by Martha Keyes
“Never mind that,” Henry dismissed his coachman’s apologies with the impatient wave of a hand. “Where’s Ash, Clara?”
Clara turned from Mr. Bradbury, her cheeks tinged pink with pleasure.
Henry was obliged to repeat his question.
“I’m sure I have no notion where he might have gone,” she said dismissively, turning back to Mr. Bradbury.
“Has he not returned?” asked Lady Anne, surprise in her voice. “He rode just ahead of us.”
Henry shook his head. “Should have guessed he’d be up to some havey-cavey business, leaving us to kick our heels.” He seemed to be in a particularly irritable mood.
Kate shifted in her seat. She was the only one who knew Lord Ashworth’s whereabouts, and though she had spent the past ten minutes fighting suspicion and questions, she suddenly knew an inclination to defend him.
“I believe he stopped at a shop down the street,” she said in as off-hand a voice as she could manage. Why was she vouching for him? She had no idea whether he was worthy of her defense.
The phaeton came into view in the distance in that same moment. Whatever Lord Ashworth’s business had been, it had been quickly transacted. He was once again wearing his top hat, and the cloak was nowhere in sight.
Kate glanced at the dirt-covered sack in front of his legs as he slowed his horses.
“Very pretty behavior, Ash!” said Henry. “Leaving us to await your pleasure, while you sneak off on your own.”
Kate watched Lord Ashworth’s reaction closely for any hint of guilt, but he only laughed at Henry’s accusation as he descended from the phaeton. Either he was dead to any sense of guilt, or his reasons for entering the inn were innocent and she had wronged him.
Kate watched as Clara said something in a low voice to Mr. Bradbury who still stood beside her, holding her things. She turned to Kate.
“Kate, would you like a turn in the phaeton?” she said.
“It would be better,” Lord Ashworth replied with a slight frown, “if you or Anne rode with me.”
Kate herself had been about to demur. She did not wish to spend the journey alone with Lord Ashworth given the many conflicting emotions she was feeling. But, on hearing his words, she looked at him with a mix of surprise and hurt.
He returned her gaze with a questioning look, but she had regained command of herself and made a point of avoiding his eyes.
“I say, Henry,” interjected Mr. Bradbury, following a discreet nudge from Clara. “Would it be a great bore if I were to ride in your carriage as far as Hookham? I came into town with Chapman here, but he has a number of errands still to accomplish, and I am anxious to return home.”
“No bore, my good man,” said Henry cordially as he climbed up into the carriage, seating himself opposite Lady Anne and Kate. “Be happy to.” Mr. Bradbury hesitated, shooting a look of uncertainty at Clara as he made to move toward the carriage.
Clara needed no prodding. “Lady Anne,” she said in a voice which drew immediate sympathy for its pathetic tone, “would you mind terribly if I rode in the landau instead? I have a touch of the headache. I believe it is the result of being bounced around in the phaeton.” She touched her temple with a delicate hand.
Lady Anne readily assented, expressing concern over Clara’s discomfort as Mr. Bradbury handed her down from the carriage.
Kate began to understand Clara’s offer to have Kate ride in the phaeton in her place as an attempt to make the journey in the company of Mr. Bradbury. She felt perplexed by the knowledge. Why would Clara make such an effort to be in his company rather than in the company of the man she loved and was promised to marry?
It was quite evident during the journey home, though, that Clara looked at Mr. Bradbury with something more than common friendship. Kate had never seen her look at Lord Ashworth the way she looked at Mr. Bradbury. She had seen Clara look pleased and flattered, piqued and bothered, but her interaction with Mr. Bradbury was something quite different. Her smiles for him held a warmth which Kate realized was quite absent from her interactions with Lord Ashworth.
She felt bewildered by the contradiction between what she was seeing and what she had been told by Lady Crofte. There had to be some explanation.
Mr. Bradbury was eventually let down at Hookham, and the rest of the party continued on until Lord Ashworth and Lady Anne parted ways with the others, bidding Kate and the Croftes a temporary goodbye until the dinner party in two days.
By the time the three had arrived back at Wyndcross Manor, some of Henry’s reserve and ill-humor had returned. He hopped down from the landau as soon as he was able and walked directly to the manor, leaving Clara and Harper to help Kate down from the landau and to instruct the servants on where to deposit the packages.
Kate thanked them both, expressing a hope, once Harper had left with the carriage, that Clara had passed an enjoyable morning.
“Oh yes, didn’t you?” she exclaimed as she helped Kate inside. Not waiting for an answer, she continued, “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in quite some time.”
“Yes,” Kate replied, “it was quite kind of Lord Ashworth to let you handle his chestnuts. Lady Anne says he is very protective of them.”
Clara looked as though she had completely forgotten that part of the day, but quickly concurred. “Oh, yes, very kind. I’ve always wished to drive a high-perch phaeton! How did I look handling the reins?”
Kate laughed. “You looked famous, of course! Is your head feeling any better?”
Clara looked nonplussed for a moment. “Oh, yes. Much better. I’m sure Lord Ashworth’s phaeton is very dashing, but it knocks one about in such a way.”
She changed the subject, prattling on about the purchases she had made for herself and for her mother. The conversation soon moved to the approaching dinner party, Clara expressing her excitement for the upcoming evening. Kate was unsure how to feel at the prospect, but she listened with appreciation to Clara’s delight.
“And you will be able to meet the Kirkpatricks, the Cottrells, the Bradburys—so many of our dear friends.”
Kate had been retying her boot lace which was too tight for comfort, but she stopped for a moment on hearing the names, looking up.
“Are those the same Bradburys as the Mr. Bradbury who joined us in town?”
Clara looked at Kate with a touch of wariness. “Yes,” she said.
Realizing that she had touched a nerve, Kate tried to sound casual as she said, “How lovely! I look forward to it. He was very agreeable, and it is always such a comfort to see a familiar face in a crowd of new people.”
16
Kate entered the breakfast parlor the following morning with only a slight favoring of her ankle. Her boot was beginning to go on with greater ease, as the swelling had almost completely disappeared.
Lady Crofte was already partaking of her breakfast. It was unusual to see her at the breakfast table—she normally took it abed. But this day and the one following were bound to be full of tasks to be accomplished before the guests arrived for the party.
She and Kate exchanged greetings, and Lady Crofte inquired civilly about the time Kate and the others had spent in Weymouth the day before. Kate recounted some aspects she thought Lady Crofte would find interesting or entertaining, as Lady Crofte sipped her chocolate.
“...after which,” Kate recounted, “we dropped Mr. Bradbury at Hookham and returned to Wyndcross. It was all very lovely, and everyone was very kind to adapt to my limitations.”
Lady Crofte, who had been listening to Kate with an expression of polite interest, paused for a moment in the act of buttering her roll.
“Mr. Bradbury, you say?” She reached for the preserves. “I was not aware that he was one of the party.”
Lady Crofte’s words and tone were devoid of any blame, but Kate had the sense that she had made a misstep in mentioning Mr. Bradbury at all.
“Oh, he was not,” she imbued her voice with as much casual indifference as she could muster, adding more sug
ar to her already-sweet chocolate for an excuse not to meet Lady Crofte’s gaze. “We happened upon both him and another gentleman—Mr. Chapman, I believe—in town, and he requested that we take him as far as Hookham rather than waiting for Mr. Chapman to finish his commissions.”
“I see.” Lady Crofte was silent for a moment before donning a smile which had the effect of making Kate feel quite tense. “Mr. Bradbury is thought to have quite amusing conversation, as I understand. Did he manage to divert you and Lady Anne during the ride home?”
Kate had felt somewhat diverted during the journey home, but that it was intentional on Mr. Bradbury’s part was doubtful. The mutual attraction between Clara and Mr. Bradbury had been obvious. The looks passing between the two were entirely out of place for people professing only friendship. Their verbal interaction, on the other hand, had been innocuously and painstakingly polite.
Kate cleared her throat and placed a serviette in her lap, smoothing it over several times as she spoke. Lady Crofte was clearly more interested in Kate’s recounting since Mr. Bradbury’s presence had been made known.
“In fact,” said Kate in as light a voice as she could muster, “Lady Anne sat up beside her brother for the ride home. Clara was not feeling entirely well after the ride to Weymouth in the phaeton. I must say that I sympathize with her after having ridden in Fanny’s phaeton. Fashionable they may be, but comfortable they most assuredly are not. Mr. Bradbury was a very pleasant and attentive companion to us in the landau, though.”
Lady Crofte widened her smile so that creases formed at the corners of her eyes. Kate couldn’t remember a time when she had seen a smile look so devoid of the emotions it normally conveyed.
The door opened, and one of the footmen walked in, bringing a letter to Kate and bowing before leaving the room again. The letter was from Kate’s mother. She and her mother did not in general correspond with the degree of frequency which might be expected between a mother and her oldest child, so Kate was somewhat surprised to see the letter.
She had last written to her mother before leaving London to come to Wyndcross. It had only been a quick response to inform her that she would be spending the better part of the summer at Wyndcross Manor in Dorset with the Croftes and that she had received her mother’s letter regarding the inheritance issue. She had been at a loss as to how she should convey to her mother that she had no intention of accepting any potential inheritance, so she had put off the task.
She felt Lady Crofte’s eyes resting on her.
“It is a letter from my mother,” Kate said, looking up with a smile. She was glad for a reason to change the subject.
“Ah,” said Lady Crofte, this time wearing a more genuine smile. “I hope she is well.”
Kate opened the letter. It was short, and there was no mention of her mother’s health.
Dearest Kate,
I write only to inform you that Alfred Dimmock has been located...
Kate’s hand shot up to her mouth in surprise.
...living in the West Indies and is, despite what we had been given to think, in quite robust health, attested to clearly by his six children, three of whom are boys.
The number six was underlined twice. Kate smiled wryly behind her hand, imagining her mother’s chagrin upon finding that any chance of her or her children inheriting her husband’s fortune was now out of the question.
“Is everything well, Miss Matcham?” Lady Crofte’s voice was infused with curiosity.
“Oh yes, yes. It is just such a relief,” Kate exhaled.
She reread the words. The knowledge that she wouldn’t have to explain to her mother and stepfather why she was refusing a fortune immediately removed a weight from her shoulders. That the decision was made for her was no small relief—after all, it was one thing to think on refusing a fortune. To give it up in practice was another thing entirely.
“I’m so glad,” Lady Crofte said kindly. “And what, my dear, is such a relief?”
“It will seem quite silly to you, I’m sure, but it is indeed a relief to me. My stepfather has a brother with whom he has not spoken in many years. He was believed to no longer be living but has just been found alive and well in the West Indies.”
“Your concern for the man’s well-being is moving, my dear,” said Lady Crofte in an amused and indulgent voice.
Kate laughed. “Oh, I have never met him. My relief is due to the fact that the question of my stepfather’s inheritance has been decided. It was uncertain for a time, and it is always a relief to know one way or the other, isn’t it?”
The amused expression Lady Crofte had worn at the beginning of Kate’s response had, by the end of it, been replaced by one devoid of anything which might be mistaken for amusement.
Why did Lady Crofte stare at her so? But Kate had long given up understanding the woman, so she sipped her chocolate as she read the final lines of her mother’s letter.
She excused herself from the table not long after, making her way outside to consider her situation anew, the letter in hand. Though her mother’s letter had contained welcome news, Kate’s initial feelings of relief began to give way to a renewed sense of urgency.
She walked the grounds, taking in a deep breath of the air that held such an invigorating mixture of seaside and country smells. She wished she could stay in Dorset for the remainder of her days. Perhaps she could seek a position in a household in the area as a governess or some such thing. But the thought of experiencing the county as a member of society was quite different than experiencing it as an employed servant.
What about Simon? Could she pursue the option of a marriage of convenience which he had offered? He had told her to let him know if she had a change of heart or mind.
She reflected on the state of her heart and sighed. It was, stubborn as ever—even in the face of his strange and suspicious conduct—still very much attached to Lord Ashworth. She felt a deep and loyal friendship for Simon, but what she felt for Lord Ashworth seemed to somehow run just as deep, yet wide enough to cover both friendship and love.
What had at first seemed to be a silly infatuation had transformed. The affinity and affection she held for him were beyond doubt, and as the amount of time she spent in Lord Ashworth’s presence increased, the affinity and attraction deepened. The more she resisted, the stronger it tugged.
If she could have transferred those affections to Simon Hartley, she would have done so in a heartbeat. It would have made life so much easier. But, as if to spite her, those feelings seemed to have dug their heels into the ground. Her heart simply could not be given to Simon Hartley.
Simon had not only mentioned her heart, though. According to him, a change of mind would be enough.
What of her mind, then? Could she bring herself to marry someone she respected and cared for but whom she did not love?
She pictured a life at the side of Simon. She admired him and appreciated so much about him. But to be unable to share laughter or love with her husband? It made her ache.
Before coming to Dorset, she was almost convinced that such a life would suit her well enough. But now that she had tasted what it felt like to catch eyes with someone, to share secret amusement, to feel her heartbeat quicken at the mere sight of someone; she didn’t know how to sacrifice it, even if it meant being alone.
Bleak though a marriage devoid of such things might be, the alternative she faced was bleaker still, if it was even a feasible option. Would it not be better to marry than to fail in an attempt at making her own way in the world, only to end up obligated once again to her stepfather?
The thought of marrying to avoid such a possibility did not seem so terrible to her. But she would not be marrying in thought. She would be marrying a real person with feelings and aspirations, and her conscience recoiled. How could she use someone as a selfish escape? Especially someone as good and decent as Simon Hartley. He deserved so much better than that. But what did she herself deserve?
17
Henry dangled his legs ove
r the side of his armchair as he read The Morning Post. Clara was perusing the latest edition of La Belle Assemblée while Kate sat with a book in her lap and a glazed over expression. Every so often a scoffing noise erupted from Henry, and he would recount the object of his derision to an attentive Clara and an inattentive Kate.
A knock sounded on the door, and a footman entered, holding a silver tray with a card sitting atop.
“For you, Mr. Crofte. A gentleman here to see you.”
Henry sat up, taking the card and reading it with a wrinkled brow. “Sir Lewis Gording?” he said with no recognition.
Kate’s head shot up, an arrested expression replacing her abstracted one.
“If you please, sir,” expounded the footman, “he mentioned that he knows your father and is a little acquainted with you. He recommended me to remind you of a night at White’s and,” he cleared his throat and glanced at the ladies, “an unfortunate run-in with the Watch.”
Recognition dawned on Henry’s face, and he let out a crow of laughter, directing the footman to show the man into the library.
Henry entered the library to find Sir Lewis flipping through the pages of a book which he shut with a thud when the door opened.
“Sir Lewis,” Henry said with a large grin as they shook hands.
“Crofte,” said Sir Lewis with a half-smile. “Glad to find you at home. Forgive the unexpected visit—I was in the area and remembered that your father’s estate was nearby. I understand he’s away from home?”
Henry nodded. “He’s set to arrive later today, but he’s been away for a fortnight. Can’t say I blame him. It’s a deuced bore here.”
Sir Lewis only smiled slightly. “Do you not have any visitors to keep you entertained?”
“No.” He bethought himself a moment and then corrected himself. “Well, I suppose we do, but I don’t consider Kate a guest. She’s been here some time.”
“Ah, yes,” Sir Lewis said. “Is that Miss Matcham you speak of? Her aunt mentioned her visit to me. We are acquainted.”
