Lady Harkness was quiet for a long moment before shaking her head. “Oh, if only I had known.”
“I … I tried to tell your son.”
“Jonathan? He never mentioned it.” Her brow wrinkled. “Was that the day you argued?”
Catherine nodded, focused on her tea, unable to face the scrutiny sure to be in that green gaze.
“Oh, my dear, I never like to question him when he’s in one of those moods. You mean you told him back then?”
“I tried to tell him my suspicions back then,” she said cautiously.
“And he did not listen? He gets that from his father. His real father. The Winthrop one. He could never abide being told he was wrong. I was ever so glad when he died. Not that my son needs ever know that.”
At her sigh, Catherine peeked up. Lady Harkness’s pretty face sagged wistfully. “I was so fortunate to meet Harold Carlew, that he was prepared to take on a widow and babe. He was truly a good man. I’ve always hoped Jonathan would end up more like him, and to a great extent he has. Apart from this wretched stubbornness, of course.”
They sat quietly for a while, Catherine marveling at her ladyship deigning to confide. Somehow she doubted such confidences would occur in Mama’s presence.
“Tell me, Miss Winthrop, would you satisfy an old woman’s curiosity?”
“You are not old, my lady.”
“I am, but thank you, that is kind.” She twisted the rings on her hands, as if nervous. “Please forgive a mother’s natural interest, but would you mind telling me what happened between you and Jonathan three years ago?”
Catherine stilled. Her chest tightened. Nausea swirled.
“I understand you may not wish to,” Lady Harkness rushed on. “And you do not need to oblige me. But I cannot help but wonder what caused him to want to leave so quickly. And to India of all places! It almost broke my heart.”
She swallowed. Well she knew the pain of a broken heart. So she explained, as succinctly and without blame as she could.
“Oh, my dear!” Lady Harkness put a hand on her mouth. “I … I did not know. I always gathered from the little that he did say that you rejected him.”
“Reject him? How could I? I loved him.”
Lady Harkness was silent a long time.
Catherine forced herself to remain seated, to blink past the tears, to breathe past the rawness clogging her throat, filling the room. What did Lady Harkness want from her? How much more of her heart must she expose? Oh, if only the general would hurry, or Mama and Aunt Drusilla return.
“Is that why you went to the masquerade?”
Catherine’s gaze lifted to meet the green eyes once again, now filled with something akin to sympathy. “I just wanted to see”—she swallowed—“to see …”
“If there was a chance?”
She nodded.
“I understand,” Lady Harkness said gently. “And Hale?”
“H-he helped me get home safely.”
“Which my son misunderstood.” She sighed. “Poor Jon.”
And suddenly Catherine could feel a pang of sympathy for him, too. Tainted by the scandals around him, yet determined to be honorable, to do right, he had once given Catherine his heart only to be burned by her supposed rejection. No wonder he was so quick to hold her apparent misdemeanors to account again. But … why would he have thought she rejected him?
“Catherine?”
She looked up, heart twisting at the older lady’s serious expression.
“Could you find it in your heart to love him again?”
Memories sweetly stirred. But they were dust, echoes of long ago. “He is engaged to Miss Beauchamp. I do not think he wishes—”
“My dear”—her voice was gentle—“that is not what I asked.”
And risk further rejection? Risk further censure? How could she bare the truth within her soul? She shook her head, lifted her eyes to meet the green ones. “I cannot say.”
London
Four days later
Day after day of fruitless searching had made him a desperate man. Where was she? How could she have been so foolish? Every night when he finally crashed into bed, body exhausted, still his mind circled endlessly. Had he been too hard? Was this Hale’s revenge? What could he do? Where was Julia?
Mother’s letter three days ago had galvanized him into action. He had enquired with those acquainted with the major, had employed half a dozen enquiry agents to search every London posting inn and those on London’s major roads, had even taken Carmichael, Hawkesbury, and a couple of other close associates into his confidence, for he could not publicly spread the word of his sister’s disappearance. But heaven knew it would only be a matter of time before the polite world had yet another scandal to titter about over their cups of tea.
He glanced at the scrawled note. Beauchamp requested an audience with him at his earliest convenience. Jonathan grimaced. Might as well get this unpleasant duty dealt with, too.
An hour later he sat listening as the older man mumbled something about whispers concerning Julia. Beauchamp stuttered his excuses, but his dear Lydia had had a change of heart and could not possibly, etcetera, etcetera.
Jon schooled his features to indifference. “I quite understand.” How many others would pull back from furthering connections with him? How many other ladies would refuse to accept his less-than-innocent family members? A kind of gnawing pain filled his heart. If only …
He swallowed. Pushed aside regret. Eyed the man he would not be calling father-in-law. “I will send the notice to the newspaper.”
The older man grunted. “Seems the other was only placed a week ago.”
A month, actually. But it should not have been sent at all.
Mr. Beauchamp sighed, slouched deeper in his chair. “Well, I’ll say this for you, Winthrop. You’ve a pretty head for business, even if you can’t control that sister of yours.”
Jon eyed him. Did the man expect him to thank him?
Beauchamp chuckled. “Never mind. You and Lydia would never have suited. She’s a good girl, but prone to be flighty, always giggling over her latest fashions and furbelows.” He smiled indulgently. “I’ve a good mind to keep her close this next little while, until …” He harrumphed. “Well, I, er, I suspect you need a young lady with a decent head on her shoulders.”
Like the one he’d accused and misjudged and railed against.
Like the one who had tried to warn him of his sister’s carrying on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EİGHT
“MISS, I HOPE you don’t mind, but the only available coach is quite a meager thing, just a driver really, and he’s from Kingswood way.”
“I suppose that won’t matter greatly. As long as he’s prepared to leave immediately.”
“Yes, miss. Shall I tell him to come now, then?”
“Yes, please.”
She handed Dobson the folded note together with her letter for Mrs. Jones and watched him leave. It didn’t matter where the coachman was from as long as he removed them from Bath as soon as possible. And Kingswood was in the same general direction as St. Hampton Heath. North, at least.
“Catherine, my dear.” She turned to see her aunt approach. “Are you sure this is the best idea?”
“It is if you are not to suffer from this latest scandal.”
Aunt Drusilla sighed. “I do not want you worrying about me.”
“Well, I shall concern myself with Mama’s well-being. She does not need the whispers of Papa’s sordid affairs reaching her ears.”
“That she does not.” Her aunt’s face grew grim. She grasped Catherine’s hand. “But my dear, will you manage?”
“Of course I will.” Catherine gave a wry smile. No choice but to consider this next trial as pure joy. She moved upstairs to supervise the last of the packing before assisting Bess with Mama’s belongings. For such a relatively short amount of time, she had amassed a great deal of possessions. In one of the more excruciating moments of Catherine’s life, she had returned w
hat she could early this morning, items she was sure would not be missed and would fetch fair recompense. Was it any wonder Mr. Whittington had been concerned?
“But why, Catherine?” Mama complained yet again, wringing her hands. “I do not understand the rush to leave.”
She would if she knew what people were whispering about Papa’s female friends. And she would if she had properly read the solicitor’s letter rather than leaving it for Catherine to attend to. “Mama, I strongly feel we would be better off back in the cottage.” At least there they would not be tempted to spend funds they didn’t have.
“Yes, but why?”
Catherine drew in a deep breath. “I have grown so weary of Bath, Mama. It is a very pleasant town, to be sure, but I fear I cannot face the constant whispers anymore.” Especially with this new scandal about to break forth.
“But have you not been facing such speculation already? I thought you were made of stronger stuff.”
She swallowed. Breathed in. Exhaled. “Mama, I want to return home. Back to Winthrop.”
“That is not our home anymore.”
“And neither is Aunt Drusilla’s. Mama, our cottage will suffice. It will be summer soon, and bound to be warmer. And we can be of comfort to Lady Harkness at this distressing time—”
“I have no desire to comfort that woman.”
“But I do. How would you feel if Serena or I ran away? Would you not be grieved? Can you not understand how few people she can draw on at this time?”
Mama sniffed. “I did not think you so magnanimous in your feelings towards her.”
“I did not understand her.” Until recently. “So I wish to return.”
“But—”
“I think it a good plan, Elvira,” her aunt stated from the door. “Many of the best people have already gone to London, and I fear good society will be thin on the ground.”
Catherine caught her aunt’s significant look. Yes, the doors to social events would be firmly closed once news got out.
Mama made a face like a pouting little girl. “You sound as though you would like to be rid of us.”
Another look, weighty with resignation. “Well, to be frank, it has been a trifle longer than what I first expected.”
“Well!” Mama drew herself up. Catherine silently applauded her aunt’s heavy-handed tactics. “If that is the case, we shall no longer intrude upon your time.”
Catherine’s wry amusement faded as she helped Bess carefully fold Mama’s gowns and place them in silver paper. The events of recent days continually pressed upon her soul. Julia’s elopement had provided plenty of fuel for the gossips, leading to a virtual closeting of Lady Harkness inside her Camden Place abode, before she had fled to Winthrop yesterday. But it was Mr. Whittington’s letter that had proved impetus for their own urgent departure.
They had no funds. Mama had spent nearly all her allowance, and Catherine’s own settlement was well and truly squandered. Such news was almost laughable. How had Mama accessed such funds? It was a mystery. Catherine could only thank God once again that Serena’s school fees had been paid in advance, and hope that Serena being cloistered away with her studies would protect her from the worst of tittle-tattle. Catherine was thankful she still had a meager amount of cash in her reticule, enough to return home. Once there they would have the cottage … and fewer expenses.
Her thoughts turned to future provision. Perhaps Mama might be agreeable to disposing—for a large sum—several of the large Winthrop paintings she could not hang due to the limits of the cottage walls. They might even manage a stay at Avebury, to save something in the way of expenses. Heaven knows so many of Papa’s relatives had been more than willing to abuse his hospitality over the years with their month-long stays. Perhaps it was time to return the favor.
Because what was the alternative? The only person who could help was Lord Winthrop, and she was not going to ask him, not even if she be forced to eat gruel for the rest of her days. She would never ask for his assistance, nor ever let him know the depths of this new shame.
A sound of clattering hooves drew her attention to the window. “I believe our carriage has arrived.”
She hoped Mama would consent to ride in such a thing. It was somewhat dilapidated looking, and possessed no footmen, only a coachman, but it was all they could afford.
“Good. I am anxious to depart as soon as possible.”
Catherine bit back a smile. Aunt Drusilla’s tactics might be drastic, but they worked.
Minutes later they were farewelling Aunt Drusilla and the general, whose appearance she put down to her aunt’s hurried instruction to a footman.
“My dear girl, what can I say?” The general clasped her in a fatherly hug. “This has been an immense pleasure making your acquaintance.”
“And yours, sir. I will never forget your kindness in helping protect my reputation.”
“You are welcome, even though I fear your departure means I will be the one whose reputation suffers. Jilted by such a pretty young thing.”
She laughed before saying, in as innocent a manner as she could, “Perhaps you and my aunt shall find consolation together.”
He blinked. Harrumphed. Blushed. Glanced at her aunt whose cheeks wore a similar hue.
Catherine’s smile widened. So she had been correct …
Mama bustled forward, her expression such that she seemed ignorant of any byplay. “Thank you, Drusilla, for condescending to accommodate us so much longer than you wished.”
“Now, Elvira—”
“I see now that our presence has been a burden—”
“Mama, don’t be so discourteous! Aunt Drusilla has been marvelous.” Catherine gave her aunt a warm hug. “Thank you, for everything.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” her aunt whispered as she held her near.
“I am very pleased for you both, even though I shall be seen as the pitiful spinster who lost out to her aunt.”
“I meant about the other.”
Which other? The loss of money? The loss of Father’s reputation? Her own? The loss of love? There were so many unpleasant elements to her life she could scarcely count them.
She drew back. Forced a smile. “Apparently I have much joy to consider.”
“Joy?” Mama said. “How this can be thought joyous I don’t know.”
They exited to the curtsies and bows of the staff, Mama’s inward hiss of disapprobation audible as they entered the coach. Catherine waved farewell as Mama started faultfinding.
“Why must we travel like this? It is not as though we are complete nobodies.”
“It is less expensive this way, Mama.”
“Well, I call it repugnant. We would certainly have never traveled like this when your dear Papa was alive.”
“No.” But perhaps if they had occasionally, they would not need to flee Bath under such ignominious circumstances.
“That sister of mine seems to hold her regard for us quite cheap.”
“I don’t know how you can say that! She has been more than generous with her house, her servants, her time, her money. Mama, shall I tell you why we need to leave Bath? It is because of Papa. Did you know about his gambling debts?”
Her mother stared wide-eyed.
“Did you know we have no money? Those gowns you kept buying? I had to return some of them this morning because we cannot afford to pay for them. We can no longer impose upon Aunt Drusilla’s generosity, as we have troubled her so much already. And we cannot stay in Bath because people will start whispering about how poor we really are. Is that what you want?”
“But—”
“Mama, it is true. Aunt Drusilla knows it. And soon all Bath will know it, too.”
Mama seemed to wilt before her eyes.
For several long minutes there was no sound save the whinnying of horses and various creaks as the carriage struggled up the hill. Outside the clouds massed darker, the sky grew dim.
“How do you know this?” Mama’s voice was quiet, wor
ried.
“The letter from Mr. Whittington.”
“I should have …”
“Yes.”
Another long silence descended, while Catherine struggled to get her emotions in check. This seemed no adventure now, it was hard to count this as joy. The future seemed much like this journey: long, desperate, in the dark.
“I did not think things quite so bad,” Mama finally said. “Nothing was said after the funeral, so I thought Walter’s debts paid.”
“Mr. Whittington believes they were. And hushed up. By Mr. Carlew.”
“That man.”
“Yes, that man.”
Her heart twisted. As much as she still writhed internally over his words, deeper down she was cognizant of a sense of obligation to him. His discharging of Father’s debts had proved him generous to her family, once upon a time. Just as he had loved her, once upon a time. She blinked back the burn in her eyes.
The coach slowed, then stopped at the inn, where they had a quick bite to eat while the horses were exchanged.
Mr. Nicholls, their coachman, a man of few words, jerked a thumb to the carriage. “Best be getting in. We’ve got a way to go over the heath, and I don’t much like the look of that there storm.”
Catherine glanced in the direction he was facing. Angry dark clouds billowed high into the sky. The scent of rain was in the air. No, she didn’t much like it either.
“Come on, Mama. We best start moving.”
Half an hour later, the heavens opened, and the coach slowed again. At the knock on the window Catherine slid open the glass to hear the shout. “Miss Winthrop, I be needing to take a detour. The bridge ahead is washed out.”
“Very well!” she called, before ramming up the wooden window sash.
Rain pelted the glass as the coach turned and rolled down the hill. The stretch of road was bumpy, involving several slow passages as they moved through rain-soaked sludge.
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