Relief rushed through Catherine’s chest. “I will await you.”
DOUBT SHADOWED HER decision for the following hours. Was she right? Should she try to speak with Lady Harkness again? Lord Winthrop? What if Julia’s apparent amour for Major Hale was nothing more than a young girl’s foolish imaginings? But what if it were not? Would Catherine prove the fool for getting involved?
With a prayer for wisdom, she made her way out onto the gravel path near the rotunda. Julia hurried toward her. “Quickly! My maid is nearby, but I do not wish for her to see you.” The younger girl clutched Catherine’s arm, leading her to a narrow path behind a hedge of hawthorn. “I’m sure she will only tattle to Mother or worse, my brother. He has forbidden my seeing you.”
Catherine’s heart wrenched. “Perhaps we should not—”
“But I am glad to have defied him. For now I know all is as it should be. I should never have doubted you, Catherine.” She tugged her down onto the bench next to her. “You won’t speak a word to anyone?”
“You … you are not in any trouble, are you?”
Her blue eyes opened wide. “Of course not!”
“Then why must such things be kept quiet?”
“My brother is a tyrant! He does not wish for my happiness.”
Words refused to form. Tyrannical … yes, she could understand.
“You know I am right. I heard him the other day, yelling at you like you were a doxy.”
She gasped. “Julia!”
“No. He was very wrong in his manner toward you. Lord Carmichael and I could not think how he could behave so appallingly. Even Mama agreed.”
Emotions clashed within her chest. She bit her lip. How to explain why she had gone …
“Catherine, I know you only have my best interests at heart.”
“As does your brother.”
“No. He refuses to listen. He is stubborn beyond anyone I’ve ever met.”
“But—”
“Dearest Catherine, you cannot know what he is truly like. He takes a prejudice against someone and refuses to see their side.”
She nodded reluctantly. Hadn’t this proved true in her own experience?
“He took a pet against my Hale, and now refuses to countenance him, even refuses Carmichael to speak of him.”
“And you do not know why?”
“He refuses to say.”
“And you and Hale?”
Julia blushed, her eyes downcast. “He … he wishes to marry me.”
Catherine’s mouth sagged. Envy streaked hot and cruelly through her. Oh, to have a man she loved wish to marry her! She swallowed. “I … I was not aware you knew him so well.”
“We’ve known him some time. He’s been friends with Jon for years. Then he came to Winthrop, and later we met in London. Oh, Catherine, I know others cannot see it, but truly, he is all that is gentlemanly and good!”
Catherine said carefully, “People have said … he is s-something of a rake.”
Julia’s eyes flashed, and she tossed her curls impatiently over a shoulder. “That was before he met me.”
A bird chirruped from a nearby elm. The Avon’s quiet burble ascended from below. The breeze pricked coolness around her cheeks. What could she say to Julia that would be heard?
“Does your mother know of your regard?”
“Mother? She spends more time worrying over marrying off Jon than she does thinking about me.”
The words stung, as did Julia’s obvious bitterness. Lord God, give me wisdom …
“Please, Catherine. Just meet him. You will see he has been falsely represented.”
Meeting Hale again could not hurt, could it? After all, he’d helped her before.
She sighed. “Very well.”
“MISS WINTHROP, I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to see me.”
She nodded, thankful cloudy skies meant this path alongside the Avon was not busy. Her reputation could scarcely take more prying eyes. Yet meeting a gentleman was not easy; she had needed to request the general’s help once again. When she’d murmured something about taking a walk in Sydney Gardens—apparently a favorite meeting place for Julia and the major—he had been quick to agree. When they had “accidentally” met the major, he had been all booming cheer.
“Hale! Well met, old fellow. You have been missed these past weeks.”
Hale’s tired glance at Catherine held questions he could only ask when the major had run into another acquaintance, allowing them to hurry ahead. “You have spoken with Julia?”
She nodded. “She says you wish to marry her.”
“You are surprised.” His eyes were watchful, drawing truth from within.
“I did not think you so serious about one young lady,” she confessed.
He snorted. “He has poisoned you against me, hasn’t he?”
“Mr. Carlew?” At his nod she shook her head. “We have never spoken of you.”
He frowned. “So you judge me—?”
“On what I have seen, and I have not seen you pay attention to one lady before.” She gave a small smile. “But that is not to say you cannot.”
He sighed. “Carlew thinks my past determines my future, that my reputation bars me from finding happiness with Julia.”
“He is not quick to forget,” she murmured, before adding wryly, “but I am the last person in Bath to think one’s reputation is always based on fact.”
“I knew you would understand!” He stopped and grasped her hands. “Please, Miss Winthrop, help me find happiness with my Julia.”
“But how?”
“Invite her to walk with you again. Then if I should happen to meet you, as happened so fortuitously today, then we might speak, and you will know our love is sincere.”
She bit her lip. The general’s booming voice was calling her. She turned, gave him a small wave. What should she do?
“Lord Winthrop has forbidden her to see me.”
“Yet we both know his decisions are not always correct?”
She looked sharply at him.
“Miss Winthrop, please do not tell me you do not wish the past were different?”
Fear trickled through her. What did he know?
He smiled, and again she was struck by his charm. “I met Carlew in India, y’know. He never was one for the ladies, even though they flocked to him. I asked him about it once, and he said a girl had nigh on broke his heart.”
Her mouth dried. She stared at him, disbelieving. No, no, he had broken hers …
“You do not credit it? If you could but have seen him.”
She shook her head. “I do not know what you have heard, but you … you must be mistaken.”
He eyed her for a moment before inclining his head. “I do not wish to argue with you, Miss Winthrop. But can I ask this: do you not sometimes wish the past were different?”
Sometimes? Try all the time. “But wishing cannot change things.”
“Exactly. The past cannot be changed. But our future …” He sighed heavily. “It is our choices that shape our future.”
She thought on his words as they neared the general. The past could never be changed, but God could help shake off the shadows to embrace the future. Her prayer from earlier bubbled up again. Lord, give me wisdom . . .
“I will endeavor to speak with her.”
And write another note to Lady Harkness and her son.
CATHERINE EYED THE envelope. That of another note returned, unopened. She bent her head to her stitching again. Mama and Aunt Drusilla’s conversation rippled around her, but she could only think of her dilemma. Her attempt to speak with Lady Harkness at the Pump Room this morning had been thwarted by his sudden presence, forcing Catherine away. Anxiety and frustration expanded in her chest. She had yet to meet Julia again, but could not doubt Julia’s exasperation with a brother who seemed so controlling.
How could she have been so blinded to not see this about his character? His accusations had opened her eyes, and she now realized his imperfection
s—yes, he was stubborn, inclined to quick judgment and an overbearing manner. But neither was she perfect; stubborn pride could not be held only at his door, and she was inclined to self-pity as well as less than charitable thoughts about her mother.
These realizations had prompted another: that her love for him might be bruised and battered, but still could not die—would never truly die. It thrummed deep within, marking her soul just as the Avon had carved through the local landscape. He might be overbearing at times, and she might not like all his actions—his words of accusation still caused tears to spring to her eyes—but his intentions had nearly always proved him honorable, stemming from consideration of others. Was it possible what looked like control was really misplaced concern?
Her hand trembled with the needle as she sat, attempting interest in her mother and aunt’s conversation, as the questions bubbled away. What should she do? What would be truly best for Julia? Heavenly Father, what do you want me to do?
“Lord Winthrop, my ladies.”
Before she could manufacture an excuse to leave he was there, tall and imposing in her aunt’s drawing room. She could not look at him so she studied her needlepoint, carefully stitching as his deep-voiced greeting grated on her worn-thin nerves.
“Catherine?” Mama said. “You are aware we have a guest?”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps that could be left for another time.”
She clenched her teeth, placed the fabric down, and looked up, careful to not look higher than his neckcloth. Perhaps it was childish, but she could not bear to see the contempt she knew lived in his eyes. Could not bear to see his disappointment in her—which so mirrored her own.
Catherine blinked away the moisture. Pushed her cheeks into a smile. Pretended to listen like she cared as her mother and aunt exchanged social inanities with him, while she wondered how poor Miss Beauchamp would cope with his intimidating ways. Her heart panged; she pressed past the emotion. Julia. She needed to speak with him about Julia! But how could she? She dare not expose Julia by voicing such things in front of Mama and Aunt Drusilla. And had he not returned her notes and made his disdain for her concern so very plain? Nausea slid through her midsection. What should she do? Lord, what should I do?
“I return to London, and so wish you all well.”
He rose, took her aunt’s hand, then her mother’s, and offered a farewell.
“Goodbye, Miss Winthrop.” He did not seek her hand; she did not give it.
Her gaze lifted as far as his lips, frustration stirring again, heating her chest. How could such innocuous words come from a mouth that had spouted such vitriol? How could he pretend all was well between them, when his words still had the power to dampen her pillow at night? How could those lips have kissed hers, those lips that once pledged undying love, only to treat her with such scorn and disregard? How could he ignore her concerns about his sister? She pressed down a whimper, pressed down the pain.
She nodded, he bowed, and was gone.
London
Dinner at the Beauchamps was everything good and proper. Candlelight flickered, conversation simmered, silverware glinted. But though he smiled and conversed, inside he felt hollow, his thoughts a hundred miles away in Bath.
Catherine had not looked at him. Had not spoken to him. He knew he was in the right, but her determination to ignore him still … stung. The only good thing from the awful events stemming from the masque was that Julia suddenly seemed calmer, less volatile. She’d even given him a big hug before he’d left, murmuring something about being glad he was her brother. That at least had brought a smile to his soul, at a time when he sorely needed some joy.
“Lord Winthrop? Tell me, what do you think best?”
His mind scrambled. What had they been speaking of? “I’m sorry, Miss Beauchamp, could you repeat the question?”
Lydia’s father narrowed his gaze. Jon forced himself to pay attention, but soon his thoughts were drifting again. He’d been like this ever since that horrible day in his study. Unable to focus, unable to feel, to the point that today’s meeting with the shareholders had only narrowly avoided being a complete disaster thanks to the quick wits of his financial officer, who had stepped in when Jon could not answer a question. Jon had spent the rest of the session working to gratify and assure his shareholders, the success of which he was still not entirely sure.
He glanced across at his hostess, her daughter. Managed a weak smile. He knew about attempting to please. Mrs. Beauchamp and Lydia were well disposed to be pleased; Lydia’s father not so much. Jon’s time in London was not only to attend to his monthly business duties, but also to assure himself he was not making a mistake. He rather doubted he had ever occupied much of Miss Beauchamp’s heart, just as she could never fully occupy his. But she was pliable, willing, and sweet, not spoiled by a history of pain. Like she was.
Like he was.
Nausea swirled within. Catherine, always Catherine. Why must he always think of her? Why couldn’t he care more about the sweet girl sitting opposite?
How had it come to this?
Was he truly as dishonorable as Catherine believed?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
One week later
CATHERINE TURNED THE page of the romance Lavinia had given her, a kind gesture from a kind friend. Lady Milton’s wicked tongue meant even visiting the circulating library was now a strain.
Lavinia’s visit this past week had helped quell some of the rumors. The obvious attentions of the Countess of Hawkesbury, sitting next to Catherine at services, and during concerts, and at an exclusive dinner which the earl’s cousin attended along with the true notables of the town, had lent added respectability, as well as bolstered Catherine’s spirits for a time. Lavinia’s little daughter was extremely sweet, drawing forth Catherine’s latent maternal longings.
Such activity meant she had seen very little of Julia, and had almost forgot the troubles concerning Julia and the major, indeed nearly forgot the general, whose attentions still continued. At times she wondered if she might as well give her hand to the general for real, except for vague suspicions he would rather give it to another …
She turned another page. Carriage wheels clattered on the cobblestoned street. Catherine ignored it. No visitors came for her, and Mama and Aunt Drusilla were out visiting Miss Pettigrew. She concentrated on her novel. If she could not live happily ever after, then she would try to be content reading about the happy endings of others.
There was a knock at her bedchamber door. Bess entered, curtsied. “Miss Winthrop, you are required downstairs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is Lady Harkness.”
Her chest thudded. Was this finally her chance to talk about Julia? Catherine rose from her window seat and descended the stairs, straightening her morning dress as she silently murmured a prayer.
“Good afternoon, Lady Harkness.” She curtsied. “I’m so glad you have come. I have wished to speak with—”
“Oh my dear! Tell me she is with you!”
“I beg your pardon?” A sense of foreboding filled her as she noticed her ladyship’s reddened eyes. “Do you refer to Julia? Is she not at home?”
“No! She has disappeared.”
Breath caught. “I beg your pardon?”
“I had the headache, and did not realize until luncheon that she had not come down earlier. It appears she did not sleep in her bed last night at all.” Her voice broke, she wiped her eyes. “I had hoped you might know something.”
Guilt arrowed across her heart. “I … I understood she and … Major Hale were close.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I b-believe they are sweethearts.”
“No!” The green eyes widened with shock. “You think she is with him?”
“Julia once said … h-he wanted to marry her.”
The older lady’s face blanched. “You think they have eloped?”
Catherine said carefully, “I … I could not say.�
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“No! Not my sweet Julia. She could never do such a disgraceful thing!” She sank into a seat, covered her face with her hands, her shoulders heaving.
Catherine stood silent, awkwardness preventing movement. Lady Harkness never seemed to welcome affection, but surely she would appreciate a sign of sympathy now? She took a step, then hesitated as the older lady looked up accusingly.
“Why did you not tell me this?”
“I … I was not privy to their plans.”
“But you knew of their mutual affection!”
“Of which I wrote you several notes.”
“What? I never saw them.” Lady Harkness groaned. “Oh, but where could they be? Oh, what should I do?” Her eyes seemed to plead with Catherine, as though she truly desired an answer.
“H-have you written to your son?”
“I sent a letter, but he is in London, and by the time he receives it, it will be too late.”
Catherine moved to sit beside Lady Harkness and grasped her cold hand. “We could make enquiries at the local inns. Perhaps the general could help.”
“Oh, yes. Yes.”
“Shall I write a note to him now? Something discreet of course.”
“Oh, would you?”
“Yes, of course.”
Within minutes Catherine had scrawled a request for the general to visit at his earliest convenience. She handed the note to the footman, and requested tea. A short time later they were sipping tea, the drink as restorative to Lady Harkness’s nerves as Catherine’s missive seemed to have been.
“Oh, I knew you were sensible.” Lady Harkness sighed. “If only I had realized how serious things were.”
“Julia is old enough to know the consequences of her actions.”
“But she could not realize how dire it is to lose one’s reputation!”
“Perhaps she truly loves him,” Catherine ventured.
“Loves him?” There came a snort, followed by a litany of reasons why this elopement most certainly did not involve love.
Verses from her morning devotions rose to mind as Catherine listened, sensing a yearning behind the reproach and blame. “Perhaps,” she interposed, “perhaps this will prove opportunity for them both to learn more about what love means. Love that ‘beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things,’” Catherine quoted softly. “Love that never fails.”
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