by Cheryl Holt
She peered over at Catherine who was constantly cordial and prepared for any endeavor which of course was her job, but her unflappable demeanor bothered Priscilla to no end. Priscilla was twenty and Catherine twenty-four. They were close to the same age, but Catherine was calm and mature, while Priscilla was scattered, excitable, and impulsive.
How could the differences be so stark?
“Are you ready to leave?” she asked Catherine.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” Catherine said.
Gertrude sighed. “I’m not finished speaking with you, Priscilla.”
“Maybe not, but I’m tired of listening. All you do is pester and complain.”
“Don’t take that tone with me,” Gertrude snapped.
Priscilla had always been rude to Gertrude. Why shouldn’t she be? Gertrude wasn’t her mother, and she was the epitome of the miserable, bitter spinster. Originally, she’d expected to marry Priscilla’s father, but he’d picked her sister instead.
It had to have been a hideous blow, but once her sister had passed away, she’d slithered in the door and had never left. It was a bone of contention Priscilla couldn’t shake. Gertrude had shown up to raise Priscilla, but Priscilla hadn’t ever liked her.
Priscilla couldn’t imagine a beau dumping one sister in order to wed another sister. It was reprehensible behavior, but Gertrude was very weak and stupid. She’d humiliated herself by groveling to a man who clearly hadn’t appreciated her.
Priscilla would never tolerate such monstrous treatment. In her own life, she’d be Kit’s wife, and she’d be tough and strong and adamant about obtaining whatever she wanted.
She huffed out a weary breath. “What else do you have to say, Aunt Gertrude? Get on with it so Catherine and I can depart.”
“Your father has a special young lady coming to supper.”
With how Gertrude pronounced lady, Priscilla was unnerved. Her father had been hinting he might wed again, but Priscilla declined to accept that such a grotesque event could occur. She was her father’s only child, and while he was growing older and regretting he hadn’t sired an heir, Kit could be his heir. He didn’t need to start over with a debutante.
What would she call a girl like that? Mother? Absolutely not.
“How special is she?” Priscilla asked.
“He insists he’s very interested in her.”
“We’ll see if he is.”
Priscilla had many ways to persuade a candidate that she should stay away from Herbert Bolton. He was fifty, and it was disgusting to consider him having a juvenile for a wife. It boggled the mind.
Libby sauntered by, and she was wearing a cloak and bonnet. She didn’t pause to speak with any of them, but continued on to the front door.
“And where are you off to?” Gertrude yelled after her.
Libby came back and poked her nose into the room. “I have errands to run.”
“Take your maid.”
“She’s outside waiting for me,” Libby claimed, although it was impossible to guess if she was telling the truth.
Libby set her own rules, kept her own calendar, and was rarely troubled by the sorts of restrictions placed on Priscilla. Gertrude made half-hearted attempts to rein in her conduct, but Libby simply ignored Gertrude.
Priscilla was incredibly jealous of Libby’s freedom and independence, but Libby could afford to carry on like a trollop. She was very poor so she had no chance to wed. It didn’t matter if she disgraced herself.
“Don’t forget, Libby,” Gertrude added, “that we’re heading to the country on Wednesday. I haven’t seen any evidence that you’ve packed for the trip.”
“I’m not going, Gertrude. I have several important appointments next week that I can’t miss.”
“I won’t allow you to remain in town by yourself,” Gertrude huffed.
“I asked Mr. Bolton,” Libby snidely retorted. “He said it was all right.”
And that was that. Herbert Bolton’s word was law on every subject, although it was highly likely Libby hadn’t talked to him at all, and Priscilla was always stunned by how smoothly she lied. How could she have been reared by a vicar, but possess so few moral qualities?
Libby walked on, the door opening and closing as she exited the house, and Gertrude bristled with irritation.
“No one listens to me,” she grumbled. “I don’t know why I waste any effort on you two girls.”
“I’m sure Libby will be fine, Miss Bolton,” Catherine said to Gertrude. “Don’t worry about her. I hate to have you fretting so early in the day.”
Catherine was adept at soothing ruffled feathers, at calming people and convincing them there was no discord. Priscilla occasionally wished she had that same knack, but again Priscilla would be a bride very soon, and Catherine would never be anyone.
“Has there been any news from Kit?” Gertrude asked.
“Yes. He’s joining us on Wednesday when we arrive in the country.”
Catherine chimed in with, “Does this mean I’m about to meet the indomitable Mr. Stanton?”
“Yes,” Priscilla said, “and you’ll be very impressed.”
“I’m certain I will be. He sounds wonderful.”
Priscilla bit down on her true opinion.
He was very handsome, and he could be charming when he tried, but he refused to dance attendance on her which was infuriating. She thought he should spend the summer in London so he could escort her everywhere as they marched toward their wedding, but he insisted he was occupied with planting and other issues at his estate, and he couldn’t come to town.
Gertrude and her father had told her not to expect him to ever dote on her—he wasn’t the doting type—but if she couldn’t have an adoring, indulgent husband, what was the point of matrimony?
With Priscilla’s fat dowry, she’d assumed she’d have a viscount or maybe even an earl as her spouse. Her father had dangled her to several lofty families, but none had nibbled at the bait. While he wouldn’t explain why, she’d heard galling rumors it was because he’d accumulated his fortune by manufacturing lady’s soaps.
Money wasn’t equal, and apparently there were limits to the kind of wealth an aristocrat would deign to accept. Clearly, soap money was too lowly to warrant any interest.
She’d had to settle for Kit, and she was struggling to be glad, but when he never acted appropriately it was difficult to maintain a positive attitude.
“We’re leaving on Wednesday,” Gertrude said.
“Honestly, Aunt Gertrude, you’ve mentioned it a thousand times.”
“Well, make it a thousand and one. I need you to pack tomorrow.”
“My maids are aware of what I want to take. Besides, it’s just for a week so I only require clothes for seven days.”
“Yes, but you dress like a queen going on summer progress. We’ll have to bring an extra wagon merely to haul all your trunks.”
“So? We have the trunks and the wagon. Why would I buy beautiful clothes but never wear them? As usual, you’re being absurd.”
It was Gertrude’s birthday, and she always demanded they spend it at Bolton House in the country. Priscilla’s father allowed her to hold the party there, but Priscilla didn’t understand why. He hated being away from his office and his stores, and Priscilla didn’t like the rural tedium, especially with the wedding approaching in September.
She was overwhelmed by preparations and shouldn’t have to waste time trying to please Gertrude—when it was impossible to please her.
“Mr. Stanton will be with us in the country?” Catherine asked. “I’ll finally lay eyes on him?”
“Yes,” Priscilla said, “his property is just down the road from ours, but he’s a very busy man, Catherine. He can’t pop into the city whenever he’d like.”
“Oh, of course not,” Catherine agreed.
Priscilla peeked over at Catherine. In her inquiries about Kit, she was always a tad sly, as if she found it humorou
s he wasn’t in London with Priscilla. It was almost as if she suspected Kit wasn’t excited about their nuptials.
But Priscilla was very rich, and with her white-blond hair and hazel eyes, she was also very pretty as well as shapely and plump. Her curvaceous figure was brimming with good health from her expensive diet. At five-foot-five, she’d have liked to be a bit taller, but she couldn’t have everything. She was the perfect bride for Kit, and he recognized that fact. Catherine—with her smug attitude and suspicions—could jump in the lake.
“Let’s go,” she said to Catherine, and she stood and swept out.
Behind her, Gertrude called, “Be home by four, Priscilla. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t, Gertrude.”
“Don’t make me face your father’s friend all by myself.”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing the occasion.”
The butler was by the door, and he offered her her cloak and bonnet. Her carriage was in the drive, and she hurried out and climbed in.
Catherine was slower to arrive, and she hadn’t bothered with a cloak or bonnet. She’d simply wrapped a shawl across her shoulders, and Priscilla might have scolded her for her lack of suitable attire, but it was a warm, sunny morning so a shawl would probably suffice.
“I was wondering,” Catherine said as she seated herself, “if we could stop at Mrs. Ford’s on the way.”
Mrs. Ford owned the employment agency that had sent Catherine to them.
“What for?” Priscilla asked.
“My sisters have started new jobs, and I don’t know their circumstances. When we lose touch, we correspond through her office. I have some letters for them, and I’d like to leave them with her.”
“Letters? To your sisters?” Priscilla scoffed with disgust.
“Yes. I can drop them off as we pass by. It will only take a second.”
“For pity’s sake, Catherine, I’m not a cab driver or a courier service.”
“I realize you’re not, but I thought it would be easy.”
“You’re free on Wednesday afternoons, and you can deliver them then. Run your own errands. Don’t beg me to run them for you.”
She rapped on the roof, and the driver cracked the whip. The horses pulled, and they were off.
She glanced at Catherine, curious if she was upset by Priscilla’s caustic tone, but her expression was placid and serene. Nothing exasperated her. Nothing annoyed her, and Priscilla was irked that Catherine showed scant interest in Priscilla’s opinions and advice.
Why shouldn’t Catherine benefit from Priscilla’s superior class and breeding? She was grace personified and knew precisely how to act in every situation.
* * * *
Catherine strolled down the crowded street—by herself thank goodness—being in no rush to return to Madame LaFarge’s shop. Priscilla would be finished at three o’clock so she had most of an hour to fritter away before she had to be back.
It was difficult to watch Priscilla assembling her trousseau. The massive wardrobe she was purchasing underscored how much she had and how little Catherine had. Catherine had once been wealthy and should have had her own wedding trousseau. Fate had determined it would never happen so she shouldn’t be envious, but she couldn’t help it.
Priscilla’s father was allowing her to buy whatever she liked, in every style and a dozen colors. The excess was enough to make a poor female like Catherine bristle over the extravagance.
Currently, Priscilla was selecting her nightwear, and obviously the wretched girl was unaware she didn’t need much bedroom clothing. Catherine wasn’t an expert on a wife’s marital duties, but she’d heard plenty from the women around whom she worked.
Mostly, a husband liked his wife to be naked in the bedchamber, and evidently no one had bothered to tell Priscilla that nudity would be expected.
Catherine couldn’t wait to meet the mysterious and elusive Mr. Stanton who was noticeably absent from London and in no hurry to participate in any matrimonial festivities.
What must he actually think of Priscilla? There was no question he would be marrying her for her money, but what rational man would deliberately bind himself to Priscilla Bolton? What man would want Herbert Bolton as his father-in-law?
After Catherine’s romantic foray at Vauxhall with Christopher, she had some idea of how stirring a passionate interlude could be. She almost hoped Mr. Stanton would turn out to be horrid so she could feel he deserved Priscilla. She’d hate to suppose a very nice fellow might wind up shackled to her forever.
She laughed and shook off her thoughts of Priscilla and her fiancé. Their relationship wasn’t any of her business, and in three short months she’d never see any of the Boltons again. She’d be assigned to a new bride and a new family.
She’d had a brisk walk, had visited Mrs. Ford to drop off her letters to Abigail and Sarah. She’d planned to inquire about them, but Mrs. Ford had been out of the office, and the girl at the desk hadn’t had any information to share as to their whereabouts.
She was loafing, window shopping, loving the chance to have a few minutes to herself.
After her luscious encounter with Christopher, she was in a maudlin condition. She’d declined to tell him where she was employed or where she was living. If she’d provided any details, she’d have constantly been on pins and needles, wondering if a letter was about to arrive.
It hurt to ponder him. She could pester Libby to find out where he might be and when he might be there, but she was ignoring any urge to proceed in a manner she recognized to be wrong and ridiculous.
She ambled by a bookstore, and she stared inside at the rows and rows of books that lined the shelves from floor to ceiling. It was a delicious establishment, with nooks and crannies and avid readers strolling the aisles. A wave of nostalgia swept over her.
Her father had had a huge library filled with books. They were still at Middlebury, but it was Jasper’s library now which was such an insult. He was an idiot who’d finished just enough schooling to believe he was brilliant. In reality, he was a drunk and a gambler who’d pushed the estate into bankruptcy.
The fact that he’d inherited after her father’s death emphasized what an unfair place the world was. Her brother, Hayden, had been their father’s heir, but he’d died along with their parents. Abigail, Sarah, and Catherine were all females so they couldn’t inherit. Why was that not permitted?
Abigail was the oldest, and she’d have been such an excellent caretaker. Why couldn’t the property have passed to her? Why should it have gone to Jasper simply because he was a male? He was a distant cousin, the operative word being distant.
But it was pointless to rue and regret. It never took her down any road she wanted to travel, and she reached for the knob and entered the bookstore. Instantly, she was soothed by the smell of ink and paper. She wandered toward the back, winding through the tight aisles, not looking for any particular title, but running her fingers on the spines of various volumes.
Suddenly, the hair stood up on her neck, and she froze. The sensation of being observed was so strong that pelts of energy were striking her.
Slowly, she peeked over her shoulder, and Christopher was standing there. He was dressed at the height of style: blue coat, tan trousers, knee-high black boots. His cravat was blindingly white, sewn from the very best Belgian lace. His black hair was slicked down with a shiny pomade, and on seeing her again his blue eyes burned with excitement and desire.
“Catherine!” he murmured. “Is it really you? Or are you an apparition?”
“It’s really me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Shopping. How about you?”
“Shopping too. I’ve missed you.”
“I was just with you yesterday.”
“Yes, and every second since then has been a torment.”
“I missed you too.”
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her into a secluded alcove where he delivered a hot, sultr
y kiss—right there in the bookstore! She was so stunned that she didn’t protest.
As quickly as the embrace had started, he broke away. Sending a shiver down her spine, he feverishly whispered, “My carriage is parked in the alley directly outside the rear door. I’ll walk to it and wait for you.”
“I don’t know if I should.” Even though her reply was tepid, her pulse leapt with joy.
He ignored her complaint. “In precisely two minutes, you are to follow me out. I’ll be watching for you.”
Then he vanished, and she dawdled, struggling to calm her racing heart, her ragged breathing. She could still feel his lips on her own, could detect a whiff of the pomade in his hair, or she might have suspected he hadn’t actually been there with her.
Would she join him in his vehicle? Could she? Should she?
The prospect roiled her, and she swiftly realized there was only one answer that would suffice. She had at least half an hour until she had to meet Priscilla. There was no way she would lose this opportunity, not when it seemed preordained.
She counted the time, but she didn’t make it the full two minutes. She went further into the store where she easily located the exit. She slipped out into the alley, and his carriage was there, a polite and disinterested footman ready to help her climb in.
He shut the door behind her, and she was relieved to find that the curtains were pulled so no one could look in. Yet even though it was quite dark, there was enough light to see Christopher lounged on the seat. He nestled her to him, lifting her up and over his lap so she was on her knees and straddling his thighs. They were together, and it had all been so marvelously unexpected.
Before she could say a word, he began kissing her in earnest, and she participated with an unbridled relish that left her so ecstatic she could have wept with elation. She hadn’t deemed it possible to possess such magnificent affection for another person. How had it transpired?
They were barely acquainted, but she felt so desperately attached. Did he feel the same? He must. She simply didn’t believe a man could exhibit such strident fondness unless he was growing besotted. He needed to wed an heiress, and she was incredibly poor so it was futile to envision a future. But just that moment, the obstacles appeared irrelevant and inconsequential.
