Degree of Solitude

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  It explained Nevern’s off-hand comments about Daniel, Catrin realized. If he had been a frequent visitor in the past and his visits had diminished, then Daniel had driven Nevern away, too.

  Catrin shifted uneasily on the window seat. Deep embarrassment heated her middle over the state of affairs to which Nevern had been privy.

  She put the cup down with energy. She would address the matter immediately. The sooner she dealt with it, the more quickly everyone could move on from the matter.

  “I have been invited to the Baron’s dinner party tonight, Sayers. I was not going to attend. Now it seems I must, to at least thank the Baron for his kindness last month. Would you ask Gwen to attend me in whichever room my trunk was taken to? She must serve as my lady’s maid, at least for tonight.”

  She could manage a day dress by herself. The details of an evening ensemble needed two sets of hands to arrange, though.

  “I will see to it right off, Miss.”

  “You could simply say ‘certainly, Miss Davies’,” Catrin pointed out.

  He pulled his heels together and straightened up and gave her a nod as regal as any king’s. “At once, Miss Davies.”

  She smiled as he moved away, for his shoulders remained straight and square.

  Then her smile faded. A personal debt! How mortifying! She keenly felt the humiliation, even though it was Daniel’s debt. He was unaware of it, she was certain. He would not let such a matter linger unaddressed in this way, if he knew.

  While Daniel could not manage such a matter, she would have to deal with it, instead. First, she must learn if Baron Nevern would unbend enough to speak to a woman about money.

  Chapter Four

  Ysgolheigion did not have a coach or carriage of any sort, which dismayed Catrin, until Sayers scratched behind his ear and said, “There is the pony trap, miss. I could put the horse in it and drive you there myself.”

  Catrin let out a breath of relief. “It will have to do, Sayers. I cannot walk even a quarter mile wearing this.” She pressed her hand to her middle. Gwen’s enthusiastic lacing had resulted in a corset so firmly cinched she was sure her waist was an inch smaller than usual.

  “You do look rather nice,” Sayers said. “If it is permissible for a butler to say so?” he added hastily.

  “It is, Sayers, as long as the butler doesn’t leer while he says it.”

  Sayers grinned. “I’d better get back into my outdoor clothes. I’ll be right back.”

  Gwen fussed and tweaked at the back folds of her dress. “You’ll be needing a coat, miss. Now the sun has gone down it’ll be as cold as heck out there.”

  “I have a shawl in my trunk—the paisley one. A coat would upset the lines of the dress.”

  “Paisley, miss?” Gwen repeated, looking panicked.

  “The shawl with the blue lines and flowers on it,” Catrin told her.

  Gwen stalked back upstairs. Catrin had come to realize that striding was Gwen’s natural gait.

  While she waited for Gwen and Sayers to return, Catrin looked over her shoulder at the back of her dress, to check that Gwen had settled it properly. There was no long mirror in the bedroom she was using, so she checked her reflection in the window. It was dark outside and the fire in the fireplace in the middle of the room was a welcome element.

  Her gown had been correctly arranged despite the complicated cascade of bows from the bustle to the floor, and the lace sprays beneath each bow. The gown was cream silk, with threads of gold running through it, one of the first Worth gowns to emerge from Paris since the siege. She had liked it as soon as she had seen it. It was two years old, now. Hopefully, no one at the dinner party would notice. Catrin had not shopped for gowns in a long while.

  She was wearing her garnet necklace and earrings. When she had taken them from the jewelry box, Gwen whistled. “They’re lovely, Miss,” she said. “Just the ticket for a dress like this.”

  “They were my sister’s,” Catrin said. She touched the garnets. It had been a long time since she had consciously thought of Alice, now seven years dead. Catrin’s life had become so complicated she had no time to spare to miss her elder sister. Before Catrin’s coming out, she had sometimes ached with loneliness, for Alice had been her best friend as well as her sister. “I do miss her,” she admitted.

  Gwen looked abashed. “She’s passed on, miss? I’m sorry.”

  “You weren’t to know.” Catrin gave her the necklace. “Fasten it for me, please. I could not possibly get my hands up behind my neck without splitting a seam.”

  Gwen grinned. “Can’t have that, miss.”

  Gwen’s rough competence extended to Catrin’s hair, too. Once Catrin had explained the style, Gwen had swept her hair up into the coils and loops with only a small fumble or two and at the cost of only three pins being driven into Catrin’s head.

  “Is Mr. Williams sleeping?” Catrin asked, to take her mind off the pinning and pulling. There had been no sound from the bedroom across the way for some time.

  “I don’t know, Miss. Frankly, I don’t want to stick my head in there to find out.”

  “Does he usually sleep…afterwards?” Catrin asked.

  “It’s hard to tell,” Gwen said absently, as she struggled to pin the last curl in place. “The servants’ quarters is the floor above and sometimes I hear him at night. Then there’s the walking.”

  “Walking?”

  “On the hills,” Gwen added.

  “He walks on the hills a lot?”

  “Every night, I think.”

  “He walks at night?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “So, he might be out there right now?”

  “Don’t think so, miss. He usually heads out late. Long after I’m abed. I don’t know when he gets back. I’ve never been awake long enough to hear him return. There.” She stepped back, while Catrin examined the back of her head with a hand mirror and the dressing table mirror.

  “It is very good for a first effort, Gwen. Well done.”

  Gwen beamed as Catrin got to her feet.

  Catrin had come downstairs only to learn that the house didn’t have a carriage. There were a great many things Ysgolheigion did not run to, including staff, food, carriages and coal. The fires had been burning three-year-old wood for a month and even that supply was near to running out, too.

  As it was January, coal was a priority. She would have to arrange for a delivery with the local collier tomorrow morning.

  Catrin considered her reflection in the window one last time. She was well turned out enough to tackle a baron over a matter of money, she decided. An elegant appearance tended to unnerve men. Nevern was not indifferent to her appearance, which he had proved in the carriage this morning. It would help her settle the debt with the least amount of fuss or damage to Daniel’s reputation.

  It would be far easier to simply discuss the matter as men did. She was capable of straight forward plain talk, while men insisted in believing she didn’t have the intellectual capacity for such matters, which made subterfuge and charm necessary.

  The light clop of a horse in the front courtyard of the house sounded just as Gwen arrived, triumphantly lifting Catrin’s shawl in the air. “This is paisley, miss? I never knew that before.”

  Catrin wrapped the shawl around her, picked up her evening purse and went out to where Sayers was pulling the trap around to the front door. Catrin had learned that the door she had stepped through this morning was not the front door, but merely the door to the drawing room. The front door was the other door and opened upon a formal hall, where the stairs began and access to that wing of the house.

  One had to pass through the drawing room to reach the other wing of the house, although the room was pleasant enough that it was not a hardship to walk around chairs and hassocks, instead of moving through a cold corridor.

  Catrin lifted her hand up. “Your assistance, please, Sayers. This is a tall trap.” She lifted the front of her gown and stepped carefully onto the footstep. Using
Sayers’s hand for balance, she lifted herself up onto the flat floor of the trap. She settled beside him and lifted her shawl up to cover her hair and wrap around her arms. Then she nodded. “Ready,” she declared.

  He touched the small mare with the whip. The mare trotted off happily, eager to move now the cold of the evening had settled in.

  The run to the Baron’s house took only a few minutes, following the route the coach had taken that afternoon. There was a walking path which ran behind the castle, and up over the foot of Carninglis, Sayers explained, which was a quicker route during the day when on foot.

  Carninglis was the hill which lay behind both Ysgolheigion and the Baron’s house, with the stone structure at the peak. Before the castle ruins hid it from sight, Catrin could see the stone pillar outlined against the starry sky.

  Baron Nevern’s house was full of light and a few carriages waited on the drive. Well off to the side, among the wild trees and bushes, the drivers stood around an old oil drum in which a fire burned. The Welsh seemed to be a hardy race. Catrin’s teeth were already chattering from the short ride from Ysgolheigion.

  Without prompting, Sayers dropped to the ground and raced around to help her down. She smiled her thanks at him and carefully lowered the shawl around her shoulders, so Gwen’s arrangement of her hair was not ruined.

  The front door stood fully open, with warm light pouring from it onto the gravel beyond the steps. Catrin climbed up the steps and moved inside a few paces.

  The butler hurried to take her shawl. He was an old man, bent and thin of hair, and shorter than her. She thanked him. “Miss Catrin Davies,” she told him.

  He nodded and led her to a door she presumed was to the drawing room. At the door he cleared his throat. “Miss Catrin Davies,” he announced.

  There were perhaps a dozen people in the small drawing room, which was made smaller by a piano taking up one corner. They wore evening gowns and suits and day wear, too, which startled her. Everyone held a glass of something in their hands.

  Baron Nevern moved between the diners and came toward her wearing a large smile. “You did come! How wonderful!” He took her gloved hand and bent over it, not quite bringing his lips to her fingers. His eyes danced. “Let me introduce you to everyone. You won’t know a soul here, of course.”

  A woman in a pink dress with narrow lace around the shoulders came up to them. She had black, curly hair and a sharp nose, and was considerably shorter than Catrin. She looked up at Nevern expectantly.

  “My wife, Danica,” Nevern said.

  “Noswaith dda, Baroness,” Catrin acknowledged. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You are welcome in our home, Miss Davies,” Danica said stiffly.

  Catrin kept her smile warm, despite the typical wariness most other women used when they first met her.

  Nevern drew her farther into the room and introduced Catrin to everyone. Among the guests was a gray-headed man with a white goatee and tanned skin. He was one of the guests wearing proper evening attire, although his waistcoat was dark, rather than white.

  Neven touched the man’s shoulder to get his attention. As the upright man turned to them, Neven said: “Another visitor to Newport. Merrick, may I introduce to you Miss Catrin Davies, cousin to Daniel Williams. Miss Davies, Sir Gethin Merrick.”

  Merrick gave her a short nod, his gaze sweeping over her.

  Nevern’s forehead creased. “You know each other?” he asked.

  Catrin shook her head. “I know Sir Merrick by reputation,” she admitted.

  “I haven’t attended a Season for a good few years,” Merrick said. “Since before a young thing like you came out, I’m sure.” He had the same Welsh-based upper-class accent as Nevern. He glanced at Nevern. “My reputation has prevented it,” he added. He didn’t sound upset by the exclusion.

  Sir Gethin Merrick had once been a surgeon—a gifted and celebrated one, who had earned the praise of Queen Victoria, who knighted him for services to her family. He had moved among society for several years until rumors about his private life and scandals concerning his work had erupted, and he was no longer welcomed in the homes of the ton. Catrin didn’t know precisely what the rumors and scandal were, only that he had blackened his illustrious career and stained his character.

  Catrin held out her hand. “A pleasure, Sir Merrick.”

  He pressed her fingers and let them go. “Ah…the formality of the London season. You are a reminder of other times, my dear.”

  She was at a loss for words. Then Nevern drew her away and Merrick returned to his conversation.

  The next introduction was to a tall and rather large man with a bulbous nose and a fringe of beard around his jaw. “Mr. Rhys Kernigan, Esquire,” Nevern explained. “Newport’s mayor, appointed by the Barony of Cemaes.”

  Mr. Kernigan wore an evening suit which was at least ten years old, although it was clean and starched and neat. He gave her a formal bow. “If you have only arrived this afternoon it would explain why I have not heard of you until now, Miss Davies,” he said. His voice was loud, his speech precise. His volume seemed to be normal, for she had heard his rumbling voice from the other side of the room. “I am sure that by tomorrow all of Newport will gossip about the new beauty in our midst.”

  Mr. Kernigan’s wife was a pale blonde woman, as slender as he was stout, wearing a floral dress as old as his suit. She gave Catrin a nervous smile but did not speak and Nevern did not introduce her. Neither did Kernigan.

  Catrin held out her hand toward the lady. “Mrs. Kernigan, it is nice to meet you.”

  Kernigan cleared his throat. “Of course. My wife, Nancy. Miss Davies.”

  Mrs. Kernigan held Catrin’s fingers for a moment. She wore no gloves.

  The introductions went on. Catrin fell back into the habits of the Season, remembering names and faces, ranks and family associations, so she would offend no one later.

  The last man Nevern introduced her to stood by the piano, sorting through sheets of music, which he had scattered over the black lacquered top. A glass of what appeared to be brandy sat upon one sheet, staining it. There was little left in the glass.

  The man had his back to them. He wore a day suit. The elbows were rubbed almost threadbare and the knees of his trousers sagged. From behind, his gray hair was tight, corkscrew curls.

  “Doctor, may I introduce Newport’s latest visitor?” Nevern said.

  The man turned. He put a hand on the piano to steady himself.

  “Doctor Trevor Jones,” Nevern said. “Miss Catrin Davies.”

  Dr. Jones had a florid face, a thin mustache and thick sideburns. His forehead wrinkled. “Miss Davies, a pleasure, I’m sure.” He was missing a tooth, beside his two front teeth. “Just picking out something besides your beloved Wagner, Nevern.” His tone was jocular, although Catrin detected the effort in it. He reached for the glass and drank heavily.

  “There is nothing wrong with Wagner,” Sir Merrick said, as he came up to the piano, too.

  “Not at a dinner party,” Dr. Jones replied. “All that thumping doesn’t aid digestion.”

  “Eating does, I’ve heard,” Merrick replied.

  Jones smiled and drank. “So does the companions one dines with.”

  “You can have no complaint about tonight’s company, at least,” Merrick replied. He raised his glass toward Catrin and drank.

  “Perhaps Bizet might serve?” Catrin suggested to the doctor.

  “Now, that is a capital notion. Do you know Bizet, Nevern?”

  “There are one or two pieces in there, I seem to remember,” Nevern said.

  “Where do you live, Sir Merrick, if you are only visiting Newport?” Catrin asked politely.

  “Visiting!” Jones snorted as he turned back to the piano to sort the sheets.

  “I have lived in Scotland and Ireland, and northern England,” Merrick said. “Europe, for a while, too. I have been here for nearly a year. The sea air, the simple lifestyle…it is conducive.”

&nb
sp; “And what does it encourage, sir?” Catrin asked.

  “Sloth,” Jones said, without turning.

  Merrick smiled. “The good doctor and I see life from a different perspective. I take time to appreciate its foibles, while he hurries about trying to fix them.”

  “How is Daniel today?” Nevern asked.

  Catrin made her smile bright. “He was fine when I left.” Now was not the time to tackle Nevern about money. She would find a moment after dinner, when she might draw him away from the brandy decanter and cigars. “He sends his regrets.”

  “Of course,” Nevern said, his own smile just as warm. “I completely understand.”

  That was the truth, Catrin realized. She relaxed a little more. If Nevern was so understanding about Daniel’s condition, then he may be just as flexible about dealing with her to settle the debt.

  Merrick raised his brow. “Daniel…that is the man with the injured face, yes? The Williams son?”

  “My cousin,” Catrin reminded him.

  “Ah…the house of scholars. Yes,” Merrick said.

  “I don’t understand,” Catrin admitted.

  “Ysgolheigion,” Nevern said. “It means ‘scholars’ in Welsh. The stream which runs through the land is the Afon Ysgolheigion.”

  “I didn’t know that.” She liked the name. It seemed ironic that neither of the two people living in a house of scholars were successful scholars themselves. “Perhaps you linger in Newport because you are Welsh and love your native land, Sir Merrick?”

  “Or perhaps, as a Welshman, this is the only place which cannot turn me out,” Merrick replied. His smile was knowing and filled with amusement.

  Nevern snorted. So did Jones, who drained his glass and moved over to where the butler stood by the trays of decanters.

  Catrin tried to puzzle through the unspoken comments. Was this something to do with Merrick’s soiled reputation?