He studied her a long moment before shaking his head and uttering a sigh. “Well, I suppose my actions have contributed to this sad state of affairs. I see my actions must get us out.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said, gratitude swelling within. What a good man. How right Aunt Drusilla had been to appeal to his honor. For a while anyway, she would be able to hold her head up, to stare the gossips in the eye, to pretend this man she regarded like a father was the one who had captured her affections, to perhaps even convince the man who had long ago stolen her heart that he possessed it no more.
Her conscience panged; she ignored it. It wasn’t a matter of deception, but social survival.
“It is only for a short season,” Aunt Drusilla assured. “Just long enough to protect Catherine’s reputation in Bath, until you both return to your own abode.”
This last was said with an upraised brow at Mama, which caused her to flush and look away.
“But I do not want to be the jilt,” the general said with a small smile.
“And I have no wish to be jilted.” Again.
“But what will we say about wedding dates?”
“We’ll say that is something we’ll consider once out of mourning,” Mama declared.
Catherine forced a smile. “Whilst I remain in Bath we will pretend, and then when I return home, we will drift apart.”
“But if a gentleman catches your eye, please let me know.”
Her smile grew stiff. “I doubt I will have to.”
Because the only man who ever had, had pledged his life to another.
THE NEWS OF an engagement did not seem to make much difference to the gossips, save for heads to nod in self-satisfaction, and a few bolder acquaintances to offer their congratulations, and enquire about the wedding. Mama’s comments about observing mourning soon dealt with that.
Catherine almost felt reconciled to her new—assumed—status, when her sanguinity was put to the ultimate test a few days later, in the form of the previously postponed visit from Lady Harkness.
Lady Harkness swept into the drawing room as was her wont, her attire and manner flamboyant as ever, trailed by her daughter and son. After a general exchange of curtsies and bows, Lady Harkness took her seat and turned to Catherine. “Ah, Miss Winthrop, we are so pleased to see you have recovered.”
“Thank you, Lady Harkness. And thank you for the lovely bouquet, Julia. That was very kind.”
Catherine stole a glance at Mr. Carlew, but his face registered nothing when she mentioned the bouquet. She stifled the heart pang. As the older ladies commenced a discussion about the recent weather, Catherine directed her attention to Julia, sitting languidly beside her on the settee. “I had a number of very kind well-wishers, and some lovely notes. But there was a mystery.”
“Really?” Julia’s eyes brightened. She sat up, her interest as obvious now as her previous ennui had been.
“A posy of violets was left on the front step, with only an initial, C.”
“What? No message?”
“None.” Her gaze lifted to him, but he had turned, was facing out into the street, hands clasped behind his back.
“How romantic!” cried Julia, drawing the other ladies’ attention. “The C meant you, I suppose, and was not a hint of the giver?”
“Oh.” Her heart sank. “I hadn’t thought—”
“For heavens sake, child! Can you possibly imagine Elvira or myself receiving such a thing? We’re far too old for such gestures.”
“They are certainly beautiful,” Catherine said. “I have always loved violets. They have such a sweet and subtle scent.”
“It is a lovely notion, to be sure,” said Mama with a sigh. “But I would much prefer to know the recipient. Flowers from an anonymous anyone might be simply that—from anyone. Why, it might be from a dustman!”
Julia glanced at Catherine, her eyes dancing. “But perhaps it was a soldier. Are you sure it wasn’t the general?”
“He sent roses.”
“Of course he did.”
The low-voiced mutter drew their attention to the window.
“Did you say something, Jonathan?”
“Nothing of pertinence, Mother.” He nodded, his gaze sliding past Catherine without acknowledgment.
Her insides chilled, she ducked her head. It was as if they had gone back to being strangers. Only they were not. And never could be. Would it always be thus between them?
“I seem to remember something about violets.” Julia frowned. “It was a long time ago …”
As Julia’s chatter continued—chatter which demanded neither acknowledgment nor reply—Catherine’s gaze lifted. Mr. Carlew glanced away.
Had he?
No. It had to be coincidence. Why would he?
She stared at his averted face, noting a muscle twitching in his jaw. No! The thought was preposterous.
Catherine winced and rubbed her forehead, as if she could push her thoughts into order.
“Miss Winthrop?” The deep voice compelled her attention. Mr. Carlew surveyed her with a frown. “You appear unwell.”
“No. I am … sorry.” She turned to Julia and said hurriedly, “Forgive me. What were you saying?”
“Oh, I wondered if you would care to come on an excursion with me. We could visit the castle at Farleigh Hungerford, or we could even go to Wells. Jonathan would take us, wouldn’t you, brother dear?”
Catherine noted his compressed lips, the way a reply didn’t spring to his lips, and knew he did not want her company. Her heart panged again. “I … I think I would prefer we did not.”
Mr. Carlew shot her a sharp look but said nothing. Julia pouted. “We could ask the general along, too, if you’d prefer.”
Catherine studied her. She seemed restless, most unlike the Julia of last year she had known. Perhaps it was Julia who needed the excursion. “I do not want anyone to feel obliged—”
“Oh, but Jonathan won’t mind.” Julia’s face lit again. “Please, Jon, you know I’ve always wanted to go and see the castle—it’s said to be most romantic. And you did promise to take me one day.”
His lips lifted in one corner. “I did, didn’t I?”
“And you always keep your word, don’t you?”
“I try.” His smile faded. He half looked in her direction again. “But I do not want Miss Winthrop to grow fatigued.”
“Oh, she won’t, will you, Catherine? It’s only nine miles away. We needn’t go tomorrow, but one day soon?”
“You forget I return to London tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Julia’s face fell. “But you will take us when you get back? Please say you will.”
“Do not forget we have vouchers for the Wakefield ball,” said Lady Harkness. “I understand you won’t be attending, Miss Winthrop, but there is nothing like a masque for merriment, and I have always been partial to a chance to dress up.”
“Imagine that,” Aunt Drusilla said, sotto voce.
The green eyes glinted, before she gave a trace of a smile. “Please ensure whatever arrangements are made do not disturb our other plans.”
“Certainly, Mother,” Julia said, before turning to her brother. “But you will take us?”
His gaze finally found Catherine’s again, his expression grave, no trace of a smile remaining in his eyes or on his lips. “I will.”
Her skin prickled. Nothing could be plainer. He would take her, under sufferance, only to appease his sister.
A shadow passed over her heart, forcing her to once more pray away the burn in her eyes.
Jonathan walked into the coffee house, in an attempt to cure the restlessness that had plagued him since the visit to Gay Street that afternoon. This place would scarcely meet his need—heaven knew he had an early start tomorrow—but the questions circled incessantly.
He ordered and stood, leaning against the counter, listening to the hum of conversation soak into the wood-paneled walls. He needed to be out, to be distracted, unable to hear himself think. Home was too full o
f worries, that of his sister, his mother, his very own …
Had she guessed?
Jon winced internally at the thought. But something had made him stop by the flower stall, that same perverse impulse dragging him here tonight.
Would she accept flowers, if she knew they were from him?
He groaned, loud enough for the proprietor to glance his way.
“Here ’tis,” he said, pushing a cup of coffee in his direction. “No need to get upset, now.”
“I wasn’t—” Jon bit back the rest of the comment, fished out a coin. “Thank you.”
The man’s eyes widened. “I’ll need to make change.”
“Don’t bother. It’s yours.”
“Well, I be right grateful, sir. Anything else you need? A private room, perhaps?”
“Thank you, no.” To be amongst the living, that’s what he needed. Not alone. Not with his thoughts.
He took his drink to a table near a quiet corner from which he could see most of the room. Conversation rumbled around him as he took a sip, enjoying the slight bite of the hot liquid sliding down his throat. He’d never been much of a drinker, not like Carmichael and Hale, and had not wanted to find solace in an inn. Coffee houses had long mixed business with socializing, and there were days like today when a man’s thoughts turned too dark if he were alone.
At the table behind him the voices picked up volume. At the name “Winthrop” his ears pricked.
“They say he’s old enough to be her grandfather!”
Jon stilled. No, surely not—
“We know what that means, eh?” A snigger. A snort. A guffaw.
Something white and hot slashed across his chest, followed by a fresh pang of pity for Catherine. How could strangers taint another’s character so? He loathed to see the innocent suffer, even if the person in question had nigh on broken his heart. He shifted very casually, one arm stretched along the chair back beside him, glancing over as the three rumormongers continued.
“They say ol’ Winthrop left nowt but debts!”
“Aye, spent it all on the tables.”
“And on his fancy birds.”
His breath constricted. He’d heard rumors of his predecessor’s infidelity, but if these men had, too …
Jon leaned closer to where the men sat. “Forgive me, I could not help but overhear. Are you talking about Lord Winthrop?”
The gruff-voiced man nodded. “Aye. From Gloucestershire.”
“Please excuse me. I’m new to town. Are you suggesting Winthrop was a gambler?”
“Not suggestin’. He was. A miserly, cheating gambler. Sure as I’m sitting here.”
“But he did not leave debts.” Jon had paid them—all he could find, anyway.
The red-bearded man scowled. “’Ow can you know that?”
“I am acquainted with the family, and so naturally I am concerned when lies are being spread.”
“You calling us liars?” The third man, a large man with fists like hams, flushed.
“I suppose I am.”
“Roight!” He pushed to his feet. “Nobody calls Jock Robinson a liar and gets away with it.”
The proprietor hurried over, wiping his hands on a towel. “Is there some kind of trouble?”
The big man nodded, jerked a thumb at Jon. “This Harry Who-knows is calling us liars.”
“Is this so?” The proprietor glanced at Jon, his expression a mix of worry and pleading.
“I’m sure you can understand a man’s objection to slander, especially when it concerns me.”
“Concerns you?”
“Yes.” Now Jon rose, meeting Jock Robinson eye to eye. “You see, I am Lord Winthrop.”
“You?”
“Aye.” Jon smiled thinly. “And I assure you, I do not gamble, nor do I cheat people, and I’ve certainly never had any … fancy birds, I believe you said?” He raised an eyebrow at the gruff-voiced man.
“I … I—”
“I know it is unpardonable of me to eavesdrop, but I would be most appreciative if you could tell me the source of your information.”
“Sir, I … well, er …”
“I see. Well perhaps when you choose to remember, you will kindly inform them that the former Lord Winthrop’s debts were all discharged quite some time ago. If anyone should require further information, they are advised to enquire with my solicitors in London. Of course, one should perhaps ask the question of why such scurrilous accusations are being made …” He raised a questioning eyebrow.
The men glanced at each other as the proprietor gestured to Jon. “Anyone who calls this man a miser or a cheat can leave my establishment and not return.”
“But—”
“That includes you, Jock Robinson. No—” He held up a hand at the man’s protest. “I’ve had enough of your spreading gossip like a clutch of old crows.”
“And perhaps you might desist from spreading further wickedness about Miss Winthrop and the general,” Jon continued. “Anyone who dares impugn her character will have me to deal with.”
“And me,” his loyal host said, crossing his arms.
“I hope we understand each other, gentlemen. Good evening.”
With a nod of appreciation to the coffee house proprietor, Jon collected his cloak, victory marking his steps as he strode outside, where the crisp night air shocked sense back to his brain.
What had he done?
The perverse imp fell silent.
He groaned again. Had his words helped to clear Catherine’s name, or simply provided more fuel for idle speculation?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ten days later
THE DAY FOR the excursion to the castle at Farleigh Hungerford eventuated on a fair Friday. From her vantage point at the drawing room window, Catherine noted the sunny conditions seemed to have melted the siblings’ previous coolness. Julia seemed in fine spirits, the restlessness for once gone. Mr. Carlew, too, seemed more lighthearted, joking with his sister, smiling as they walked up and waited for the door to open.
Catherine herself felt buoyant. Today was a precious outing. And even if his company might prove awkward at times, without his company she would not receive this treat, so she was happy to endure this trial with no small measure of joy.
There was a murmur of voices in the hall. She wiped her gently perspiring hands down the skirt of her new riding dress, another gift from her aunt. This particular hue of purple became her well, adding a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes, so Bess had kindly said earlier. But perhaps that was more to do with this thrumming anticipation—
“Miss Winthrop.”
Her greeting with Julia was warm; with him cool.
“But where is the general?” Julia looked around, as if she expected him to pop up from behind the settee.
“He did not wish to come,” Catherine said, sticking to the story they had arranged yesterday. The general had said a number of other things, but Julia did not look like she would appreciate a dissertation on the evils of long rides with old backs.
“We best be off, as it is a fair distance.” Mr. Carlew bowed to her mother and aunt, and led the way.
Catherine gathered her skirt over one arm and followed.
Outside were three horses. “Oh! I did not know you had brought Ginger!”
“I brought Gulliver and Ginger on my return from London.” He coughed. “I did not realize she was being housed by Hawkesbury at the Hall.”
What could she say? That she didn’t trust Frank? That she did not want him to feel any sense of obligation?
She hurried to the mare, crooning over her, laughing as Ginger nudged her face. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Thank you. You cannot know how much I have longed to ride her. This is the first occasion I’ve had to go riding in months.”
Mr. Carlew’s brows knit. “You are not serious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I hope you remember how to ride,” Julia said.
Catherine chuckled. “I
hope you remember to keep up.”
What followed was one of the more remarkable days in recent memory. The chance to ride brought such a sense of freedom, the chance to escape the judgmental hilled township even more liberating.
Her smile felt as wide as the River Avon. Here was fresh air, speed, convivial company, and the wondrously pretty patchwork of hills and fields so representative of what made Somerset renowned for its beauty. Ginger responded well to Catherine’s encouragement, seemingly equally pleased to have the chance to be put through her paces. They crested the hill, and came to a halt, as the glorious panorama stretched into the distance.
“Oh, this is wonderful!” she exclaimed, as they waited for Julia to catch up.
“I had forgotten how well you ride,” Mr. Carlew said.
“I had forgotten how much I enjoy this.”
She glanced across. Now she could look at him, she remembered how it felt to almost drown in his eyes. Blue, like a summer sky, filled with light, filled with promise. And when he smiled like that—
Her heart caught. She glanced away. A too-long glance only stirred up memories best forgotten. Their mutual “engagements” made everything safe now. Safe, but dangerous, for if she relaxed and let her guard down, she’d be fooled into thinking the past few years had never happened.
“I don’t know why we thought this such a good idea,” Julia grumbled, her hair windblown, falling from its chignon. “I think the two of you should just go on without me.”
“Don’t be silly,” Catherine said, nudging Ginger closer. “This would not be nearly as fun without you.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You two seemed to be having a grand old time.”
Catherine glanced at Mr. Carlew, surprised by the smile on his face.
“It is nice to ride with someone who doesn’t always argue with everything I say, poppet.”
“Catherine! Never tell me you are letting him have his own way?”
“I will never tell you that, no, Julia.”
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