gratified by your interest, Miss Carlew.”

  Judging from the look on Lady Milton’s face, gratification was not what that lady was feeling, her confusion expressed a moment later.

  “Oh, but Lady Milton, I was sure you’d recall my fascination with bovine creatures. After all, you did just say we are close neighbors, did you not?”

  “Julia,” murmured Mother, before saying in a louder voice, “speaking of neighbors, I wonder, Lady Milton, if you might be so good as to tell us if you have seen Lady Winthrop recently. I wondered how she might be getting on.”

  The flash in Lady Milton’s eyes rather undercut the noncommittal answer offered.

  “And how is Catherine? Have you seen her of late?” Julia enquired.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Have … you … seen … her?” Julia spoke deliberately, as if speaking to a slowtop.

  “Miss Julia, if I might be permitted to say, you do not seem at all well.”

  “Moi?” Julia placed a hand on her chest. “I am perfectly well, thank you, Lady Milton. I’m simply interested to learn whether dear Catherine finds Bath to be a place of improvement also.”

  A curious expression crossed their visitor’s face. It was like that of a greedy child who had just stolen a sweet, like she knew something they did not. “Oh, yes. I would say Bath agrees with that young lady most considerably.”

  Mother frowned. “I’m afraid I do not take your meaning.”

  Lady Milton glanced from one to another, her smile swelling. “You have not been here long enough to hear the news.”

  “What news is that?”

  “Miss Winthrop. After all this time she’s finally found herself a fancy man.”

  His fingers curled on his knee. “A what?”

  “She is engaged.”

  What? No …

  “Mama, that is not—” Perry began.

  “Well, perhaps not quite engaged, but the talk all over town is of her and her soldier.”

  His breath caught. Not—?

  “Catherine?” Julia quickly glanced at him then back to Lady Milton. “Well good for her.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Julia lifted a shoulder. “I’m happy if she is happy. I should not want to see all young ladies made miserable.” This was said with a scowl at their mother that their unwanted guest could not fail to notice.

  “Have I come at a bad time?” Lady Milton glanced from one to another, eyes bulging with interest.

  “Mother, perhaps we should leave,” Perry said.

  “Perhaps you should,” muttered Julia sotto voce.

  Jon rose, forced his lips up in what he hoped passed for a smile. “Thank you for coming, Lady Milton, Mr. Milton.”

  With a final significant look at her son that forced him to rise, Lady Milton creaked to her feet before they offered goodbyes that were returned only by himself, and the door was closed.

  “Julia! I have never been so embarrassed!”

  “You, Mother?” The look was insolence itself. “I only said the things we all wanted to.”

  “But that woman is a busybody, someone whose tongue is hung in the middle. You cannot act like that and expect her not to mention it all over town!”

  “Like she spoke about poor Catherine?”

  Something twinged in his chest. He swallowed. “I cannot think everything she says is true.”

  “No? You don’t think Catherine has a military suitor? I’d like to know why she’s allowed to be courted by such a man when I’m not.” Julia’s raised brows lowered to an expression more agitated. “I really hope the soldier isn’t—”

  She bit her lip, and hurried away. His mother, after various mutterings about their recently departed guests and the foolishness of the young, left too.

  Leaving him, alone in the tumble of emotion, filled with misgivings about his sister’s apparent fixation with his former friend, his anger and frustration melding with a simple truth that the mere mention of her name had been enough to confirm.

  This was why he had hesitated.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE CONCERT MUSIC filled her senses but still could not drown the inner turmoil. A hundred thoughts clamored for attention, increasing the tension between appropriateness and her desire.

  I
t was wrong of her, she knew, but since the general had first mentioned the Wakefield’s masquerade ball she could not help but want to go. Ladies in mourning didn’t attend balls, even if there was only a few short months until attending such an event would be deemed proper again. Perhaps there was something deeper, something twisted about such a longing. It would only serve to remind her of all that could never be. To remind her of that perfect evening three years ago. For while the general was all solicitude, she wished he was much younger, and taller, and blonder.

  Such foolishness! She touched a hand to her cheek. It was so hot.

  “Catherine? Are you well?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mama,” she whispered.

  Aunt Drusilla leaned forward from her position beside the general, and murmured of her concern, forcing Catherine to reassure with a smile and return her attention to the front of the room.

  The music swelled importantly then dropped away, a reflection of her own emotions. One moment she felt steady and sure, her renewed confidence at the fore; the next, it was as though she remained the little brown mouse, wanting to scamper away because someone looked at her oddly or murmured something behind a fan. She knew they could not all be talking about her, but still …

  How on earth would she cope if she had true notoriety? Even Lavinia occasionally had her name in the newspapers, yet she never paid heed. How did she do that? Catherine was sure she could never not care what others thought of her.

  She sucked in a breath, straightened her back, her eyes fixed on the musicians. The darkness was stealing in again, threatening to dampen her hard-won poise and assurance. Tonight had necessitated a fast removal from their carriage through the assembly room to gain their seats at the concert’s front row. She sat on the extreme left, away from the aisle, and from this position could see only the musicians ahead and her mother and the general on either side.

  Her lips twitched. Some days it felt as though she had all the shame with none of the gain. The gossips might all think she had the general at her feet, but she could not even imagine wanting to kiss him. And if, by some remote chance, the man of her lost dreams should make an appearance, how would she be able to convince him otherwise?