The Bishop's Daughter

by Susan Carroll

  Her current state of indecision and confusion filled her with shame. She could not deny any longer that she loved Harry, not even to herself. Then what kept holding her back? Only one thing—the whisper of a memory of her father. She could still hear the bishop's voice warning her to proceed with care.

  By the time Grayshaw answered her summons, Kate managed to recover her composure. But she avoided the sofa, settling herself primly upon one of the Hepplewhite chairs. Looking rather disgruntled, Harry crossed his arms over his chest. Stretching out his long legs, he propped his boots upon the writing desk, evincing little interest in the arrangements being made for his guests.

  Grayshaw however entered into the discussion with all the earnest consideration it deserved. Tables would be set up in the fields for the farmhands, a tent provided for the tenants, while the more distinguished guests would be entertained in the hall's magnificent dining room. The difficulty arose with classifying certain individuals such as the Strattons. Although simple farmers the same as the Huddlestons, Mrs. Stratton now kept a carriage and sent her daughter to an exclusive boarding school.

  "If you'll pardon my saying so, Miss Towers," Grayshaw remarked. "Mrs. Stratton is getting above herself. There will be a great deal of resentment if she is raised above her neighbors to the honor of dining room."

  "That is very true." Kate frowned, thoughtfully whisking the end of the quill against her chin. She wanted no such bustle created. Harry's fête must be perfect, without even the shading of any ill will or spiteful gossip to spoil it,

  She and Grayshaw continued to fret and speculate for several moments more upon the fate of the annoying Mrs. Stratton until Harry broke in, "For heaven's sake, I don't think Wellington gave such consideration to the deployment of his troops at Waterloo. Let everyone fill their plates and sit where they find room. I am sure I shouldn't complain even if I end up next to old Timothy Keegan."

  Kate exchanged a pained look with Grayshaw. Harry, bearing so little regard for his own consequence, could not be expected to understand how those of lesser rank might be far more jealous of theirs. Kate removed Harry's feet from the desk and suggested he might want to consult with Mr. Warren to see how the construction of the marquee was coming.

  "Trying to be rid of me, eh?" Harry chuckled. "What reward will I receive for taking myself off like a good boy?"

  Ignoring this pointed question, Kate took him by the arm and escorted him firmly to the door. "And do make sure Mr. Warren remembers that we require another tent for the ladies to take tea."

  Harry went without resisting, but at the threshold he paused to murmur, "I would gladly do all that you require, Kate, for one kiss."

  "For one box on the ears, sir." She thrust him out, but Harry still managed to whisper several more wicked suggestions before she closed the door in his face.

  Kate fought down a blush before turning to face Grayshaw, dreading lest he had noticed some of this byplay. She thought she detected a hint of a smile, but by the time she resumed her seat, the elderly butler had settled his face into lines of gravity.

  Without further interruption from Harry, they were able to settle the matter of seating before teatime, the socially ambitious Mrs. Stratton firmly relegated to the tent where she belonged.

  "The cards of invitation have arrived from the printers," Grayshaw said. "Shall I have them brought in?"

  "Yes, but you need not rush." Kate pushed back from the desk, flexing her toes within her soft kid boots. "I am rather stiff from sitting so long and should like to take a turn about the garden."

  "Very good, my lady." Grayshaw bowed himself out.

  It was not until the door had closed behind him that the import of what the dignified manservant had said struck Kate.

  My lady.

  Kate pressed her hands to her cheeks in dismay. Whether it had been a slip of the tongue or the title used with deliberation hardly mattered. Either prospect was equally disconcerting. Her constant presence at Mapleshade had obviously given rise to expectations, even in the servant's quarters.

  But were they expectations she intended to fulfill? Most earnestly did Kate seek to probe the depths of her heart. What answer would she give the next time Harry asked her to marry him, seriously asked?

  She had to acknowledge how comfortable she had become these past days, even in her temporary role as mistress of Mapleshade. And its earl . . . how much more dependent she had become upon his presence for her happiness. Odd how the sharing of such simple domestic routines like teatime, dinner, working together on the details of the fête had drawn them into a greater intimacy than ever before. She had observed firsthand how hard Harry strove to be a good master, that combination of humor and firmness with which he treated his dependents.

  "He's so different, Papa," Kate murmured, "so different from the wild heedless young man you believed him to be."

  If only her father were there to realize it. If only the bishop were there to give his blessing. The thought brought with it a wave of melancholy. Kate did her best to shake it off. There was no sense repining for what could never be. The decision regarding Harry was as ever hers to make. Instead of moping here, she would do far better to go for her walk as she had planned. Perhaps the brisk air would clarify her thinking.

  Scooping up her shawl, Kate let herself out through one of the French doors leading to Maple-shade's formal garden. She felt glad of the warm wool draped about her shoulders, the nip of September in the air, despite the sun glinting along the gravel pathways.

  Most of the flowers had lost their bloom, the roses dying on the vine, yet Kate still reveled in the orderly layout of the beds, the neat rows of hedges all a delight to her tidy soul. She filled her lungs with the crisp air and wandered toward the summerhouse, a pagoda-like structure that stood at the hub of the garden.

  She had no intention of going inside, merely skirting past it. But her plans were abruptly altered when an arm shot out of the shadowy depths and yanked her beneath the arched opening.

  Kate let out a squeak of surprise. She could not imagine that it would be other than Harry perpetrating such mischief. It was on the tip of her tongue to scold him for giving her such a fright, when her gaze adjusted to the pagoda's gloom-filled interior. It was not Harry's green eyes that twinkled back at her, but those of a stranger, looking rather nervous and frightened himself.

  His cherubic features framed by ridiculously high starched shirt points, the young man appeared harmless enough, but he did not relax his grasp upon her wrist.

  Kate's lips parted to cry out.

  "Oh, don't scream," a female voice shuddered. "It will go right through my head."

  Kate's mouth closed. She glanced down with astonishment to discover Lady Lytton seated on a bench. Apparently she had made a remarkable recovery from her influenza. Despite the chill of the day, her gown sported a shockingly low decolletage. The gooseflesh forming beneath the dusting of pearl powder made an interesting effect, and the glow in her ladyship's cheeks for once owed to more than rouge.

  "We didn't mean to alarm you, Miss Towers." The strange young man said. “It is only that we saw you passing by and could not allow such an opportunity for seeing you alone to escape us."

  Lady Lytton beamed at him as though he had said something remarkably clever. "Indeed, Miss Towers. I was most desirous to have you make this gentleman's acquaintance. This is Mr. Lucillus Crosbie."

  "Mr. Crosbie!" Kate gasped. She wrenched her hand away as though he had become a snake banding her wrist. The Lucillus Crosbie? The same one she had heard Harry denounce with such vehemence only an hour before? Kate backed nervously toward the arched opening.

  "Indeed, sir. You should not be here—"

  "Of course, he shouldn't," Lady Lytton interrupted petulantly. "Why do you think we are hiding in here?"

  "If Lord Lytton discovers you . . ." Kate shuddered to think what Harry might do.

  Mr. Crosbie visibly shared her sentiments. He paled, saying, "His lordship tossed me out twice,
once into the pond, once out the window."

  "Did he?" Kate's alarm grew, having no desire to witness Harry inspired to such violence. "Then I think your wisest course would be to leave at once, sir."

  "But we must talk to you," her ladyship wailed.

  "It will do no good. I already told Lord Harry about your wish that Mr. Crosbie attend the fête and he said—"

  "Oh, plague take the fete," Mr. Crosbie exclaimed with great passion. He clasped Lady Lytton's hand to his heart. "Miss Towers, we can bear this separation no longer. We want to be married."

  Kate's mouth gaped open and she had to force it closed. Gazing from the pink-cheeked young man to the lady nigh twice his age, she thought she had never been more shocked. She felt much like a swimmer already aware of being in dangerous shallows who suddenly plunges in over her head.

  She sagged down onto a bench opposite the duo clutching each other in such dramatic fashion. "I doubt Harry will ever permit such a thing."

  "I know that." Lady Lytton sniffed, groping for her handkerchief. "He has been behaving like . . . like a regular Capulet."

  The image of Harry playing tyrannical parent to Lady Lytton's Juliet was a ludicrous one, but Kate did not feel in the least like laughing. She did not know what to say to this pair of ill-assorted lovers, but they apparently mistook her silence for encouragement and began to pour out their hopes and mutual devotion.

  "Lord Lytton does not believe I love Sybil, but I do," Mr. Crosbie declared. "He cannot understand, Miss Towers, I have a mama and seven older sisters. Seven! Not a one of them has ever taken my ambition to be a sculptor seriously. They think I should join the army." He paused to direct a speaking glance at her ladyship. "Only Sybil has ever believed in me."

  "Dear boy!" She squeezed his hand. "You shall rival Michelangelo."

  "I am now in a position to support a wife," Mr. Crosbie continued eagerly. "Thanks to Sybil's patronage, I have obtained some commissions in Chillingsworth to work on some tombs in the cathedral."

  Recalling the memorial Mr. Crosbie had designed for Harry, Kate had a horrifying vision of the future decor of that ancient and venerable church, but she managed to say, "My congratulations, Mr. Crosbie, but I do not understand why you chose to confide in me. The proper person to address would be Lord Harry."

  "He will not listen!" Mr. Crosbie said. "At least not to us."

  "But to you, my dear—" Lady Sybil began.

  "Oh, no. No!" Kate repeated firmly as she realized what they were about to ask her. She started to rise, but this time she was detained by Sybil's plump hand. She angled an arch glance at Mr. Crosbie. "My dear Lucillus, if you could but allow me a moment alone with Miss Towers:"

  He looked loath to leave her, but he agreed, his eyes so filled with adoration Kate doubted he would have refused any request of Lady Lytton's. He retreated to the opposite end of the summerhouse, out of earshot.

  Kate longed to retreat as well, not sure what was coming next. With her youthful lover gone, Lady Lytton bundled up more sensibly within the folds of her own shawl, abandoning the simper she habitually wore.

  "I daresay you think me quite a silly old woman, my dear," she said. Ignoring Kate's mild protest she rushed on, "But I am not so silly I don't know my own mind. I was quite young when I married the first time, Miss Towers. Harry's papa picked me out of the line of debutantes at Almack's in less time than he spent choosing a horse."

  She winced. "Such a great booming voice my lord had, but it was a good match. My parents were pleased." Her ladyship's soft chin stiffened with resolution. "This time I am old enough to marry to please myself, and I shall do so. Lucillus is so gentle, so sensitive. I don't want to cause poor Harcourt any sort of scandal, but he is making me quite desperate."

  Lady Lytton angled a coy and coaxing glance at Kate, reaching out to pat her hand. "You could avert much of this discord, Miss Towers. I am not such a widgeon that I haven't noticed the way Harcourt looks at you. You could talk him round."

  Kate started to deny she had any such power over Harry, but she could not quite manage to do so. For she feared she could persuade Harry if she set herself to the task, and strangely enough she was not unsympathetic to Lady Lytton's cause. The world might raise its eyebrows at such a peculiar match, but Kate detected a genuine vein of affection running beneath all of her ladyship's and Mr. Crosbie's melodramatic protestations.

  But to agree to use her influence with Harry in their behalf, the sort of influence a wife might exert upon a husband, why that was tantamount to confirming the tie between her and Harry.

  Yet Kate was not proof against the entreaty in Lady Lytton's eyes. "I suppose I could try," she murmured with great reluctance.

  Even this vague promise was enough to set Lady Lytton into transports of delight. She called over Mr. Crosbie and the pair of them overwhelmed Kate with their expressions of gratitude. Kate nodded weakly, inching toward the arch, at last making good her escape. She left them holding hands, whispering tender vows and making all manner of wildly impractical plans.

  "Whew!" Kate sighed as she fled back to the house. She must have taken complete leave of her senses. Whatever had induced her to become involved in Lady Lytton's romantic tangle when Kate could not even manage to sort out her own? She regretted the pledge she had given, but it was not in Kate to go back on her word.

  She entered the house with a feeling of trepidation, not looking forward to broaching the subject with Harry. She had never seen him quite so fierce about anything as his loathing for Mr. Crosbie.

  To her relief, she was granted a temporary reprieve. Harry had ridden out upon some errands and was not expected back until dinner. After the unsettling interview with Harry's stepmama, it was all Kate could do to return to the desk and commence the mundane task of addressing the invitations.

  Her promise to Lady Lytton continued to prey upon her mind even as she dipped her quill into the ink. Perhaps with Harry returning so late, she had best wait until tomorrow to approach him. No, tomorrow was Sunday and on Monday, she recalled, he was engaged to attend a horse auction with the squire and after that— By degrees, Kate convinced herself, it might be best to even wait until after the fête.

  If the day was the success she hoped, Harry would like be in a most congenial mood and . . . Kate paused in mid-stroke, recollecting that after the fête, Harry had hinted he had strong designs. Might he not likely counter her plea for Lady Lytton with some tender demands of his own? Demands that sent a shiver of anticipation coursing through Kate. Blushing at her own imaginings, Kate nearly knocked over the inkstand as she heard the parlor door creaking open.

  “Harry?” She called out, "I am addressing the invitations, my lord. If you have come to torment me, I shall never—"

  The half-playful warning died upon her lips as she glanced up. It was not Harry who paused upon the threshold, but Miss Thorpe, the crisp silk of her frock rustling against the frame.

  "Oh. Julia," Kate said in flat tones.

  Miss Thorpe gave her a brittle smile. Relations between Kate and the vicar's sister had been less than cordial since the eve of the assembly. Kate had not outright accused Julia of lying, but she had made it quite plain she no longer cared to hear anything from Miss Thorpe regarding Harry.

  After an awkward pause, Julia said, "I came to call upon Lady Lytton, but when Grayshaw told me you were in here, I could not resist stopping in. I trust you are not still angry with me over that unfortunate misunderstanding about Lytton?" This last was pronounced in a hesitant manner far different from Julia's usual forthright speech.

  "No, I am not angry," Kate said quietly, "but I fear I am rather occupied." She bent over the invitations again, hoping that Julia would take the hint and just go away.

  Instead Julia glided further into the room to peer over Kate's shoulder. "Oh, dear, I did not realize Lytton had pressed you into service as his secretary." She essayed a light laugh, but it was obvious her amusement was forced.

  "I don't mind in the least," Kate sa
id. Her quill spattered some ink upon one of the vellum cards. She sought to blot it, stifling an impatient exclamation. It was impossible to proceed with Julia hovering at her elbow, reading the guest list, her gloved fingers fidgeting with the stack of invitations.

  "You have been so occupied of late. I have missed you, Kathryn," she said. "There is a scarcity of congenial company to be found in this wretched village."

  Kate doubted Julia would succeed in finding 'congenial company' wherever she might be, but Miss Thorpe's voice held a thread of real unhappiness. Though she hardly knew why, Kate was moved by a feeling of pity for the beautiful, self-possessed woman.

  "I shall have more time to spare after the fête," Kate said.

  "Will you? Somehow I doubt that." Julia took a restless turn about the room, a moody expression marring the lovely lines of her profile. "I greatly fear that you will soon have less time for me than ever. One would have to be blind not to see what your constant presence at Mapleshade portends. The entire village is preparing to wish you joy."

  Kate supposed she should have been disconcerted by Julia's words. Only days ago, she would have been quick to refute them. But now the phrase seemed to stick in her mind, like a most gentle and beguiling melody. Wish you joy—the words conjured up images of church bells and wedding days, images of Harry.

  A tiny smile curved Kate's lips, soft with all a young girl's dreams. She had no idea how the expression transformed her features, but Julia noted it—the faraway look that brightened Kate's eyes, the flush that tinted her cheeks.

  It was as though Kate hovered on the brink of some great happiness and contentment Julia sensed she would never know. She suddenly felt blighted and far older than her twenty-seven years.

  Her own plans had turned to ash. Since Lytton's jealous display at the assembly, Adolphus declared he would not go near Kate except to read the service of her marriage to the earl. And Julia's attempts to discredit Lytton had misfired, what with all those fools like the squire fawning over the improvements his lordship was making at Mapleshade.