Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  “Did you ever think to find yourself on the other side of the world, Colonel?” Dunnan asked, playing with a few pebbles at his side.

  “I go where the regiment goes.”

  “Shame I didn’t refuse when I was offered my commission. But then, it was a solution to a few problems I was having.”

  Moncrief turned his head and looked toward Dunnan.

  “Do you regret joining the regiment?”

  Harry laughed. “No, it’s been a fine adventure. But I sometimes miss home.” A moment passed in silence, then Dunnan spoke again. “Do you believe in love, Colonel?”

  “I suppose I do, why?” Moncrief said, feeling his way through the words as if dodging cannon fire.

  Harry turned to face him. “A sentimental emotion, love.” A pause, then he spoke again. “I find myself in love, Colonel, and it’s a colossal jest.” He smiled. “I’d never thought to feel this way, you know, I miss her more every damn day. I can’t quite fathom it myself.”

  Moncrief hadn’t answered, and a few moments later, they had parted company. He hadn’t seen Captain Dunnan until after the victory celebration.

  But that was not the sort of conversation one could relate to a wife and especially not to a widow.

  “I don’t know,” he repeated, wishing he could give her more than that.

  How vulnerable she looked at this moment, how young and untouched.

  “Did he really treat his horses badly?”

  “Where did you hear that? Peter?”

  She nodded.

  “Harry didn’t care for anything or anyone quite as much as he cared for Harry.”

  Do not question me further. Thankfully, she didn’t. She turned and walked toward her door.

  “You must have pitied me a great deal to make me your wife.”

  He whirled and stared at her. “I did not marry you for pity’s sake.”

  “Why did you marry me, Moncrief?”

  For love, but she wouldn’t have understood that answer.

  “Must I justify my actions, Catherine?”

  “So speaks the duke.”

  “You are a duchess, and tonight, in the parlor, you were as arrogant as one.”

  He thought he saw the ghost of a smile on her lips and was glad for it.

  She stood in the doorway and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Moncrief, I feel like such a fool.”

  “You should not,” he said, wishing he could do something more to ease her pain.

  “Can love just die?”

  “Sometimes time helps,” he said, resorting to platitudes.

  “What about the woman you loved, Moncrief? Have you ever gotten over her?”

  No. I never shall.

  The room was rife with secrets, almost pulsating with them. Thankfully, she didn’t pursue the subject, and he was left with silence.

  He did something, then, that he didn’t expect of himself. He went to her and placed his arms around her stiff shoulders. His fingers smoothed over her black wrapper, his hands running from the rounding of her shoulders to the violin curve of her back, a delectable and seductive undulation of feminine flesh, awash in a cloud of warm scent.

  He didn’t think himself steeped in either probity or prayer although he tried to live a life defined by some moral tenets. But Moncrief found himself oddly moved standing here with Catherine in his arms, as if God had granted him his most secret wish.

  His hands linked at the small of her back, a light restraint in case she wished to move away. But for long moments she remained there, her head buried in that place between his neck and shoulder, her breath warm against his throat.

  A rhythm began to erupt softly between them, something fed from trembles and barely admitted insecurities. They swayed together as if brushed by a gentle wind, both holding on to the other.

  The touch of her body against his was not so much spark to tinder as it was water to parched soil, a gentle rain of feeling that nourished him at the deepest level. He pulled her even closer, the heat and touch of her too much to resist.

  He should tell her now that Harry never penned those letters to her. Perhaps she would understand if he told her how it had happened, his vast loneliness, the temptation of her words. Before he could say the words, she stepped back, brushing her hair from her face. Her eyes were red from wept tears, the tip of her nose pink.

  “Good night, Moncrief.”

  “Good night, Catherine.” He dropped his arms and stepped back. Stay. But he remained silent and simply watched her when she left the room.

  Catherine made her way carefully to the small bench at the end of the bed and studied Harry’s trunk.

  She remembered the day at Colstin Hall when it had finally arrived, weeks after word of Harry’s death. Unpacking it had taken hours, because she’d wept over every single item, tokens of a life too short. She had thought then that there should have been more, some indication of his interests: books and copies of her letters, maps, a ledger, a journal, his favorite inkhorn. Now she knew that the nearly empty trunk was an indication of Harry’s character.

  Slowly, she bent down and turned the key in the lock, pushing open the lid so that it rested against the end of the bed. In the top tray she’d put the letters he’d written her, storing them carefully by week and month so that she would have a chronological trail of their correspondence.

  Harry had never loved her. His letters had been foolishness, a way to placate the heiress at home. The thoughts circulated in her mind, but her heart found it so difficult to believe that the man who’d written these letters could have been so perfidious.

  If he stood before her, what would Harry say to such an accusation? Would he give her that grin of his and call her name in Gaelic as he sometimes did? Or would he stand there solemn and handsome, the way he looked the day he left for the regiment?

  She stood and walked to the fire with a handful of letters in each hand. One by one she consigned each to the flames, remembering the contents after so many weeks and months of having read them again and again and again.

  Would she ever be able to forget? Or forgive?

  My dearest Catherine,

  One of my friends died today and I am finding it difficult to salute death with the insouciance I normally greet it. We have been fortunate in this campaign to lose only two men. One was by way of an accident, and the other was from illness. Daniel, however, was killed by a musket ball from a French camp. I didn’t see his assailant and it would not have mattered in any event who his killer had been.

  If anything should happen to me, my dearest, please remember that in the twilight of my mind I thought of you. With my last breath I smiled, thinking of you, your words, your wit, the essence of Catherine. Somewhere, I will be protesting God’s decision. Then, when brought before St. Peter, I will give him your name as the reason I am loath to leave my life.

  She folded the letter once and once again before tossing it into the fire, watching as it burned. When Harry had died, it wasn’t with thoughts of her on his mind. Instead, he had been loving another man’s wife.

  How could there be two Harrys? One she loved, and the other a man she could not admire or respect?

  Her conscience reminded her that it had been this way from the beginning.

  Harry had charmed her with his wit, with his determined pursuit of her. Until he’d come into her life, she’d lived a solitary existence, alone with her father, involved with life at Colstin Hall. She’d been captivated by Harry, exhilarated by the attention he’d shown her.

  But he’d never been happy at her home, never been content with sharing her life. Even before they’d been married a month, she’d sensed it, seen the look of yearning in his eyes.

  She hadn’t been that sorry to see Harry leave, not with the strain of taking care of her father, and the added responsibilities of the farms. A sin, the vicar had called it, her inability to accept the man she’d married.

  When Harry’s letters had come, she’d felt released, as if she’d been give
n a reprieve from her guilt. The man who wrote her had been different, somehow, more caring, more sincere. She felt as if she’d truly not known him until their correspondence.

  But he’d only written her lies, hadn’t he?

  Her tears fell onto the letters, but this time it wasn’t loss or loneliness or grief or pain that caused them, but something infinitely more selfish. She wept for her illusions, for loving when it was not returned, for being unwise enough to give her heart so completely to someone who didn’t deserve it.

  Now she wasn’t so much a sinner as a fool.

  She walked back to the trunk and continued systematically throwing every single letter in the fire. When there was nothing but ashes left, she closed the lid of the trunk. Perhaps she’d give it to the Dunnans. Harry’s mother could make a shrine of its contents, or consign it to the stables for all she cared.

  Anything but let it remain in her sight, a reminder of what never was.

  Chapter 19

  The next morning, Catherine sat at the vanity staring at her reflection while Mary attempted to do something with the tangles in her hair.

  There were dark circles beneath her eyes, a testament to her nearly sleepless night. But her appearance didn’t matter as much today as her actions. First, she needed to apologize to her guests for her tirade the night before. Secondly, she would have to find a way to get through this day and the day after, and the day after that and for as long as God decreed she would live.

  Since she had sent the maid away, the fireplace was still filled with ashes, the only indication that Harry’s letters had ever existed. That, and her memory of them.

  What had Moncrief said? A man is more than what he writes. Words are only a measurement of minutes, a way of holding a thought, a question.

  Who had Harry been, then, if not his words? She realized she would never know.

  A knock disturbed her reverie, and she turned toward the door as Mary opened it. Glynneth entered the room, her usually unexpressive face showing traces of worry.

  “Did you know your guests were leaving?”

  “Yes,” Catherine said. If they had been alone, she might have said more, but after last night, Catherine had decided it was better to act a little more circumspect.

  “They seem to be in a great deal of hurry.”

  Catherine only nodded.

  She let Mary finish with her hair, then stood and grabbed her crutches. Only one good thing had transpired over the last few days, and that was the fact that her ankle felt much better. A day or two more and she was certain to be able to walk without assistance.

  Glynneth assisted her by holding the crutches as they descended the steps and standing in front of her so that she could place her left hand on her shoulder for support while she clutched the banister with her right.

  Mr. Dunnan and his wife were clustered in the foyer, along with Juliana and Hortensia. The vicar was standing to the side speaking with Moncrief. Catherine deliberately looked away from both men. She didn’t want to be lectured by the vicar about charity, and she didn’t quite know how to act around Moncrief.

  He had been angry when discussing Harry. She’d seen his fists clench and the muscle in his cheek tighten, which only happened when he was biting back his words. And he had been kind. She could still remember standing within his embrace, a wordless comfort that had made her feel less lonely, less foolish.

  Moncrief, whom she’d once pictured as a villain, had become her knight and Harry, the devil. Catherine felt as if she’d been placed inside a ball and spun downhill. Whenever she was certain which way was up, she was tossed around again.

  I didn’t marry you for pity’s sake.

  Then why had he married her?

  As she walked slowly toward the group, they disbanded, Mr. and Mrs. Dunnan walking through the front door Wallace opened. She and the young man exchanged a glance and a smile that Catherine knew wasn’t entirely proper. But she didn’t reprimand him, since it was the first friendly greeting she’d been given since coming downstairs.

  When she glanced at Juliana, the other woman turned away. Hortensia sniffled into her handkerchief and mumbled something in response. Catherine stepped out into the bright winter morning, finding that the air was as chilly as the atmosphere she had just left.

  She would have been a hypocrite to pretend to be sorry to see their guests go, especially since she’d suggested that it was time for them to leave. But she did regret her rudeness, and the hurt she caused other people.

  Had she gone daft last night?

  Perhaps. Or perhaps she’d simply been pushed to the edge of the barrier that keeps people from being rude to each other. She had seen that line called politeness or good breeding or any other term, and gleefully, and childishly, stepped over it. There was no excuse for her behavior, and now the only thing she could do was remain polite during the leave-taking.

  “I trust you will have a safe and enjoyable journey,” said Catherine, clutching her shawl closer to her.

  Mr. Dunnan nodded, but Mrs. Dunnan would not look at her. Knowing what she did now, Catherine could only feel pity. Of the two of them, Mrs. Dunnan’s dedication to Harry was greater than hers.

  “Forgive me,” she said, stretching out her hands. But she wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Dunnan took a step away rather than touch her.

  Perhaps it was better their relationship ended here. They were bound to grow apart with time, but instead, Catherine’s words, and Moncrief’s revelations, had severed their tenuous bond.

  She smiled at Mr. Dunnan in farewell and turned to find Moncrief standing there.

  “Cook has prepared a meal for your journey,” he said, signaling to Wallace. The young man carried a basket to the coach and placed it inside on the floor.

  “Thank you for your generosity,” Mr. Dunnan said, pointedly speaking only to Moncrief, his gratitude echoed by his wife.

  “And for your hospitality,” she said.

  Moncrief nodded, every inch the duke.

  The vicar was in animated conversation with Glynneth. Whatever he was saying did not appear to meet with her approval because she shook her head several times. No doubt he had declared that Catherine was going to perdition because of her behavior of last night. Or perhaps he was soliciting another donation to his church.

  Catherine was grateful Moncrief now handled her money. Let the vicar go to Moncrief for a solicitation. She doubted he’d be as generous as Catherine had been over the years.

  Finally, Glynneth turned and walked into Balidonough, leaving the vicar to say his farewells to Catherine and Moncrief.

  “Have a safe and quick journey,” Moncrief said, walking with the vicar to the coach, thereby preventing him from speaking to Catherine. He looked displeased, but he mounted the steps and allowed Moncrief to close the door.

  Juliana and Hortensia said their farewells and went back inside the castle. Moncrief returned to her side.

  “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d begun to lecture me.”

  “After last night, I doubt he would have been brave enough to do so,” he said, teasing her. She managed a smile in return.

  For a few moments, she and Moncrief stood watching as the coach slowly moved down the gravel drive. Catherine knew she would probably never see the Dunnans again.

  Why had they come? To assure themselves of her health and well-being, or somehow to ensure that Harry’s memory would not fade in her mind? If they only knew how very much she wished it would, and quickly.

  She felt a touch on her shoulder. Moncrief had a habit doing that, allowing his finger to stray to the back of her neck, touching her where her skin was exposed.

  Today she wore black, and she wanted to apologize for it, but her wardrobe held nothing else. Her two lavender dresses were more suited for evening. She would go to the seamstress this morning and request additional day wear, something in blue, perhaps, or another bright color.

  His hand flattened against her back, trailing from her neck t
o her waist in a slow up-and-down movement that was somehow comforting.

  In a strange way, she felt as if this was the first day she’d ever spent at Balidonough. The dawn had seemed sharper this morning, a knife’s edge of orange and red upon the horizon. The air was cold and clear. Even the sensation of Moncrief touching her felt more real, as if she had experienced but never consciously accepted it before now.

  “I was rude to them,” she said, watching the coach until it became a small dot on the drive. Balidonough was such a huge estate that it would be some time before they drove through the main gate. Before that occurred, she would lose sight of the carriage.

  “Yes, you were. But people are rarely perfect, Catherine.”

  He never offered her platitudes or lies, for that matter.

  “Still, it was not well-done of me.” She turned toward him and placed her hand flat against his chest to his obvious surprise. She didn’t touch him often, but she needed to at this moment.

  She could feel the bulge of muscle below the fine wool of his coat. Today he was attired in dark blue and it only brought out the brilliance of his eyes. A woman could stare into Moncrief’s eyes and lose herself. Instead, Catherine studied the gravel at her feet.

  He pressed his hand down on hers, warming her.

  “We should go in,” he said. “You’re getting chilled.”

  She nodded and adjusted the crutches beneath her arms. “I am getting so much better with this, which is a pity because I doubt I’ll need them in a day or so.”

  “How does your ankle feel?”

  She stuck out her foot for him to see. Her ankle was not nearly as discolored, and the swelling had gone down considerably.

  “Should you not have it wrapped?”

  “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But I was in such a hurry to get downstairs that I didn’t think about it.”

  There were both staring at her foot when she heard the noise. Moncrief looked up, then swore violently. In the next instant, he had launched himself at her and thrown her to the ground. He was on top of her, shielding her with his body when the mortar and bricks tumbled around them. Clouds of dust transformed the air to a white cocoon. Catherine hid her face against Moncrief’s coat, the two of them holding on to each other until the low, rumbling sound above them gradually faded.