by Martha Keyes
Henry shot him a churlish glance.
Knowing that further refusal would be uncivil, Kate admitted defeat and expressed her gratitude to Lady Crofte. Clara appeared more cheerful, so perhaps Kate’s protestations hadn’t been entirely without purpose. She promised herself that she would do her best to promote conversation between Clara and Lord Ashworth, and that she would spend her own time engaging with the other members of the expedition to allay any residual fears Clara might have.
6
William rode home to Ashworth Place with a deeply furrowed brow. Once home, he went directly to find his mother. Lady Purbeck was engaged in responding to correspondence in her small sitting room and turned at the sound of his entrance.
He chuckled at the expression on her face: eyebrows raised, an urgent question in her eyes.
“What? No greeting?” he said.
She smiled warmly at him, standing and putting out her arms. He took her hands and kissed her on the cheek.
“What a fetching cap, Mama.” He held out his hands, still clasping hers, and surveyed her with a twinkle. “You look younger every day. You know Lady Prescott’s daughter visiting from Ireland had the audacity to ask if you were my sister?”
“Stop flattering me, imp,” she said in exasperation, though visibly pleased by his words, “and tell me what happened at the manor. Am I to felicitate my son?” Her eyebrows were raised in expectation.
His smile morphed into a thoughtful frown. He sat down in a chair across from hers. “I couldn’t do it, Mama.”
Her brows shot up, and she took her seat again. “Then what in the world have you been about these last two hours and more, my dear? I should think you had more compassion than to let your mother sit about, fretting over an event that didn’t even take place.”
Her words chastised him, but the kind light in her eye belied the tone.
William chewed his lip for a moment, saying distractedly, “Sir Richard, as it so happens, is away from home at the moment.”
“Ah,” said Lady Purbeck. “Well, no matter. There is no rush, is there? When does he return?”
“I didn’t inquire.”
She furrowed her brow and looked intently at him.
He lowered his gaze to his fingers which he interlocked and stared at pensively.
“I set out to Wyndcross of a mind to speak with him,” Lord Ashworth said, “but it wasn’t his absence per se that prevented that.” He paused for a moment. “I experienced some...hesitation before arriving...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I see,” said Lady Purbeck, reclining into her chair. “But what changed your mind? You seemed quite set on it this morning.”
“I know.” He paused then brought his chin to rest on his interlocked fingers. “On my way to Wyndcross, I ran into an acquaintance. Do you remember the Matchams, Mama?”
Her eyebrows knitted in thought. “As in John Matcham, the man who lives at Coombe Park?”
“Well, yes, it’s the same family. But I’m referring to his brother. Charles, I believe.”
“Oh,” she said in recognition. “Yes, yes, I remember them.” Her brow furrowed, and her head cocked to the side. “But didn’t he die?”
William’s lip twitched. “Yes, I believe so. Happily, it was not him that I happened upon but rather his daughter.”
A wary look flitted across his mother’s face, but it was gone as soon as it came, and her expression remained an inquiring one.
“Something about our encounter, Mama. I couldn’t put it out of my mind. I know it seems ridiculous, and I did plan to proceed with offering for Miss Crofte. But when the time came, I couldn’t.” He was resting his elbows on his knees, looking at his hands again, and twiddling his thumbs.
His mother was silent for a few moments. “This woman you encountered—she is not, perhaps, simply interested in your title? Some ladies can be very engaging when it serves them.”
“I believe I’ve learned to differentiate by now, Mama,” he said. “Besides, she didn’t even know who I was; didn’t even know my name.”
“Well, that is something, to be sure. But what is Jane Matcham’s daughter doing here in Dorset?” she asked him. “I seem to remember that they moved after Charles’ death.”
He heaved a sigh. “She is visiting Clara Crofte,” he said, tapping a finger on his pursed lips.
Comprehension dawned on the Countess’ face. “I see,” she said slowly. “That does make things awkward.”
He shook his head and gave a low chuckle. “I think I must have been suffering from a case of nerves and simply jumped at the first excuse to abandon my plan. I shall likely regret my decision tomorrow and be obliged to return to Wyndcross to accomplish my original purpose once Sir Richard returns.”
He looked up at his mother. She was looking at him with kindness, but it was apparent that the cogs were turning in her head.
“Perhaps so,” she said, smiling and straightening herself to continue writing.
William stayed in his chair for another minute, eyes staring at nothing in particular, and the scratches of his mother’s quill the only sound breaking the silence.
7
After the departure of Lord Ashworth, Lady Crofte directed her children and visitor to change for dinner. Kate was glad for an opportunity to think. She suspected that Clara’s perception of her could change from welcome friend to potential competitor, and she needed to tread carefully, particularly given her own strange and unexpected affinity for Lord Ashworth.
Encountering him at Wyndcross had only served to strengthen the unaccountable attraction she felt toward him. It had been apparent that Lord Ashworth had also enjoyed their exchange—something which had perhaps given Clara the wrong idea.
Perhaps it had given Kate the wrong idea, too.
But that Clara could feel threatened by her in any way was laughable—almost as ridiculous as the idea of Lord Ashworth actually preferring her to Clara.
The encounter, though, had also highlighted two matters which brought Kate back to reality with an uncomfortable thud: first, Clara was in love with Lord Ashworth, and not for the world would Kate hurt her friend. Second, Lord Ashworth was the heir to an earldom.
Kate was reasonable enough to know that, however much it grated her to admit it, Sir Lewis's comment about her family connections held much truth. An earl’s son couldn’t, or at least wouldn’t, marry into a family of tradesmen, be they ever so wealthy. She would be a fool to set her sights—or feelings—so presumptuously high.
The moment she realized that her mind had leapt to marriage at all, she muttered, “All these years of not caring the snap of your fingers for any gentleman, and suddenly visions of marrying a stranger, Kate?”
Lindley walked into the room. “What was that, Miss?”
“Oh,” said Kate, a tinge of pink in her cheeks, “just that I’m so sorry for putting you to so much trouble with these ink stains. I promise you I tried to take care, and indeed it was not my fault.”
“Well, if that’s what’s got you so distracted, don’t go troubling your head over it. It’s only what I had expected.” She inspected a particularly large ink spot.
Kate turned in her chair to look at Lindley. “Expected me to spill ink all over myself? What a clod I must be,” she laughed.
“Not a clod, Miss. Perhaps somewhat—” Lindley paused, searching for the right word “—prone to mishaps, shall we say?”
Kate sighed. “I suppose I am, aren’t I?”
Lindley raised her brows as if Kate’s response had been a vast understatement. “I shan’t forget the day you tripped down the carriage steps on your way to the Elston Ball. It took me three days to get all the mud out of that beautiful champagne ball dress.”
“Lindley!” Kate cried. “How uncivil of you to remind me of such a mortifying moment. And it wasn’t my fault. Those dreadful shoe buckles caught on the smallest thing.”
“Aye. I’m sure it had nothing to do with you, Miss,” said Lindley consolingly.
Kate eyed her with suspicion. “Well, now I am thinking much too hard about how I walk for fear that I shall, as you put it, become prone to another mishap. I am sure to trip down the stairs now that you’ve been unhandsome enough to bring up such a memory.”
She held up her dress with extra care as she left the room.
Scrubbing the ink off her face had taken longer than she had anticipated, and Kate was the last to enter the dining room. Henry and Clara were standing close to one another, conversing in low tones. Henry wore an expression of exasperation which transformed into a somewhat contrived smile on seeing Kate. Clara’s head snapped around, and, perceiving Kate, she grabbed Henry’s arm and pulled him along with her toward Kate.
“Ah, there! You are good as new. I had been wondering if those ink spots would wash off.”
“That makes two of us then.” Kate’s hand made an involuntary brush at her cheek where a particularly resilient ink spot had been. “I was sure that you were all preparing to send me to the circus where I would inevitably become known as the Spotted Woman.”
Henry gave a stiff laugh.
Clara’s attitude toward Kate was free of any kind of reserve, but, all the same, Kate wished that she had the opportunity to converse privately with her so that she might allay any worry. On the other hand, Henry’s stiffness was puzzling to her. What could she possibly have said or done to elicit such a reaction?
Henry was an agreeable person, prone to see the hilarity in any given situation which made his reaction so much the stranger. His love of fun made him good company and reminded Kate forcibly of the boy she had known as a child, forever getting into scrapes and playing practical jokes. He didn’t seem the type to easily take offense, nor had she spent enough time around him to have given any.
* * *
The day after the incident with the ink, Kate and Clara walked the gardens together, cutting flowers for an arrangement Lady Crofte planned to take to one of the neighbors. The rose garden was in full bloom, and the scent was sweet and intoxicating as they strolled amongst the rainbow of red, pink, yellow, white, and multi-colored roses.
Kate sought a natural way to bring up the subject of gentlemen and marriage. Attempting to ease into the topic, she first spoke of London, knowing Clara would find plenty of interest in anything having to do with society and fashion. As it turned out, though, Clara brought up the subject before Kate even had the chance.
“Did you never find someone to marry in all your time in London, Kate?” she inquired.
Kate smiled. Two Seasons without accepting any offers of marriage clearly seemed like an eternity to Clara.
She paused before answering. In her first Season, she had received proposals from two very young men, obviously infatuated by her relative wisdom and confidence. She had rejected both, comforted in knowing that their mothers would thank her.
Simon Hartley’s face swam before her for a moment. Before coming to Wyndcross and during her first days there, she had begun to think that perhaps a marriage to Simon wouldn’t be such a bad life after all. She cared for him, he cared for her, and he came of good family.
But now she felt her stomach tie itself in knots at the prospect of marrying him.
Much as she felt affection for and loyalty to Simon, her personality craved laughter and adventure that was simply not to be had with him. He had a staid and steady disposition which was invaluable, but it was not in his nature to laugh or seek amusement in life. Everything he chose to do had a very particular and practical purpose. In many ways, he seemed the polar opposite of Henry Crofte—someone who lived for amusement. Kate preferred someone who had both qualities in moderation.
In any case, she recognized that Clara’s question might well be an indirect method of discovering whether Kate had set her heart on Lord Ashworth.
“Well, I did find someone, in a way, though I haven’t given him an answer yet.” Guilt pinched at her, knowing her answer was a mixture of truth and prevarication. But she thought she saw some relief flash across Clara’s face before being replaced with an expression of curious excitement.
“Oh, Kate,” she exclaimed, grasping Kate’s arm. “How very exciting! You know, it is good to make a gentleman wait sometimes. That is what Emily Baird says, and she has been offered for no less than five times.”
Kate suppressed a shudder. Turning down five marriage proposals was not something she aspired to.
Receiving no response to her shocking revelation about Miss Baird, Clara continued. “But, that is beside the point. Do I know him? What is his name?”
Kate hesitated again but, feeling quite sure that Clara was precisely the type of animated woman Simon would avoid interaction with, she decided there could be no harm in it. “His name is Simon Hartley.”
Clara put a pensive finger on her lips, her brows drawing together. “Hmm...it sounds familiar.”
Kate swallowed uncomfortably.
Clara’s eyes were squinted, as if she were trying to pinpoint why the name sounded familiar. “I believe Mama is acquainted with a Hartley family. Or is it Hadley?” She shrugged off the thought. “Shall you accept him then?”
“I’m not sure,” Kate replied, finally feeling as though she were speaking whole truth. “He’s a very good sort of man, and my affections aren’t otherwise engaged.” When another twinge of guilt arose at those words, Kate reminded herself that it was impossible to feel real affection for someone she knew as little as Lord Ashworth. “I simply don’t know that I want to become his wife.”
She looked at Clara whose expression had brightened perceptibly.
“Well, I shall feel bad if you reject his offer, but only for his sake,” she said, linking her arm through Kate’s.
Kate felt relief at the friendly gesture. Hoping she had done the right thing but determined to see it through regardless, she smiled at Clara, asking, “And what of you? Have you any lovers pining away for you in London?”
Clara laughed and assumed a mischievous grin. “Perhaps one or two. But I’m sure they will forget me soon enough. They so often do.”
“Fickle London men,” said Kate with pretended ferocity.
“Fickle indeed. Though,” said Clara, looking pleased with herself, “I don’t regard it, I’m sure. After all, Mama says she thinks that I shall receive a very promising offer soon.”
Kate kept her head down. Was she referring to Lord Ashworth? Things must be quite serious if Lady Crofte anticipated an offer. Such confidence and glee were not, in Kate’s experience, the frequent companions of uncertainty.
“Do you refer to Lord Ashworth?” asked Kate, wanting to be sure she wasn’t making incorrect assumptions.
“Yes!” Clara clasped her hands together.
Kate felt her heart sink but managed a smile as Clara said, “Can you believe I shall be a countess?” There was a slight pause, and Clara added, “When his father dies, of course.”
Kate’s brows went up. She could hardly believe that Lord Ashworth would appreciate hearing his father’s life disposed of with such elation by the woman he apparently intended to make his wife.
But he was more than old enough to know his own mind, surely. It was really no business of Kate’s, and a match between the Crofte and the Ashworth families would indeed be a good match.
And yet somehow Kate still felt as though she had received a disappointment.
8
Henry gulped down the last bit of his gin, smacking the tankard down on the table. The top of his lip turned up in distaste as he swallowed. The air was thick and hot in the inn, the scent of alcohol wafting around from each table and mug.
“Wishing we had some of that fine burgundy instead of this shoddy Blue Ruin, eh?” said his friend Fitz with a knowing grin.
“Ah, if only.” Henry’s eyes glazed over as he pictured a wine cellar full of the spirits they’d just handled. He slumped back in his chair. “I’m more likely to spend the remainder of my days in debtor’s prison than to ever have the chance to ge
t bosky on burgundy of that caliber.”
Fitz drank the last of his own tankard, his eyebrows raised. “Debts that bad?”
“Worse,” said Henry. “Particularly since my luck took a turn for the worse at Madame Aubertin’s.” He felt sick even thinking on the sum he had lost.
Fitz had sworn the gaming hell was just the ticket for Henry’s difficulties. And so it had seemed at first.
Henry shuddered. He couldn’t bear to think what his mother would say if she found out—or worse, how she’d look at him.
Fitz shook his head. “Rotten luck, that’s what it is.”
“It’s only gotten more rotten since,” Henry said. “My mother has informed me that I am soon to be congratulated.”
“Eh?” Fitz said, looking mystified.
“Married, Fitz. She’s decided I’m to be married.”
Fitz looked blankly at him for a moment and then began laughing hysterically. “You? Leg-shackled!”
Fitz gave into his mirth, wiping an eye only to then succumb to another bout of laughter. “Now that’s rich!” Fitz said.
“Rich? Yes, Fitz! That’s precisely the problem! She’s to be rich as a nabob, and my mother is adamant that I make a push to marry her.”
Fitz’s laughter died down, and his frown returned. “Well, you’ve had a run of bad luck, my boy, but your pocket is a couple guineas the better for tonight’s work, eh? And what a night!”
The side of Henry’s mouth turned up in a smile. A night of disguised smuggling which ended with money in his pocket was precisely the type of adventure he never knew he’d been missing. “If I can keep this up, Marshalsea won’t be able to get its hands on me.”
Fitz chuckled. “Don’t be silly, Crofte. You’d be daft to come back for more. It was a drunken lark, no more.” He stood and clapped Henry on the back. “I’m for bed.”
