by Cheryl Holt
She was brimming with righteous affront. Most likely, she’d rehearsed how to best scold him. Her father was weak and distracted so she didn’t recognize that a stronger man, a more determined man, could have authority over her.
She thought her wishes were paramount, and he supposed of all the shocks she would suffer after their wedding, her gradual realization that he was above her in all things, that his word would be law and hers would count for very little, would be the most difficult for her to accept.
“Let’s walk in the garden,” he said.
“No. It’s damp down by the river, and the moisture will ruin the curls in my hair.”
“I don’t care.”
He didn’t allow her a chance to protest. He simply clasped her arm and led her away. He marched along, not slowing until they were at the bench where he’d stumbled on Catherine the previous night.
He pointed to it. “Sit.”
“I don’t want to,” she snottily retorted.
He pulled her over and pushed her down, and when she tried to rise he kept a hand on her shoulder so she couldn’t get up. She fussed and spat, but he didn’t relent, and finally she remained where she was and swatted him away.
“You’re being perfectly awful to me,” she nagged. “As usual.”
“Here is what we will do.”
“About what?”
“You will voice your complaint. You will be succinct and concise, and you will say it only one time. I will listen only one time. Then I will voice my complaint, and then we’ll be finished.”
“You can’t treat me like this. If you think you can, we’ll go inside and ask Father his opinion.”
“Priscilla, you are laboring under the deluded impression that I give a rat’s ass about your father.”
“You insulted Father! How dare you!”
Evidently, she’d never heard Herbert Bolton denigrated, and Christopher was thrilled to be the first. The man might be a genius in business, but in family matters he was a blithering dunce.
“Begin, Priscilla.”
“You can’t disparage my father!”
“I already have. Now enumerate your objections. I intend this unpleasant meeting will be very brief.”
She tried to stand again—as if she’d rush to the house and tattle to Mr. Bolton. He put his hand on her shoulder again to keep her in her seat.
“I will stay here for five minutes, Priscilla. It is all the time I will permit you to state your grievances. I suggest you use it wisely, but it’s your choice. You can scold me or you can run to your father and cry about how I’ve abused you. But the five minutes will be passing either way. What’s it to be?”
She bristled and fumed, then forced out, “You are consorting with loose women behind my back, and I will not tolerate it.”
“Fine. Will that be all?”
He had no idea what she’d been expecting. Excuses? Denials? His curt reply had yanked the rug out from under her, and she appeared stunned.
“That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I have a few other comments to share.”
“Go ahead. Your time is flying by.”
“You will apologize to me.”
“For what?”
“For amusing yourself with that doxy today. I’m humiliated to the marrow of my bones.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“I won’t apologize. What else is bothering you? Get it all off your chest so we can end this.”
“If you don’t apologize—at once!—I won’t marry you, and you won’t receive my dowry.”
She was very smug, as if she’d drawn the winning card out of her hat. He simply shrugged. “It’s not up to you whether we wed or not. The contract is between your father and myself, and we’ve decided the nuptials will proceed despite how ridiculous you’re being.”
“You’re mistaken,” she insisted. “Father and I have discussed the situation, and he agrees with my point exactly.”
“No, he doesn’t. He feels you’re acting like a child.”
Her gaze narrowed as if she couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t trembling with remorse.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she said. “I won’t marry you, and we’re both aware of how desperately you need my money.”
“Let me be very clear with you, Priscilla. You’re confused about the value your wealth represents to me. I would like to have your money. It would solve many problems, but I don’t need it, and I’m most definitely not desperate to have it.”
“Yes, you are. Without my fortune, you’ll never be anything but a poverty-stricken nobody.”
He laughed. “That’s always been my paltry condition so I’ll merely lump on in the same old direction.”
“You’re lying. You’re ashamed to have been caught by me so you’re pretending my dowry isn’t important to you. But we’ll see how cocky you are after I trot off with it.”
Suddenly, he was riveted by how much he didn’t like her. He’d assumed he could bind himself, then devise various methods to survive the ordeal. After all, love had no bearing on matrimony. Most men hardly knew their wives before the wedding, and it was common for them to discover they’d entered into a horrid mismatch.
Couples lived apart. Couples lived separate lives. It was the way of their world, but the thought of struggling on in such a dreary manner seemed too grueling to abide.
He’d planned to chastise her, to assert his authority as her future husband, to deliver a stern lecture on her role as a wife. Yet he had no desire to tell her any of that. She never listened anyway, and he didn’t care if she moderated her behavior. He didn’t care if she learned any lessons as to how she should comport herself. He was weary of the entire charade.
“Your five minutes are up,” he said. “Let’s go back to the party.”
“I’m not finished discussing this!”
“Well, I certainly am.” He extended his arm so she could stand and grab hold.
“I am not ready to leave, and you’re not leaving either. Not until we’re done.”
“Then I’ll return without you. You’re welcome to dawdle here.”
It was starting to sprinkle, and he wasn’t about to tarry and get soaked. Nor was he inclined to continue arguing. It was ludicrous to presume he could persuade her on any issue.
He marched off, and Priscilla was scandalized by his refusal to oblige her, but he never did as he was told. He never allowed women to order him about, never tolerated their petty outbursts and dramas.
When it dawned on her he hadn’t obeyed her, she leapt up and shouted, “Kit! Kit! Don’t you dare walk away from me!”
He halted and glared at her. “I realize you’re used to throwing tantrums and causing scenes, but don’t expect me to watch you.”
“Come back here!” She actually stomped her foot like a spoiled toddler.
“We’ll speak again when you’ve composed yourself. Or we won’t speak at all.”
He kept on, and like a deranged lunatic she bellowed his name across the garden. He could still hear her as he went inside. There were people on the verandah staring out, wondering what was happening, and whispers flitted by as he passed.
He found Gertrude in the same corner where he’d left her.
“I’m going out for a few hours,” he said, “but in the morning I’ll pack my bags. I’m returning to the country.”
“Must you?”
“Yes, I must.”
“You’re not about to…to…cry off, are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You calm down, young man,” she grimly stated. “You calm down right now.”
“I’m very, very calm, Gertrude, but please tell Mr. Bolton I’ll call on him at his office tomorrow.”
A tortured silence stretched out, his words dangerous and bold. What was his intent? What would be the purpose of any me
eting?
It was why he had to flee. He had to ponder and contemplate what it was he really wanted out of life. Was it money? Priscilla came with any money so would it be worth it? If it wasn’t money he wanted, what was it?
“I can’t think of a single reason you’d need to talk to Herbert,” she said.
“We’ll see what I decide—after I’ve had a chance to reflect.”
“Don’t do anything rash, Kit. Don’t be stupid about this. There’s a fortune at stake!”
“I haven’t forgotten about it, Gertrude. Believe me, it’s front and center of every thought in my head.” He gestured to the garden. “In the meantime, Priscilla is making a fool of herself out there. You should probably stop her before she completely shames Mr. Bolton and herself.”
“Oh, no…”
“Oh, yes. Goodnight.”
He spun and departed without waiting for his cloak or hat to be brought. And as he strolled outside, he noted the sprinkles had altered to a light rain. He looked toward the sky so the cool drops could fall on his face, and he breathed the first deep breath he’d managed in months.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Catherine had pulled a chair over by the window and was staring out at the night sky. There wasn’t much to see. It was dark and rainy.
She’d just washed so she was wearing only her robe, her hair down and brushed, her feet bare on the cold floor. She needed to get up and put on her nightgown, then snuggle under the quilt.
A single candle burned on the dresser, and she could view her reflection in the window glass. She looked older all of a sudden, as if the stress of the past few weeks had aged her. She was incredibly morose and anxious to talk to her twin sister, Sarah, about recent events.
They’d always been so close, like one person in two separate bodies. She also sensed that Sarah was having difficulties, that Sarah was missing her as much as she was missing Sarah.
She wondered where Sarah was.
Don’t fret. I’ll find you soon, and we’ll be together again…
She laid her palm on the glass, the mental message winging out to her sister, and she knew Sarah would receive it. Their minds worked that way.
Several hours had passed since Christopher had stumbled on her in the kitchen. She’d sobered up quite a bit, but was still woozy. Her head pounded with a dull ache.
She understood that alcohol wasn’t a cure for what ailed her, but she’d been depressed and lonely and thoroughly disgusted with herself.
She’d tendered her resignation to Gertrude, but Gertrude had refused to accept it, and Catherine had backed down without a whimper of protest. A braver female would have told Gertrude to stuff it. A braver female would have thrown the resignation letter in her face and marched out. But apparently, Catherine had no courage at all.
In her own defense, Gertrude had threatened to ruin her with Mrs. Ford. If Mrs. Ford dropped Catherine, the prospect of being tossed out and forced to search for jobs on her own had been terrifying.
Gertrude had been correct on one point: Summer would fly by, and September would arrive quickly. Catherine was Lady Middlebury’s daughter and descended from a lengthy line of powerful aristocratic women. She could survive under the thumb of a petty tyrant like Priscilla Bolton.
Behind her, her bedroom door opened, and she scowled and glanced over her shoulder, unable to predict who it might be. When she realized the identity of her visitor, her jaw dropped in surprise.
“Christopher”—her tone was scolding—“what are you doing here?”
“I had to talk to you. Don’t send me away.”
She imagined the trouble she’d be in if he was discovered with her. She imagined the uproar it would cause, how stupidly reckless it was, but she didn’t care.
“Lock the door,” she said.
He did as she’d requested, then he turned to her. His hair was damp, his coat and boots wet as if he’d been walking in the rain. He appeared tormented and exhausted, and a wave of maternal feeling swept over her. She wanted to watch over him forever.
For an eternity, neither of them moved. They simply gaped at each other like a pair of halfwits. Then at the same instant, they leapt toward one another, and she was in his arms. He lifted her off the floor and kissed her soundly, passionately, the embrace absolutely mad with longing and desire.
They attacked each other as if they were survivors of a shipwreck and about to slip under the water. They clawed and groaned and laughed in a deranged way.
“What’s wrong?” she asked when he finally drew away and set her on her feet.
“Everything.”
She smiled. “Everything? Really?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been out in the weather, you silly man. Are you trying to catch your death from a cold?”
“I had to think. I had to clear my mind.”
“Is it clear now?”
“Very, very clear.”
“Sit down. Let’s get you dry and warm.”
She led him over to her bed, and he eased his hips onto the mattress. She divested him of his coat and boots, and she draped a knitted throw over his shoulders. She tossed him a towel so he could rub it over his hair, then she went to the stove and started a fire. The room was small, and it would be toasty in no time.
“What’s vexing you?” she said as she grabbed the chair and seated herself directly in front of him.
“I have to ask you a question.”
“Of course, Christopher. What is it?”
“Don’t you dare say no, and don’t tell me you don’t believe me.”
“You haven’t told me what it is so I can’t agree to that.”
“All right, that’s fair so here goes.” He took a deep breath, clasped her hands in his, then out of the blue he inquired, “Will you marry me?”
“What?”
“Will you marry me?”
She froze, wondering if he was drunk or if the cold air and rain had addled his wits. She banged a palm on her ear as if it were plugged. “My hearing must be affected because I could swear you just proposed to me.”
“I did, you scamp.”
At the notion, her pulse raced with excitement. There was naught more she wanted in the world than to be his wife, but she worried he was teasing her for some cruel reason. Yet he wasn’t a cruel man. Was he serious?
“Pardon me, Christopher, but I’m of the opinion that you are engaged to Priscilla Bolton. Your wedding is scheduled for September.”
“I can’t go through with it, Catherine. It’s why I was walking and pondering.”
His declaration fell into the room like a death knell, like a heavy weight that could collapse the walls of the house if they weren’t cautious.
“What happened?” she asked.
“After I saw you in the kitchen, I quarreled with Mr. Bolton and with Priscilla.”
“About what? About those two women you were with?”
“Yes. He and Priscilla are both so smugly certain I need her dowry. They assume I will put up with any humiliation to receive it.”
She snorted. “If that’s what they suppose, they don’t know you very well.”
“No, they don’t. They threatened me, claiming they’d call off our betrothal if I didn’t behave as Priscilla is demanding.”
“And what is she demanding?”
“She’s determined to run my life and order me about—as she’s always ordered everyone. She’s a twenty-year-old girl who’s never done anything but spend her father’s money, and she expects to lord herself over me.”
“You could never live like that.”
“No. My own father is all tied up in it too, and I can’t seem to yank him out of the mix.”
“Your father? Isn’t he deceased?”
“Yes, but he and Mr. Bolton were cousins, and they arranged the match when Priscilla was a baby. Originally, she was bound to my brother, but he died, and Mr. Bolton asked me to take his plac
e. With his being so generous, I felt it was my duty to obey my father and proceed as he intended for our family.”
“I understand.”
“But I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”
“Have you informed either of them?”
“No, but I plan to speak with Mr. Bolton tomorrow.”
“Perhaps he’ll recognize the level of your upset, and he’ll rein in her excesses.”
“He never could. He has no idea how to deal with her, but it doesn’t matter. I’m finished with them. I’ve had enough.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He definitely looked as if he meant it, but she was a tad alarmed by his impetuosity.
She grasped—better than anyone—that Priscilla could push a person out onto a dangerous emotional ledge. She’d been there herself all day. She yearned for the betrothal to be over, but she doubted it actually was.
Once marriage contracts were signed, it was difficult to back out. Plus, a fortune hung in the balance, and he needed the money. He’d been waxing on about that fact from the moment they’d met.
She was so afraid to count on him, and she wished her mother was present to discuss the situation. Or she wished she could confer with Sarah and Abigail. Yet her mother was gone, and her sisters weren’t available to provide any guidance. She was on her own, and though it was bizarre she felt she should try to talk him out of it.
“What if you wake up in the morning,” she asked, “and you realize you’re not quite so angry? What if you don’t want to cry off?”
“I won’t change my mind, Catherine. I’m finally free, and I can breathe again.”
She scoffed. “Free to be poor the rest of your life.”
“Yes, but I’ll get to have you instead of riches. In my view, it’s a very fair trade.”
It was a sweet comment, and it rattled her. Why would a man give up such affluence just for her? It was the stuff of fairytales, and while she liked to imagine she was very special she was convinced she wouldn’t be worth it in the end. He’d blame her for persuading him to renege.
Or would he? What if it went the other way? What if they went home to Stanton Manor and lived happily ever after?
“I’m confused about all of this,” she murmured. “I’m concerned that you’re not serious.”
