Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  At Balidonough, there were hints of war in every place she looked, shields and claymores and banners hanging in mute praise for Moncrief’s ancestors’ warlike nature. But here in this manor house, there was nothing to remind her of the past.

  The sixteen years that separated them from the war with England might have been three hundred, so untouched was Colstin Hall. The world was turning more English, like it or not, and her home seemed to epitomize the change.

  But she much preferred Balidonough, because Moncrief was there.

  Catherine sent word to her solicitor and remained at the house long enough for her business to be transacted. Only then did she enter the coach again, her destination not Balidonough but the vicar’s home.

  Peter opened the coach door and helped her descend once more. For a moment, she looked at the small cottage, wondering if she was up to this meeting. Resolutely, she knocked on the door. Moments later, Glynneth answered.

  A kerchief covered her golden blond hair and an apron the front of her dark blue dress. Her eyes looked shadowed as if she hadn’t slept for days.

  They stood looking at each other before Glynneth spoke.

  “You know.”

  “Are you talking about your father? Yes, I know he tried to kill me. Did you?”

  Glynneth looked startled by such a frontal assault.

  She stepped back and wordlessly invited Catherine into the small, warm cottage.

  A little boy sat playing with a wooden horse on the rug in front of the fire. He looked so much like Harry that Catherine waited for the pain to come. When it didn’t, she only smiled, grateful.

  “You gave Harry a son.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you try to harm me, Glynneth?” Catherine asked softly. “Did you give me the laudanum?”

  Glynneth took a deep breath and faced her. “I suspected what he was doing, and I stopped him when I could. But I think he put it in your food a few times.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

  Catherine nodded, unable to argue. That time in her life was still cloudy, still a blur.

  “I loved him, you know.”

  “I thought I did as well,” Catherine said, giving her the gift of truth in reward for Glynneth’s own honesty.

  “That’s the difference between us, Catherine. I loved him regardless of his faults, while you found a reason not to love him because of them.”

  Catherine loosened her scarf and wound it from around her head. Now was not the time to discuss Harry’s character.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Find someone to care for Robbie. Find another position,” Glynneth said. “Find another place to live. A new vicar will be here in a month.”

  “Come back to Balidonough,” Catherine said. “You were an excellent housekeeper, Glynneth, and we might be friends again.”

  “What would Moncrief say?”

  Catherine smiled. “I am the Duchess of Lymond. In this matter, Moncrief has no say.”

  Glynneth glanced toward her son. “And Robbie?”

  “Bring him with you. There are plenty of children at Balidonough.”

  She withdrew the document from inside her cloak and handed it to Glynneth. “When he’s old enough, Colstin Hall will be his.”

  Glynneth didn’t say a word, but she blinked back tears as she read the agreement Catherine had devised, handing over the deed to Colstin Hall to Robbie on his twenty-first birthday.

  Glynneth studied the floor. After a few moments, she finally looked at Catherine.

  “What I have to tell you may cause you to rescind your offer. I came to Colstin Hall because I wanted to see the woman who had married Harry. I wanted to hate you, and maybe I did, a little. But I realized that you hadn’t known Harry, not truly, and I never wanted you to be hurt.”

  Catherine nodded, believing her.

  “Harry would never have written you. He wasn’t that kind of man.”

  A gulf existed between them at that moment and probably always would. Not because she and Glynneth had loved the same man. But because Glynneth was willing to settle for what Harry had given her instead of wanting more.

  “You loved someone who never really existed,” Glynneth added.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Catherine said, beginning to smile. “He’s very real.”

  Very real, and very much her love.

  Moncrief rang for one of the servants. When the footman peered into the room, he scowled at him.

  “Where is Wallace?”

  “Moving furniture, Your Grace.”

  “Moving furniture? Haven’t we anyone else to do that chore?”

  The footman’s face reddened. “I believe he’s assisting Miss Hortensia, Your Grace.”

  Moncrief leaned back in his chair and surveyed the footman, restraining his comments only by the greatest of wills.

  He’d seen Hortensia being comforted by Wallace on the night of the fire. He wasn’t a fool, he’d seen the looks exchanged between them. He hadn’t told anyone of what he’d found in the keep after the rubble from the fire had been cleared out. A bedframe, fully assembled, a bedstead, and a melted silver candlestick.

  Hortensia had come to Moncrief a few days ago, and confessed that it was she who had been so panicked at the thought of discovery that she’d raced down the keep stairs. She’d not meant to injure Catherine. While Catherine had been intent on performing an inventory, Hortensia had been waiting for her lover. She hadn’t mentioned the man, but it hadn’t taken all that much deductive ability to discern who it was. Wallace was some years younger than Hortensia, but relationships such as theirs were not as uncommon as society would like to believe.

  “Is Peter back yet?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  The footman seemed to back up without moving, as if hesitant for the next question. Moncrief asked it anyway.

  “And my wife? There’s no word?”

  She’d been gone from their bed when he awoke this morning, with a short note delivered by this same footman that she had urgent business at Colstin Hall.

  He couldn’t remember being as angry at anyone in his entire life.

  The footman might be wise to be slinking away.

  “Give this to the duchess the moment she returns,” he said.

  The footman stretched his arm forward, careful to keep a distance between himself and Moncrief. He gripped the heavily carved box and stepped back again.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Shall I wait for an answer?”

  Moncrief should have ignored that idiotic question, but he said, “I believe I’ll see my wife soon, unless you are privy to some knowledge that has heretofore escaped me.”

  The footman paled, and Moncrief excused him with a wave of his hand.

  Was she coming back? Or would she choose to remain at Colstin Hall? They’d spoken of her health, of the vicar’s trial, of other consequential things this past week, but not, perhaps, the most important.

  His love. Their marriage.

  “The duke isn’t going to be happy, Your Grace.” Peter looked toward Balidonough with a frown.

  Night was approaching, the sunset glowing richly pink and orange, bathing the world with celebratory colors. A tint of it touched the window of the coach, drifted shyly onto the leather sill, and brushed coyly against Catherine’s hand.

  She’d thought to be home by noon, but she and Glynneth had sat and talked of Harry, of life, of the future. She’d been charmed by Robbie, and made a fast friend of the little boy by giving him a sweetmeat she’d brought in her reticule for him.

  “No doubt Moncrief will be very annoyed,” she said, pulling her gloves on tighter. “It’s just as well, Peter. I’m not too happy with him.”

  Now that Glynneth was taken care of, she would have to have that conversation with Moncrief.

  Peter only glanced at her, surprised.

  On the way into Balidonough, however, she heard her name called in
a hoarse voice.

  She turned to discover a nearly frozen footman standing there, hopping on one foot, then the other, to keep warm.

  “Your Grace,” he said, holding out a carved box. “I’m to give this to you the minute you arrive.”

  She took the heavy object from the footman. She remembered it well from Moncrief’s library. She’d even looked inside it for the key to his desk.

  Her letters were neatly tied and resting on the bottom of the box.

  She slammed the lid shut and brushed by the footman. “For heaven’s sake, come inside. I’m sure Moncrief didn’t mean you to freeze to death,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him.

  The look of fear on the man’s face wasn’t the least reassuring.

  “Where is Moncrief, Wallace?”

  “In his library, Your Grace. I’m to let him know the minute you return.”

  So, the confrontation was going to be a little earlier than she expected.

  “Have the candles lit in the chapel, Wallace.” He gave the order and the frozen footman walked jerkily down the east wing.

  She turned to Wallace. “Tell Moncrief I’ll join him shortly,” she said.

  Wallace looked as reluctant to face Moncrief as the footman had been fearful of him.

  She sighed, thinking it was going to be a difficult confrontation, indeed.

  The chapel was located on the exact opposite side of Balidonough from Moncrief’s office. The structure was connected by a narrow walkway to the main part of the castle. In many respects, it was a miniature Gothic building with buttresses and a soaring arched roof. There were eight panels of glass which, in the daylight, bathed the worshiper in a variety of colors as if celebrating both the penitent and God Himself.

  Tonight however, the young footman had lit the altar candles. Each day they were trimmed so they remained the exact height no matter how quickly each burned. The flickering flames illuminated the gold of the altar plates, the candlesticks, and cast shadows upon the antique ivory altarpiece.

  If God truly resided in places created for Him, then the God of Balidonough was prosperous and well-favored.

  As she sat on one of the heavily carved and well-padded pews, Catherine couldn’t help but wonder what type of prayers had been uttered here over the generations. Wealth does not make a person immune from heartache or pain or despair. In many ways, however, it had probably isolated the inhabitants of Balidonough.

  Even her modest wealth had done that. People had not so much talked with her as they did to her, in response to a question or comment or a pleasantry. She was, for the most part, alone even before Harry died. Perhaps that is why she had treasured their correspondence so, coming to look upon it as the companionship she lacked.

  She picked up the box she’d placed on the pew and opened it again, withdrawing the letters she’d written him. Only then did she see that another letter lay at the bottom, one written in a handwriting she recognized only too well.

  Catherine placed the other letters beside her along with the box and stared at Moncrief’s letter for a few moments, almost afraid to open it. He would never be hurtful; that was not his way. But he might reveal some things that her heart was not quite ready to learn.

  Resolutely, she slid her finger beneath the seal and unfolded the one-page letter. This one was smaller in script than most of his letters to her, as if he had more say and less time in which to do it.

  My dearest Catherine, it began. Her heart surged at those words. Strangely, it felt like a shaft of light entered the chapel and pierced right through her.

  I give these back to you under duress, because while they were originated by you, they have come to give me great comfort. When I was alone in North America, I found they were my lifeline to all things I valued most highly in the world. I read and reread them until I memorized them. I fell in love with the woman who wrote them. That, dearest Catherine, was my greatest mistake.

  Her hands trembled on the letter and she took a deep breath before continuing.

  These last months in your presence have proven to me how limited your letters truly were. They could not convey your laughter, or the sparkle in your eyes when you are amused. They have no way of demonstrating your kindness, or even revealing your irritation, your habit of expressing your annoyance with a roll of your eyes or a look.

  I fell in love with your words until I fell in love with you.

  His signature was different, and after a moment she smiled.

  She folded the letter very carefully and put it in the bottom of the box, then put the box on her lap and extended her arms around it. Catherine took one of the letters from the stack at her side and opened it. How strange that she could remember every single letter he had written her, but she had not recalled her own words to him.

  My dearest,

  The other day I saw a robin, a pretty little bird, surrounded by sparrows. I wondered why I felt such compassion for him and then realized he was alone of his kind. While the robin had a lovely plumage and was a more attractive bird, the sparrows were a community.

  How silly I am to envy the sparrows.

  She smiled as she remembered those words and the morning when she’d written them. She’d been sad and missing him acutely.

  Catherine began to read aloud in the chapel as she had often done when finishing a letter to him, to ensure the words didn’t sound too maudlin or pitying.

  I worry for you so, in the wilds of North America. I cannot think the winters there easily spent. I ache in our chamber when the wind grows wild and the storms come, thinking of you suffering in that desolate place. I have procured a map, and marked the continent in my mind, wondering where you are in that vast and strange country.

  Moncrief’s voice took up her words, repeating them verbatim as he entered the chapel. “‘Keep yourself safe for me. Forbid yourself, I implore you, the opportunity of being a hero.’”

  She carefully folded the letter and put it, and the box, aside. He came to stand in front of her, extending his hands to her. Slowly, she placed hers in his and he drew her up.

  “‘Tell yourself, instead,’” he continued, “‘that you must return home, whole, and safe to me.’”

  “Dearest Moncrief.” She tried to blink away her tears, but they still escaped her eyes to fall unchecked on her cheeks.

  “I wrote you those letters, Catherine, not Harry.”

  “I know.”

  One aristocratic eyebrow rose. “You know?”

  “The writing on the medicine bottles was the same as the letters.”

  He studied her for a moment, then shook his head as if he chastised himself. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

  “How could you think that?”

  He reached out and touched her cheeks with his fingers, wiping away her tears.

  “Welcome home, Catherine.”

  In that moment, she knew the words were true. Home was where Moncrief was.

  “Stay with me. Forever. I love you.”

  She was so overwhelmed by him, by the look in his eyes, that she couldn’t speak. Love warmed his expression and reached between them in an unspoken arc.

  “I love you, too, Moncrief.”

  “A sentence that might have been crafted in granite with a blunt stylus, for all the endless time it took to be uttered.”

  She lifted her hand and placed it against his cheek, feeling an absurd tenderness for this so powerful and arrogant of men. “Dearest Moncrief.”

  He bent forward and kissed her, and the world was lost to both of them.

  One of the candles sputtered. A flaw in the making of it, perhaps. A touch of water in the wax. Or perhaps it was simply the effect of four hundred years of prayers still lingering in this hallowed place—prayers that had just been gloriously and lovingly answered.

  About the Author

  KAREN RANNEY began writing when she was five. Her first published work was The Maple Leaf, read over the school intercom when she was in the first grade. In addition t
o wanting to be a violinist (her parents had a special violin crafted for her when she was seven), she wanted to be a lawyer, a teacher, and, most of all, a writer. The violin discarded early, she still admits to a fascination with the law, and she volunteers as a teacher whenever needed. Writing, however, has remained an overwhelming love of hers. She loves to hear from her readers—please write to her at karen@karenranney.com or visit her website at www.karenranney.com.

  Karen Ranney lives in Texas.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  By Karen Ranney

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  THE IRRESISTIBLE MACRAE

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  AFTER THE KISS • MY TRUE LOVE

  MY BELOVED • UPON A WICKED TIME

  MY WICKED FANTASY

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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TILL NEXT WE MEET. Copyright © 2005 by Karen Ranney. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.