The shrill soprano continued to pierce her ears. She winced. Was she coming down with something? If so, these supposed health-giving waters were not doing their job very well.
“Catherine? You seem a little flushed.”
“I am—” She swallowed dryness. “I’m a little thirsty.”
“Allow me,” the general said, moving to get up.
“No, no. Please stay and enjoy.”
“I will go with you,” Aunt Drusilla muttered. “I’ve had about enough of all this caterwauling.”
Catherine nodded, and they rose, stealing down the side of the brightly lit room, trying to avoid the sea of curious faces with open mouths and wagging tongues that marked their progress. Her cheeks flamed. She thought she heard a “Miss Winthrop” and hurried faster, glad to reach the sanctuary of the ladies withdrawing room, to feel coolness touch her skin, to drink a glass of water.
“You do not seem at all well, my dear.”
“I just need a minute.” She tried out a smile. “I don’t think that music agrees with me.”
“I don’t think it agrees with many people, judging from the amount of conversation I could hear. I certainly would not want my performance ignored like that.”
“It would be challenging.”
Aunt Drusilla motioned to a chair. “Now, do you wish to return? Or shall I ask the attendant to take us home?”
“Oh, but Mama—”
“Would be well looked after by the general, I’m sure. So, which should it be? Home, or staying here?”
“Could we visit the Tea Room? I wonder if my lightheadedness is due to not eating very much before.”
“Yes, that fillet of sole was barely fit for human consumption. I do not know what Cook was thinking.”
They retreated to the Tea Room and had a glass of lemonade and some biscuits. Her spirits had improved considerably by the time the general and Mama appeared.
“Ah, my little friend. I am pleased to see you looking so much better.”
“Thank you, General. I now feel much more the thing.”
“Probably that woman’s singing is what did it. I don’t understand these Continental women sometimes. I’d rather hear a bunch of dogs howling at the moon.”
Catherine laughed. “You are not enamored of such things.”
“No. I can honestly say it will never be my real love.”
He smiled close to her face.
Jon stilled. Breath lodged in his throat. That … that man had just said love. What was he doing? He was old enough to be her grandfather! And what was she doing, allowing him so close to her? Unless …
“Well! I never would’ve believed it!” Julia’s whisper cut through the heat of vexation spreading within. “He’s got dyed hair! Oh, this is good.”
Her laughter twisted his insides, making him at once defensive and aggressive. “She might not care about a man’s looks.”
“I should say that’s most apparent!” She frowned. “Wait, are you accusing me of being so shallow?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why would I do that? Which men have you been looking at?”
Her hands clenched, and she opened her mouth to speak just as Mother rustled up to them.
“Well, this is a turn up! I would never have recognized her. She looks far from the country mouse we know.”
He nodded, eyeing Miss Winthrop as she smiled up at the other man. His heart clenched.
“She looks very pretty,” Julia said, turning to watch them, too. “The cut of that gown is extremely flattering. Don’t you think she looks attractive, Jon?”
He swallowed.
“Not everyone can wear lilac …”
As his sister continued her commentary, Jon’s heart pounded with a dozen emotions. Envy. Desire. Shame. Regret. He kept himself still, conscious of his mother’s watchfulness, conscious one word could dispel the illusion he had fostered for so long.
“ … and her hair in that style makes her seem much younger.”
His mother made a noncommittal noise, her gaze sifting the room. “I think you exaggerate a trifle, but I can understand now why Lady Milton said such things, and why such an attachment might cause a stir. Miss Winthrop makes everyone else look rather faded.”
“You mean old, Mother,” Julia said peevishly.
“I am somewhat surprised. I would never have picked her as being interested in that aged a man.” Mother turned, eyeing Jon with a look akin to speculation.
He willed his expression to remain neutral and kept his voice low. “I am glad he is not a man we recognize.”
Her eyes widened. “Yes. Oh, I hope that man does not learn of our arrival and suddenly appear.”
His stomach clenched. Thank God it was not Hale. For Julia’s sake, for Catherine’s, for his.
Julia turned from where she’d been eyeing the unknown. “What are you two whispering about?”
“Nothing.”
“Whenever somebody says that and wears the same expression as you do now, I do not believe them, brother dear.”
“Well, shall we go and meet the paramour?” Mother said.
“I’m not sure she wants us to. She ignored me when I called her name before.”
“You didn’t expect her to stop for a chat midway through an aria, did you, Julia? Come. Enough nonsense.” Bracing internally, Jon marched his family to the table, around which sat Catherine, her admirer, her mother, and the aunt whom he vaguely remembered from the funeral.
Lady Winthrop was the first to notice, her jaw sagging inelegantly. “Mr. Carlew!”
He winced. How long since anyone had called him that name? He bowed. “Lady Winthrop.” He turned, met the aunt’s widened stare. “Madam.”
Then he turned to the third member of their party. “Miss Winthrop.”
He met her gaze.
For a long, delicious moment he was transported back to a simpler time, before titles, and estates, and death had confused and conflicted his life. He’d forgotten how long her lashes were, how steady her gaze could be, how the chocolate depths of her eyes held such sweetness, and joy, and trust.
Except they didn’t see him like that anymore.
He blinked. Dragged his gaze away. To the man she did—for some reason—regard.
“General Whitby,” Lady Winthrop’s voice seemed to come from far away, “this is Mr.—I mean, Lord Winthrop.”
They exchanged slight bows, before Jonathan recollected himself and introduced his mother and sister.
Julia offered a small curtsy, acknowledged and dismissed the older women with one look, and turned to the younger. “I thought you did not want to see us.”
Catherine’s brow wrinkled. “Were you at the concert?”
“I called out to you! Did you not hear me?”
“That was you?” Miss Winthrop rose, smiled. “Oh, I’m so glad!”
Surprise shot through him as she hugged his sister, light filling her face like it did in his memories. Julia’s stiff posture unbent as she lightly clasped her in return.
He glanced at his mother. She wore the slightly stupefied expression he was sure was on his own face. Soon the younger two ladies were talking, chatting as he used to hear Julia converse with her friends. Something in his heart eased and gratitude towards Miss Winthrop flowed at this reappearance of the sister he loved.
“Lord Winthrop,” said the aunt—a Mrs. Villiers, he recalled, “I believe congratulations are in order?”
The air seemed suddenly sucked from the room. He glanced from face to face, knowing he doubtless looked as ridiculous as young Milton, but was unable to formulate a reply. He stole a glance at Miss Winthrop, but her face was averted, her lashes splayed across her cheek. “I … we …”
Dear God, he was worse than Milton! He could barely speak or look at her.
“Jonathan and Miss Beauchamp have an understanding,” his mother said, before frowning at him.
Jon swallowed, wishing away the fire in his cheeks, wishing he could loosen his tight neckcloth, wishin
g the general had not moved to stand quite so possessively behind Miss Winthrop.
“Disgusting, I call it.”
He glanced at the large lady nearby, looking over at their group. Her cold eyes met his narrowed ones, her cheeks pinking before she turned and walked over to a hovering Lady Milton.
The Winthrop ladies glanced at each other then rose with one accord. “Please excuse us, Lady Harkness. We must leave. Catherine has not been terribly well.”
He studied her; her cheeks had paled, her gaze still averted. Was that why she’d exited the concert?
The aunt exchanged glances with her sister. “We would be pleased should you condescend to visit us.” She gave the direction, an address in Gay Street.
“We’d be delighted,” Mother said, all graciousness, her resentment at their hurried exit from the neighborhood seemingly all forgotten.
The ladies curtsied, the general nodded, and they walked away, their passage marked by a sea of faces turning to watch their procession. More interesting was the fact that not one of them turned to acknowledge Lady Milton, despite her standing nearby. Their gazes remained straight ahead.
By mutual unspoken assent, they soon followed, and did not speak of it again until they were safely ensconced back in the Camden Place parlor.
“Well!” Julia sank into the sofa. “That proved far more interesting than I expected.”
“As I said before, I am very much surprised. Pleasantly so, I might add,” said Mother.
“And you, brother dear? You looked like you’d seen a ghost when you saw Catherine.”
“Perhaps he did,” murmured their mother.
He glanced sharply at her, but her expression was all innocence.
“That general is far too old for her, though. Yet he seems nice enough.”
He nodded, his heart writhing at such fiction, preventing further speech.
“Did you notice the way none of them spoke to Lady Milton?” Julia twirled her pearl necklace around her fingers. “I wonder why.”
Mother snorted. “You do not have to wonder too hard, dear girl. I’m sure Lady Milton’s wagging tongue can be held responsible.”
“Really?”
“What do you imagine I was warning you about? That woman is like a disease, where you don’t realize you’ve been infected with poison until you’re half dead.”
“How extremely poetic, Mother.” Julia’s amusement faded into contemplation. “Poor Catherine.” She shook her head, glanced at him.
He managed a grave smile.
“What is wrong with you, Jonathan? I almost laughed out loud when Catherine’s aunt mentioned your engagement. You were almost as bad as Mr. Milton. And that will never do, brother dear. I shall simply have to disown you.”
“Yes, what was with you?” Diamonds flashed in his mother’s hair as she looked up at him. “I thought everything was settled.”
He cleared his throat. “It is not.”
Fatigue washed over his mother’s face. “You have still not decided?”
He stood, for what felt like a very long time, feeling as though he swayed next to a precipice.
But it was done. She had decided. So must he. “I have.”
And he told his decision, and fortified himself as they wrapped him in hugs of glee.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CATHERINE KEPT HER eyes closed against the light, closed against the day, closed against life. Being awake meant speaking, speaking meant pretending, and she was so tired of pretending. Far better instead to be sick, to stay in bed, to avoid everyone’s questions—and those that plagued her heart.
She never imagined anything could hurt as much as his rejection from nearly three years ago. She had thought she had coped with the constant murmurs surrounding his engagement, even the long, drawn out, endless speculation.
That was until she had known it was true.
That night, the tears couldn’t come. Whether she had cried them out long ago or whether it was still too raw, too real for tears, Catherine did not know. She could barely think.
She was numb.
The morning after the horrid concert she did not get up. She could not. The heat in her cheeks had spread through her body, leading to a heaviness that seemed to have soaked into her bones. Mama took one look at her and sent for the doctor, who believed she suffered from fatigue. It meant the visit from Lady Harkness was put off, a fact she only knew from Bess who’d murmured, when Catherine had asked in one of her lucid moments, that Dobson had informed Lady Harkness’s coachman there was illness in the house.
A hothouse flower arrangement, accompanied by the general’s surprisingly neat handwritten note, had momentarily lifted her spirits, as did a later one, sent from Julia, of pretty daffodils, but flowers could not minister to a shattered heart. She doubted even God could. So she slept.
Something clicked. She raised heavy eyelids. A shadow crept across the room. “Who is it?” Her voice sounded raspy, far away.
“It’s only me, miss.”
Bess?
There was a scraping sound. Then something fragrant filled the air, a perfume that tugged at her memories, begging her to recall spring days and sweet, sweet evenings …
She turned her head. Violets.
The tiny purple heart-shaped blooms blurred. “Who?”
“There was no message, miss. Dobson found them at the front door when he went to collect the post.”
“Th-thank you.”
She bit her lip. Closed her eyes. Amidst the swirling confusion something settled, sure.
Violets had always meant …
Him.
THE NEXT DAY the pain in her head had cleared sufficiently to enable perusal of the devotional once more. Catherine stared at the closely printed page. Today’s reading came from James. “My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”
She frowned. Hadn’t she had enough trials? How much did she have to persevere? How mature did God really need her to be? And why was patience described in feminine form?
A knock came at her bedchamber door. At her invitation, her aunt entered, her worry lines easing. “My dear, I am glad to finally see you sitting up.” She glanced at the posy of violets peering from the earth-toned vase beside her bed.
Catherine felt her cheeks heat, but kept her eyes on her aunt. Did she know who had sent them?
Aunt Drusilla’s lips pursed before she turned to Catherine, her dark eyes tinged with concern. “You’ve been ill for three days now, and had a number of people quite concerned. Your mother, the general.” She moved to the window, fiddling with the curtains. “Even Miss Carlew called in, wishing to convey her mother’s and brother’s best wishes.”
Her heart stuttered.
“So it is true. He is engaged.” Her aunt turned, brows lifted, as if awaiting her response.
“Y-yes.”
“It doesn’t change what we already knew.”
“No.”
“So what will you do?”
The words from her reading taunted her. Count it as all joy? She met her aunt’s frowning face. “I … I do not want t-to …” She swallowed. Her eyes filled with tears. “I do not want to be pitied.”
“Of course not. But you do not have to be.”
“But with this endless gossip I might as well move back home, for my prospects here are nonexistent.”
“Do you want to be married?”
And have babies? A family of her own? “Of course.”
“Need it be now? Can you not just continue with the general until it becomes apparent you are nothing more than friendly acquaintances? Gossip will die eventually. All it takes is for a greater scandal to replace your news.”
“I … I suppose.” She swallowed. “I just … I just wish I could be somebody whom a man would choose to love, rather than be left feeling like I’m caught in the mids
t of someone’s mistakes once again.”
“I see.” Her aunt was quiet for a long moment, before nodding. “I will speak with him.”
“With Mr. Carlew?”
Her aunt started before giving a tiny shake of her head, her face softening for a moment, as if with sympathy. “No, the general. He is a man of honor. I feel sure he will support us.” She gave a ghost of a smile. “Especially if we call it a campaign.”
Catherine nodded, her thoughts, her emotions, too scattered to plainly grasp her aunt’s meaning. What campaign did Aunt Drusilla speak of? Why could this not be resolved? Just how patient did God want her to be?
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON she felt sufficiently stronger to descend the stairs and meet the general in the drawing room. He rose upon her entry, his countenance lighting as he stretched his hands towards her, leading her to a seat. “Ah, my dear. I hope to see those roses in your cheeks again soon.”
“Thank you for your flowers, sir.” She sank gratefully into a cushioned settee.
“’Tis the least I can do,” he assured her, before regaling them with the news from the past few days.
Catherine half listened, her tiredness such she did not realize the subject matter had shifted until she heard her aunt mention her name.
“So, dear general, you can see we count on you to protect Catherine’s good name.”
Wait. Catherine looked between the general and her aunt. What had been said? Why was Mama nodding? Did this relate to yesterday’s conversation?
“I do not like it.” He sighed, turning to Catherine. “I understand the reasoning, my dear, but I cannot help but feel I will be playing you false.”
What had she agreed to?
“You will not,” her aunt stated. “We all know the truth. That will not change.”
“But my dear,” the general gave Catherine a fatherly smile, “what if you do meet someone who takes your fancy, or who takes a fancy to you? I would be in the way.”
Catherine released a long breath, feeling as though she had finally been handed her script and now knew her lines. “But there is nobody.” Nobody who wanted her, anyway. She fought the burn in her throat, her eyes. “And even if there were, he would never get the chance to know me, not with all these rumors flying around. People already couple us together, and this way”—she swallowed—“this way, I would not be considered a laughingstock.”
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 21