Lady Catherine's Secret: A Secrets and Seduction book

by Sheridan Jeane

  He spun around to face her. “Two to nothing. This match is going quickly.”

  “Are you intentionally losing? I expect a fair fight!” She stamped her foot on the polished parquet floor of the ballroom. “Don’t throw this match just so you can hurry off to the Ambridge Club.”

  “Stop it, Cat. Five months ago you were winning all our matches, so there’s no reason to expect that to change.” He tugged off his face mask and closed the distance between them, anger furrowing his brow. “Why don’t you show a little appreciation? You know I only fence because you and Father love it so.”

  She pulled her head back as if struck, a heated retort springing to her lips. But looking into his eyes, she saw the shame and resentment he tried so hard to hide, and her anger evaporated. Of course he was right. She should be more understanding and much more appreciative. “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing down at the floor. “I shouldn’t have said those things. You’ve always been supportive.”

  “Supportive? You wouldn’t be Bernini’s star pupil if not for me. I forged the letter getting you into the academy, I fence with you at home, and I protect you at Bernini’s, all while keeping the others from guessing your secret.” He took a step back and looked to one side, meeting his own gaze in the mirror. He stared for a moment and then let out a great sigh. With a grimace, he shook his head and stepped closer to her, looking into her eyes. “Don’t misunderstand me, Cat, I am proud of you. If you were a man, I’m sure you’d come to be known as the best swordsman of your generation.”

  She pulled off her mask so she could see his face more clearly. “The best?” She leveled her gaze at Charles, searching in vain for any hint of deceit.

  “The best,” he said firmly. “But it’s galling to be beaten again and again by one’s little sister.” He picked up his coat and silently slipped out the door.

  At her brother’s words, she felt a twinge of regret for his pain, but then a smile of confidence blossomed on her face as she stared at the closed door. “The best,” she murmured.

  She only allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction, however, before she began putting away her fencing gear with swift movements. She didn’t dare stay here any longer. Mother might catch her.

  She glanced at herself in the mirror and was brought up short. In her current frame of mind, she expected to see the boy, Alexander Gray, looking back at her, but instead she saw Lady Catherine with triumph shining in her eyes. The juxtaposition of the boy’s expression on the woman’s face was foreign to her. It had been many years since she’d split her life in two. She’d disentangled the threads that made up her being, and seeing them spliced together this way left her momentarily disoriented.

  Catherine barely remembered when the threads of her life had still been united. When they’d been living in India, Papa had taught Charles to fence. At seven, he’d been the pet of the regiment, strutting around in his miniature uniform. The colonel’s son was praised and applauded by all the soldiers of the regiment. Even though she’d only been four, she’d copied the moves she saw her brother learning. Her mother scolded her, but Papa just grinned and patted her head.

  Then, Catherine became ill. Beside himself with worry, Papa was convinced she had the same illness that had plagued both his sister, Isabella, and his older brother, Richard. Isabella had died when she was just a child, and although Richard grew to manhood and married, he never seemed to flourish. He’d also never provided an heir.

  Everything changed for Catherine after that. Mother kept her inside all the time, forcing Catherine to rest so she could recover her strength. She chafed at the restrictions, wanting to be with Charles, ride horses, and be included in the regiment’s constant activities— wanting to do anything except sit and sew and learn needlepoint.

  Despite Mother’s coddling, she kept feeling weaker.

  She knew what frightened her parents. It frightened her, too. She heard their whispered conversations. Papa couldn’t conceal his grief over poor Aunt Isabella. The girl had barely had a chance at living before she’d died.

  Catherine could still remember the day when Papa had announced an upcoming meeting with his commander in Bombay. He wanted his entire family to come with him. Catherine could tell that he was braced for an argument from Mother, but to everyone’s surprise, she agreed.

  On their first day in the strange city, they’d visited an open marketplace. The vendors had stalls set up in an open square surrounded by smooth white buildings. Catherine had been overwhelmed by the sights. Exotic birds on stands, snakes, men playing musical instruments, food and drink, and bolts of silk were everywhere. She especially loved the spice dealers because she could smell their wares from far away.

  Mother bought a bunch of white flowers and plucked two of the fragrant blossoms from the bouquet. She tucked one behind her own ear and the other behind Catherine’s. It had made her feel special.

  Catherine tried to be everywhere at once, but she tired quickly. Despite her exhaustion, she didn’t want to slow down. She knew her mother would make her rest soon, so she tried to avoid her notice. She moved toward the white walls, seeking out some shade, and her father kept watch over her in his indulgent way. Stepping into an alcove, she came upon the statue of a strange creature with an elephant’s trunk and four arms. It was only slightly taller than she was, and it startled her as she came face to face with it. She peered at the statue closely, taking in its strange features, and decided he looked friendly. His unusual face made her smile.

  “That’s Ganesha, the Remover of Obstacles,” Papa said.

  “Ob-stacles?”

  “Obstacles are the things that prevent you from getting what you want, Cat.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Why does he have food piled around him?”

  “The people who live here leave him gifts and ask for his help.”

  Catherine cocked her head to one side, staring into the wise elephant eyes. Then she plucked the flower from behind her ear and laid it with the other tributes.

  “What was that for, Cat?”

  She shrugged. Would Papa be upset? She glanced up at him, but his face showed only curiosity. “Perhaps he’ll help remove the ob-stacle of my illness.”

  Papa’s expression shifted subtly, and he looked away. “Perhaps he will.” He cleared his throat and blinked. “I think your mother is ready to go back to our rooms.”

  The next day, Catherine walked along the waterfront with Charles and her parents, and Papa bought them each a vada pav from a street vendor. The bit of bread contained a fried lump of potato spiced with curry, onion, and ginger. They were among Catherine’s favorite treats, and her mouth watered as she bit into hers.

  A moment later, a gull saw its opportunity and swooped down to snatch the food from her hand. Catherine screamed in fright and pain as the bird slashed open her finger with its careless beak, and her hand became hot and swollen within a day.

  Mother already didn’t like Bombay, and the gull was the final affront. She kept complaining about the crowds and the noise and the filth, so Papa took Catherine to see a doctor about her finger while Mother and Charles stayed back at their rooms.

  The doctor wasn’t English at all, but Indian. Catherine liked him almost instantly, entranced by his singsong voice and round face. He smiled all the time and told Catherine what a wonderful girl she was, and then gave her a cup of sweet mango juice and a bowl of figs as a snack.

  The doctor dealt with her infected finger matter-of-factly by applying a soothing poultice. He provided Papa with more of the concoction and instructed him to replace it the next day.

  Catherine sat back in her chair and used her unbandaged hand to pluck figs from the bowl in her lap as she banged her heels against the legs of her chair. She ignored the men until she realized what they were discussing.

  Her.

  The doctor had been most curious about her lingering ailment. He said her pale face and drawn skin troubled him, and when Papa explained about her illness, the kind man insisted
he could help.

  Catherine listened closely, as she always did when adults discussed her health. She knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but how else was she supposed to learn anything about her illness?

  Despite Papa’s skepticism, he agreed to let the doctor examine her. The man listened carefully to her chest, thumping on her back with his hand and listening to the sounds echoing about in her body. He asked Papa many questions about his brother and sister, nodding and listening and then asking more questions.

  “What this child needs is exercise, sahib. By coddling your daughter, you’ll only make her weaker. Over time, her illness will steal more and more energy away from her. The weakness in her heart and lungs can only be halted if she works to make herself stronger. She must have vigorous exercise in order to stay healthy.”

  Catherine almost laughed at the way the doctor said “vigorous,” and slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from giggling. But when the words sank in, she snapped her head around to watch Papa. Even at five, she knew what the doctor meant. She didn’t have to die like poor Aunt Isabella. She didn’t have to sit around and watch the world pass her by.

  “Are you suggesting my daughter start following the Swedish Movement Cure? How can I find a doctor here in India to help her with it? Doesn’t it include things like marching and calisthenics?”

  “I’m sorry, sahib, but I’ve never heard of this ‘Swedish Movement Cure’ you mention. Marching, however, does not sound like something a child would enjoy. No, I suggest you find something that interests the girl. Perhaps dancing? Try different things until you find something that engages her.”

  Papa just pressed his lips together, thanked the man, and paid him.

  Catherine immediately began whispering to Ganesha, thanking him for removing the obstacle to her health. And then she asked his help with her next obstacle.

  Mother.

  Later that day, she overheard Papa and Mother arguing. At first, Mother refused to allow Catherine to take such unreasonable risks with her health, but Papa remained adamant. He explained about some “Swedish Movement Cure” being used in Europe, and pointed out that the Indian doctor’s ideas were consistent with other new ways of thinking about illness. He’d already lost a sister to this weakness of the heart and lungs, he said, and he refused to risk losing his daughter. Mother finally relented.

  The next day, before they even left Bombay, Papa put a foil in Catherine’s hand for the first time. She spent the afternoon running through drills with Charles, and that night she’d collapsed, exhausted, into bed.

  The length of metal had felt solid in her hand, its strength seeping into her. She knew she’d become strong and resilient, just like her foil. That night, she hadn’t wanted to let it go. She’d tried to sleep with it, but Mother refused. Instead, it rested on the floor next to her bed.

  When they returned to the regiment, Papa instructed her alongside Charles. Finally being able to hold her own foil against him left her giddy with joy. The men of the regiment were of mixed opinions regarding her fencing, but none said anything directly against their colonel. Their wives, however, had no compunction against speaking their minds, and they were united in their disdain regarding this concept of “exercise.”

  Mother never approved of it, even as Catherine’s health improved. When they returned to England two years later, Mother was adamant. No more fencing. Nobody could ever know about Catherine’s inappropriate childhood interest. She could take dancing lessons like a proper young English girl.

  That was when Papa had the idea to use the ballroom for fencing. It was also when Catherine began living two lives. She’d learned to craft the mask she would hide behind for the next fifteen years.

  When Mother was around, she was the perfect daughter. But when Papa was there, she could be herself. A fencer.

  §

  Upon entering their drawing room that afternoon, Catherine was struck by the seeming falseness of the cheery fire and the spicy scent of carnations that contrasted so sharply with the view through the window. Vases of mixed bouquets brought a distorted feeling of summer into the room.

  Lady Wilmot and Lady Elizabeth were their first visitors that afternoon. Catherine’s mood lifted at seeing her friend, and they settled down to steal a few moments alone with each other. As Catherine poured the tea, Elizabeth selected a small biscuit from among the tempting assortment carefully arranged on the tiered tray.

  “Lydia Larchmont has someone in her sights.” Elizabeth made the announcement as she pulled her teacup closer. “And I think she’s closing in.”

  “Really?” Catherine replied. “What makes you say so?”

  Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.” She placed a cube of sugar in her tea. “She and her mother will drop by an event and stay just long enough to ascertain whether or not the man is there. If he isn’t, they dash off to the next event in the hope of tracking him down.” She quietly stirred her tea, not once clattering the spoon against the teacup.

  “That explains why I’ve seen her only briefly the past few nights,” Catherine said, pulling her head back in surprise. “I can’t imagine her chasing someone so publicly. How does the gentleman feel about being the object of her pursuit?”

  “Since she has to track him down each evening, I presume he isn’t sharing his social calendar with her. But he also doesn’t avoid her once she finds him, so I’m not certain how he feels.”

  “Who is he?”

  Elizabeth gave a secretive smile. “I thought you might have guessed, especially since you already know the gentleman.” She paused to watch Catherine’s reaction.

  Puzzled, Catherine gave a small shake of her head. She hardly spared a thought for Lady Lydia and had no idea who might have caught her eye.

  “Speak of the devil,” Elizabeth murmured.

  Catherine glanced toward a new cluster of visitors entering the drawing room, with Lydia at the forefront.

  Spotting them seated together, Lydia swept across the room to join them. She chose one of the small, delicate chairs opposite the settee.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Lydia said as she gracefully sank onto the straight-backed chair. Her pale blond hair fell in tight ringlets around her face, and she carefully arranged her full skirts so they pooled stylishly on the floor.

  “Welcome, Lady Lydia,” Catherine said, once the woman was settled across from them. “How kind of you to call on such a dreary day.”

  “I just mentioned to Lady Catherine that I saw you briefly at the soiree I attended last night,” interjected Elizabeth. ”I’m so sorry you weren’t able to stay. It was quite an enjoyable evening.”

  Lydia gave a small sniff of disdain as she turned her head away. “Yes. I’m afraid that we didn’t find the guest list as exclusive as it might have been. There were certain people in attendance whom I prefer to avoid.”

  Catherine choked on her tea. Of course, Lydia always spoke plainly. That was probably why people were so afraid of offending her. They didn’t want that sharp tongue turned against them.

  Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide. “How terrible for you.”

  Lydia gave a wily smile, clearly pleased with the shocked reactions she’d elicited. “Yes, it has been a trial.” She gave a pitiful sigh.

  “Has someone in particular offended you? It must have been quite significant for you to avoid the person so assiduously.” Elizabeth watched Lydia with keen interest.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly name names. That would be much too indiscreet.” Lydia fluttered her handkerchief and then pressed it against her mouth as though trying to hold back her emotions. Was that a tear in her eye?

  Catherine patted Lydia’s other hand in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner, aware that she was now a character in Lydia’s charade. Lydia thrived on creating these dramatic little scenes.

  Lady Wilmot rose from the settee near the door and beckoned Elizabeth to join her, indicating their visit was at an end.

  Elizabeth s
miled at Lydia in reassurance. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to endure something so obviously distressing. You must stay strong. I’m sure you’re doing the right thing by avoiding this person.” When Lydia looked down at her lap, Elizabeth glanced at Catherine and rolled her eyes ever so slightly as she stood to take her leave.

  Catherine tried not to smile back at her. Lydia loved these little dramas, but things were never quite as she painted them. Catherine had learned not to trust her confidences. Many of them were strategically placed bits of misinformation.

  Catherine’s gaze followed Elizabeth as she left the room, wishing she could do the same. Fortunately, after Elizabeth left, Lydia’s performance waned. Perhaps she needed a larger audience to inspire her.

  Without Elizabeth beside her, Catherine’s interest in the charade dimmed as well. Elizabeth would have made it fun. But Lydia? Catherine found the woman grating because she always seemed to be measuring her words and trying to evoke a particular response. First they spoke briefly about the impending marriage of Emperor Napoleon to his beloved Eugénie, which would take place at the end of the month, and then of the increasing number of flounces found on skirts. Lydia bemoaned the fact that her favorite ball gown only had three flounces, when, to be current, it should have five.

  After a short interval, Lady Larchmont stood and beckoned her daughter to her side, ready to depart.

  “Well, if you really must know,” Lydia said to Catherine, as if continuing a conversation that had not actually been taking place, “I’ve been avoiding Lord Stansbury. He’s been making the most disagreeable comments about a gentleman my family favors, and I refuse to stand by and listen to his slander.” She stood and crossed the room to join her mother, a pleased expression on her face.

  Puzzled, Catherine watched her leave. Lydia had clearly planned to impart that particular piece of information. But this didn’t match what Elizabeth had said. Was Lydia avoiding Stansbury, or chasing someone else? Or both? Not that she’d blame Lydia for avoiding the man.