Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  “Catherine? What are you doing?”

  “Just getting my cloak.”

  “I thought you’d gone and come back.”

  She closed her eyes, breathed in. Out. “I’ll be back soon, Mama. Don’t worry. Just pray.”

  Before her mother could continue her indictments, Catherine slithered up the steep slope, carefully holding the lantern as she grasped branches and tree trunks to haul her way to the top. The track was barely discernible, the grooves in the road the only clue in knowing where to walk.

  “God help me,” she murmured, casting a last look at the broken mess before setting off to what must be west. There was no point returning from whence they came; she recalled few signs of habitation along the way. She held the lantern before her, working by its feeble light to step on what looked like firmer ground, and not the heavy mud that threatened to steal her boots and balance. Count her trials all joy? A broken laugh escaped. But at least she did have a lamp, though its light be fickle, and might not last much longer. And at least she wasn’t injured, and could hopefully find help. Please, God.

  The track was boggy, her progress slow. She tugged her cloak against the chill of predawn air, fighting the desire to cry, the longing to give up. Her legs ached with the effort of staying upright, her arms ached from holding the carriage lamp. Perhaps attempting such a feat was foolish, and it would have been better to wait for daylight. But by then poor Mr. Nicholls would surely have worsened, if not be—

  She swallowed. Lord, protect him. Fighting to remember God’s promises from the Psalms, she trudged on.

  The charcoal of night slowly merged to ash, enough to dimly see by. She glanced at the lantern. How long since the flame had died? She cast it away, then jumped at the loud clatter. Ahead, the forked road demanded decision. Already hopelessly lost, she veered to the right, and the track that seemed less muddied.

  Light was stealing over the hills to the east by the time she spotted a cow. Her heart lifted. Surely if there was a cow there must be a farm, and people who would help. The twitter of early morning birdsong encouraged her as she plodded on. Her skirts were caked in mud, her cloak now sodden. The slight breeze chilled, her feet were rubbed raw. Thank God it had ceased raining. Thank God for those days deprived of Ginger’s company. Those long walks along Bath’s steep streets had helped improve her stamina. She could surely not have walked this far without practice.

  “Step along now.”

  Mists parted, revealing a tall figure, with a long stick. Salvation at last!

  She hurried toward him. “Excuse me!”

  The figure turned, his mouth gaped.

  “Hello. I know I look a sight but I need your help.”

  He paced back. Took another step away.

  “There has been an accident!” She moved forward. “Please, sir. Would you help me?”

  He stared at her as though he saw a ghost. Then, without a word, he turned and ran away.

  “No!” She hurried after him. Tripped. Her hands landed in something greenish brown, something that looked and smelled like … bovine excrement.

  “No!”

  Her chest grew tight. She wiped her hands, pushed to her knees, as frustration crashed over disappointment. Tears welled. She forced them back. They leaked anyway. Soon she was sobbing loudly in the field as the cows watched her placidly. “God, help me!”

  Could He feel any further away?

  Her hair fell in her face. She pushed it back. Wonderful. Now she would have cow excrement in her hair. She stumbled to her feet. The farmhand had long disappeared. She could chase him, but rather suspected he might chase her off with a pitchfork. She trudged back to the cart tracks and forced one foot in front of the other.

  By the time the sun had reached the tops of trees she could see a building. Probably an outbuilding, a barn or suchlike, but nonetheless it signified habitation. She stumbled to it. A barn. Empty. She shook her head, trudged on. Another building drew her attention. It was two-storied, wider. A house. She hurried toward it. Banged on the door. Inside, the sounds of early morning bustle ceased.

  “Hello?” She banged again.

  The door opened. A swarthy man stared at her, his dark eyes widening, as he looked her up and down. A leer curled his lips. “Well, look what we have here.”

  “Please, sir, I need your help.”

  “You look like you do, miss. And I’m just the man to help you.” He hitched up his breeches, eyeing her with an expression that sent shards of fear to her stomach.

  “I don’t think you understand—”

  “No, I don’t think you do. Come ’ere, you.” He swung a meaty hand and tried to grasp her arm. She backed away. “’Ere, what’s this mud?” He sniffed his hand. Swore. “Smells like dung!”

  She turned and ran away, as he cried, “I don’t want no dealings with a dirty trollop!”

  Her legs were pumping, her lungs were on fire, her skirts hampering her as she ran, so she picked them up. God, keep me safe!

  She stumbled back to the track, struggling to breathe. In the distance was another large building, like a type of inn. She rushed towards it. Banged on the heavy wooden door. “Help! Help me!”

  The door opened. A sharp-featured man stood there, frowning. “What is it?”

  “Please, sir, there is a man chasing me!” She gasped, sucking in air, willing the dizziness to cease.

  He stepped outside, closing the door on safety, and the delectable scent of baking bread. “I don’t see no such man.”

  “Oh, but he was!”

  He turned, eyed her dispassionately. “Well he ain’t now. So be off with you.”

  “But, sir, I need your help!” Her breathing slowly steadied, regaining normalcy.

  “I already told you, miss, there is no man chasing you. Now be gone. We don’t serve the likes of you around here.”

  “The likes of … ?” She drew herself up as she’d seen Mama do. “I fear you do not understand. I would appreciate if I might speak to the mistress of this establishment.” Perhaps a woman might take pity …

  “Would yer listen to ’er, then. Hoity toity!”

  “Please, sir! I am Miss Winthrop of Winthrop Manor. My mother and I have had a carriage accident and our coachman is severely injured. I need help!”

  He eyed her incredulously. “I don’t believe—”

  “Desmond? What is all this racket?” A large, round woman, her face as wide and dimpled as an apple pie, waddled close. “Lord ’ave mercy, miss! You look a dreadful sight.”

  “Please, ma’am, have pity. My mother and I are traveling from Bath to St. Hampton Heath—”

  “That’s an awful long way from ’ere,” the man said.

  “And we were forced to detour because a bridge was out, but our carriage overturned, and Mama and the coachman are hurt, so I had to walk, and I’m so dreadfully tired, and …” Tears came to her eyes. She wiped at them, smearing dirt across her face.

  “There, there. Come on in. We’ll get you fixed up.”

  “But Mama—”

  “Desmond will see to that, won’t you, Des?” The woman drew her forward. “He might be my ’usband for nigh on twenty years, but I only let ’im think he rules the roost. Now, where did you say your carriage might be?”

  Catherine pushed against the headache forming in her forehead. Where had it occurred? “We could not cross the bridge because it had washed out, so we came down the hill around a bend, and the lightning startled the horses, and we toppled down an embankment.”

  “Ah, Darley’s corner. I know where you mean. Well, you come along with me—”

  “Please, I think my mother would prefer to see me and know I was all right.”

  “You’d rather go back than get cleaned up? You are an unusual sort.”

  “My mother can get anxious.” Although the sight of Catherine in all her muddied glory … “Perhaps if I may quickly wash off the worst?”

  “Of course, miss.”

  A few minutes later, face and hand
s at least clean, stomach clenching in pleasure as she nibbled a slice of fresh bread, Catherine was encouraged outside by her benefactress, a Mrs. Nabtree.

  “Hop along with Des, then.” She grinned. “Perhaps your smell will encourage him to not spare the horses.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  And thank God. He had helped them once again.

  Winthrop

  Jonathan rushed into the drawing room, relief ballooning in his chest at the sight of the person sitting on the settee. “Mother!”

  “Oh, my dear!”

  He sat beside her, drew her near, felt her tears soak his shoulder. The struggles of his long ride home, thwarted by landslips and numerous detours, seemed to fade as he gently patted her back. “How are you bearing up?”

  In answer she handed him a letter, postmarked Carlisle. “It arrived today.”

  He scanned Julia’s handwriting, his heart sinking as his fears were confirmed. “So by now they are likely married.” Please, God.

  “Oh, Jonathan!” Her bottom lip trembled. “I have failed her.”

  “No, I did. I did not trouble myself to consider her feelings. I was too harsh with her, too unkind to him. If I had just listened—”

  “You cannot blame yourself. She is old enough to take responsibility, so I was told.”

  “Who dared tell you such things?” He found a small smile. “I must congratulate them.”

  “Miss Winthrop.”

  He blinked. “You spoke with her?”

  “Yes, back in Bath. She offered comfort when I needed a friend.” “She was friendly?”

  “Of course.” Her green eyes glinted. “She was most generous in choosing to … to overlook some of our family faults, shall we say.”

  He shook his head. “I was too hasty. I judged her too quickly.”

  “And I was dismissive, when really I should have seen …” She bit her lip.

  “Seen what, Mother?”

  “Seen that her avoidance derived from hurt, not a misplaced sense of family pride.”

  His heart felt raw, exposed. “You know?”

  “Catherine told me. You know also?”

  “Her aunt.”

  “Oh, Jonathan. Could this not be a chance to redeem the past?”

  “I fear she will never want to speak with me again. I was so harsh the last time we talked. I blamed her when she was blameless.”

  “And yet, my dear, love always forgives, always trusts, always hopes.”

  Surprise curled round his churning emotions. His mother knew the Bible?

  “Don’t look so shocked, my dear. I have recently been reminded about such wisdom, and have derived much comfort in the Scriptures at this time.”

  “I am glad. Who—?”

  “Catherine.”

  He exhaled. Catherine, always Catherine. The person who might hold the keys to finding his sister. The person who had always held his heart. His lost love. His lost future. Catherine had spoken of such things? Hope flickered against the hurt. “You think she loves me still?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Do you love her?”

  “I never stopped.”

  “Then if one heart can hold such tender feelings for so long, perhaps the other can, too.”

  But if she did not …

  His mother squeezed his hand. “You will not know unless you speak with her.”

  “Have you spoken with her since their return?” Perhaps if he could gauge where her affections might lie.

  “They have returned? I did not know. But you should go and see her. Find out if she feels the same.”

  “After all I’ve said and done, I can only hope.”

  “Hope is what we need.”

  He hugged her again, his spirits lifting. Even with Julia, hope—and a great deal of prayer—was what was needed.

  Dower House

  “WHAT DO YOU mean they have not returned?”

  Mrs. Jones lifted her hands. “The letter told me to expect them yesterday. But I’ve not seen hide nor hair of them.”

  “Perhaps they visited elsewhere on the way,” he said, trying to stifle the alarm within.

  “I don’t think so. That road is straightforward enough. And Miss Catherine is pretty reliable at letting me know when plans change.”

  He rubbed a hand through his hair. “You think they might have had an accident?”

  “I don’t rightly know what I think. Except they ain’t here, and I’ve got another meal going to waste.”

  “Perhaps you should not cook any more until you are certain of their arrival,” he said, sure the meal had not been completely wasted, at least as far as Mrs. Jones was concerned.

  “P’raps. And p’raps you will go find the mistress and Miss Catherine, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I do not mind. And there is no perhaps. I will find them, of that you can be sure.”

  He hurried away, back to the Manor to gain what resources he needed. His heart cramped with fears. Where could they be?

  CHAPTER THİRTY

  Wickwar, South Gloucestershire

  Five days later

  “THANK YE, MISS.”

  Catherine nodded, pushing out a smile as she cleared up from her pitiful attempt to help. It wasn’t Mr. Nicholls’s fault he lay unable to move. Their coachman’s broken leg was so painful she thought him incredibly brave to put up with her ineffectual nursing. More than once she had heard his hiss as she’d attempted to clean the wound as the doctor had shown her.

  She closed the door, and slumped against the wall. How long until the doctor returned? She’d sent the boy several days ago, with messages for both the doctor and Mrs. Jones at the cottage. But nothing, no reply. Had they even got through?

  Stifling the resurging fears, she hurried down two flights of stairs to the kitchen and deposited the latest bundle of bloodied bandages in the fire. Washed her hands. Collected the tea things for Mama. The doctor had diagnosed a sprained shoulder, which apparently necessitated Mama’s inability to do anything more than lie in bed like a queen, giving orders to Catherine. Not that there was anything remotely stately about their accommodations. Mr. Nabtree had put them in very narrow, very drafty top rooms, tucked under the high, pitched roof, where Catherine knocked her head on the beams a half dozen times each day. Their lodging in rooms seemingly more suitable for dwarf-sized servants had been the cause of dissension between the innkeeper and his wife, evidenced in an overheard squabble.

  “You can’t stick ’em up there!” Mrs. Nabtree had protested. “They’re Quality!”

  “Quality who can’t pay.”

  Catherine sighed anew. He was right. They were living on their host’s good grace. The food was palatable, their cramped quarters in the rafters at least allowing for a bed for Mama and a pallet on the floor for Catherine. She could not permit poor Mr. Nicholls to suffer the indignities of rooming above the stables, and had given him her room. Mrs. Nabtree—bless her—had taken pity last night and provided opportunity for them to bathe and wash their hair, opportunity for Catherine to retrieve from their luggage the special soap Aunt Drusilla had bestowed upon her, and relish its aroma and the delight of being clean.

  But she was weary. So weary. She forced herself to mount the steps: ten steps, a turn at the landing, then another ten. The past days of worry and arguments with Mr. Nabtree and his staff, combined with caring for two at times cantankerous patients, had worn her patience and emotional fortitude thinner than a gossamer handkerchief. She was bone-crushingly tired, so tired her left eye had developed a twitch and her hands a tremor. But what could she do? She’d begged the innkeeper for assistance but he turned a deaf ear. She possessed enough coin in her reticule to pay their “shot,” as Mr. Nabtree called it, for another day at most, but when the doctor came—if the doctor came—she would have to beg for his mercy.

  “Catherine!”

  She clutched the tray. Held herself still. Reminded herself to breathe. She could do this.

  “Catherine!” Her mother’s
voice called again through the slightly opened door. “How much longer must I wait?”

  Her hands shook, causing the tea tray to wobble. Just breathe. God was with her, giving her strength.

  “Catherine?”

  The deep voice drew her gaze to the dim stairwell. Beneath the banister, on the landing below, stood Mr. Carlew. Her grasp on the tea tray slackened, resulting in an almighty crash.

  “Oh!” She winced as the burning liquid seeped through her clothes.

  “Catherine? What is that noise?” Her mother’s querulous voice came again as Mr. Carlew pounded up the stairs to her side. He was here, he was close, his hand on her arm—

  “Miss Winthrop, please forgive me. I did not mean to startle you. Are you hurt?”

  She shook off his hand. “I am not injured, thank you.”

  “Catherine? What is it? What is going on?”

  “Nothing Mama. I spilled the tray, that is all.”

  “Always such a clumsy girl.”

  Cheeks scorching, Catherine bent to pick up the broken china.

  Mr. Carlew stepped closer. “You are not well. Allow me to take care of this.” He moved to the banister. “Hello? Hello there!”

  Within seconds a maid appeared and was issued with instructions. Within a minute she returned with a small pot of goose grease and a bucket and broom. As the maid commenced cleaning, Catherine surveyed the reddened skin on her forearm, and gently rubbed in the salve.

  “Miss Winthrop, please.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, darkly blue. “Please permit me to send for a doctor.”

  She uttered a mirthless laugh. “You can send for a doctor, but it doesn’t mean he will come.”

  He frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “Catherine? Catherine! To whom are you speaking?”

  She bit back the sigh, pushed open the door, forced a smile in the direction of the bedridden figure. “Lord Winthrop is here, Mama.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Winthrop, our cousin,” she added, for the benefit of the maid. A swift glance saw her recommence cleaning.

  “What is that man doing here?”

  Catherine turned, raising her brows.