"You will, my dear. Oh, yes, you will," he muttered. The next minutes that stretched out proved more nerve-wracking than those hours spent waiting the enemy's charge at Waterloo. Harry would have defied Wellington himself to keep order amid a parcel of very foxed ladies.
Mrs. Gresham nearly drew his cork, attempting to leave the tent, shrieking she was being held prisoner. Julia leaped up the table, declaring that it was "Better to marry, than to burn," and launched into a sermon threatening him with fire and brimstone.
As for Kate, she began nuzzling kisses beneath his ear in a manner that was painfully distracting, while Mrs. Towers hummed quietly to herself. When Harry heard someone at the flap, he gasped, "Grayshaw, thank God."
But his prayer of gratitude was cut short. Instead of the butler, it was Reverend Thorpe who peeked into the tent.
If Harry could have done so, he would have thrust Adolphus right back out, but any such maneuver was impossible with Kate melting against him.
"My lord! Miss Towers!" The vicar's eyes popped with disapproval.
"Hell and damnation!" Julia cried with a sweeping flourish of her hand.
Adolphus's shocked gaze swiveled to his sister. "Julia!"
"We all know our names," Harry snapped. "Would you kindly do something useful like getting your sister down from there and, oh damn—"
While Harry's attention had been fixed on Adolphus, the squire's wife had managed to escape from the tent. As soon as Mrs. Gresham staggered out, Lady Dane stalked in.
"What is going on in here, Lytton?" she demanded.
Harry groaned, feeling the entire situation slipping beyond his control. As the vicar tugged Julia down from her perch, she burst into tears, wailing, "Oh, why wasn't I born a man?"
Even the gentle Mrs. Towers joined the fracas, tipsily shaking her finger at Lady Dane. "You're a mos' tiresome, meddlin' old woman. Hold your tongue and stop orderin' everyone about."
Harry was not privileged to hear Lady Dane's shocked response, for his attention was claimed by a bellow of outrage from outside the tent. Apparently, the squire had just encountered his wife. Harry rolled his eyes, not able to imagine how this horrific scene could possibly get any worse when he felt a tug at his sleeve.
He glanced down to discover Kate's face gone alarmingly pale.
"Oh, Harry," she said. "I think I'm going to be sick."
Chapter Eleven
The day after the fête, morning dawned just as bright and clear, but Kate made no movement to leap out of bed. She lay flat on her back, the light striking against her eyelids only served to intensify the throbbing in her head.
Merciful heavens! If she had been a condemned prisoner, she would have begged the executioner to wield his ax. Amputation was surely the only cure for such agony.
By degrees, she came more fully awake and attempted to roll onto her side. A soft moan escaped her, her stomach muscles feeling bruised and sore. Her mind yet hazed with pain and sleep, Kate tried to recollect the reason for her wretched state. What sort of mishap had befallen her? What dread manner of illness?
She forced her eyes open. The room pitched so precariously, she had to close them. Raising her lids just a fraction, she managed to focus, peering at her room through the thickness of her lashes.
The chamber appeared as ever a haven of serenity and order except for the frock crumpled upon the carpet, the same frock she had worn yesterday when she had—
Kate sucked in her breath as memory flooded back to her. Harry, the fete, the lemonade! She groaned, flinging one arm across her eyes as though that gesture might serve to shut out the remembrance. But recollections, at first quite fuzzy, began to emerge with painful clarity.
She had been arguing with Miss Thorpe about the lemonade. Why had she not paid more heed to Julia's insistence that something was wrong? The vicar's sister had been odiously correct. Kate vaguely recalled Harry's conversation with his butler, something about Harry's horrid friend, Lord Erwin, tampering with the punch bowl. He had added . . . what was it Harry had exclaimed?
Gin! That was it. Dear Lord! She had been gulping down gin. How oft she had heard Papa preach against that evil brew—the bane of the poorer classes the bishop had called it. What would he have said if he had seen its effect upon his own daughter?
Kate could not say precisely all that she had done, but she knew, with dread certainty, she had been thoroughly intoxicated. Groaning, she massaged her throbbing temples, seeking to recall what was best forgotten.
The laughter . . . everything had seemed so uproariously amusing. And Harry . . . she had flirted with him. Flirted? Kate winced. She had pounced upon him in a manner that would have shamed a tavern wench. He had attempted to make her sit down, but she had kept right on kissing him before the entire assemblage of other ladies.
Kate's cheeks burned at the memory. And then . . . oh, no. Had the vicar really come into the tent? And Grandmama? She could not be sure for at that point Harry had helped her back to the house because suddenly it all had no longer been so diverting.
Kate half pulled the counterpane over her head as she remembered the gleaming white chamber pot, Harry's strong arm supporting her while she had been hideously sick. After that, all was blank. She had no idea when she had been conveyed home or how she had come to be tucked up in her bed.
It didn’t matter, she thought, her face damp with humiliation. One fact emerged with painful clarity. She had made an utter fool of herself. She would never be able to face anyone in Lytton's Dene again—especially not Harry.
It afforded her no consolation that she had not been alone in her folly. Julia, the squire's wife, and even Mama! Kate bolted to a sitting position, the sudden movement making her head feel as though an anvil had clanged down upon it. But the pain was as nothing placed beside the horrified remembrance. Mama, too, had drunk of that poisonous concoction. If Kate had been rendered so deathly ill, what had it done to one of Mrs. Towers's delicate constitution?
Thoroughly alarmed, Kate flung back the covers. Although her stomach did a series of flip-flops, she managed to stand. Never sure how she accomplished it, she crossed to the washstand and sloshed some water from the pitcher into the basin.
The chill liquid stung her flesh, but it revived her enough that she could struggle into her silk wrapper and mules. Padding down the hallway to her mother's room, Kate did not even pause to knock. She thrust the portal open, expecting to find Mrs. Towers at death's door.
But the rose-colored chamber was empty, the bed already made, the shawl Mrs. Towers habitually wore missing from its peg. Far from being reassured, Kate stumbled from the room toward the stairway. She started down, grimacing at every step. Why had she never noticed before how badly each riser creaked?
At the bottom, she nearly collided with Mollie, the plump maid bustling from the small dining room with empty plates. Kate took one look at the china greasy with the remnants of egg and broiled kidney. She shuddered, clutching her hand to her stomach.
"Good morning, miss," Mollie said cheerfully, the scarlet ribbons on her mobcap fluttering in a perky fashion that seemed an affront to Kate's eyes.
Kate stared fixedly at a point past the offending crockery and the ribbons. "Where is my mother?" she rasped.
"Why, gone out, miss, with Lady Dane, to take a turn about the garden out back."
"Mama is out walking?"
"Yes, miss. She and her ladyship have already breakfasted and said as how you were not to be disturbed."
Kate’s mind reeled with relief and confusion. How was it possible? Mama had drunk at least as much of the lemonade as she, hadn't she? Obviously her memory was none too clear.
"Are you all right, miss?" Mollie asked, peering closely at Kate. "Will you be wanting your breakfast now? There is none of the kidney left, but I believe Cook has some kippers—"
Kate took a deep gulp. "Just a little weak tea, please."
Motioning Mollie to remove the congealing dishes from her sight, Kate leaned up against the oak baniste
r. She could not quite face the prospect of mounting the stairs again, so she retired to the parlor. They would not be likely to have any callers at this hour and, in any event, Kate never intended to receive anyone for the rest of her life.
Within the parlor, she drew the drapes across the bow window, shutting out as much of the sun as she could. Not only was the funereal gloom more soothing to her eyes, but it cast Papa's portrait into shadows, preventing the bishop's stern gaze from glaring down upon her disgrace.
Mollie bustled in and settled a tray near where Kate collapsed onto the settee. After much ruthless rattling of the teaspoons and the cup and saucer, the girl finally left Kate to sip her tea in merciful silence. The brew fortified her somewhat, but she could do nothing to dispel the overwhelming burden of shame weighing down upon her.
When Kate heard a muffled sound that told her of an arrival in the hall beyond, she shrank down against the cushions. In her current state, she was uncertain she could even confront her own mama and grandmother.
But the rumble of voices that followed sent a shaft of uneasiness through her. That did not sound like Mama.
Mollie poked her head in the door and announced with a pert grin. "Beg pardon, miss. What should I do? Lord Lytton is here, and he threatens to cut off my cap ribbons if I don't—"
"No!" Kate bolted to her feet, her cup and saucer clattering to the carpet. "Send him away! Tell him I am sick, dead, gone on a long voyage."
"Perhaps you had best tell me yourself." Harry squeezed past Mollie, regarding Kate with a quizzical gleam in his eye. He had obviously taken great pains with his appearance, looking almost irritatingly handsome and full of vigor in his crisp, navy frock coat and whipcord breeches.
He thrust the highly interested Mollie out of the parlor and closed the door. Kate spun away from him, one hand fluttering with dismay to the disheveled curls tumbling about her shoulders, the other clutching at the neckline of her wrapper.
"My lord, you can see I am in no fit state to entertain visitors."
"You look as lovely as always, although more pale than I could wish." She heard the tread of his boots as he stepped beside her, stroking back her hair.
Even that featherlight touch caused her to tremble.
"My poor darling." Harry's voice rumbled sympathy close to her ear. "You must have had a very devil of a night. You ought to be taking something more than tea. Believe me, I have had . . . er . . . a little experience in these matters."
"Oh, Harry, please! Please just go away." Her voice broke and she retreated toward the window, burying her face in her hands.
"Kate!" He followed her. Placing his hands upon her shoulders, he tried to bring her about. She twisted away from him sinking down upon the windowseat. But there was no escape. With tender persistence, he hunkered down before her, gently forcing down her hands, gathering them into the strength of his own.
Tears gathered in her eyes, one escaping to trickle past her nose. "Please," she whispered. "Don't look at me. I am so ashamed."
He caught the tear, one rough fingertip brushing it aside. "Kate, dearest, you've naught to be ashamed of."
"Indeed I have. My behavior yesterday—"
"It was no fault of yours."
"M-my conduct was dreadful, and the fête was r-ruined."
"It was nothing of the kind. We still contrived to hold the supper after I had sent you home. I told everyone you had been taken ill, and, hang it all, Kate! Don't cry." He intercepted another tear. "You know I can endure anything but that."
But now that she had begun, Kate could not check the flow, though the release of the emotion brought no comfort, only increasing the pounding tempo in her head.
Harry squeezed her hands. "Devil take that villain Erwin," he muttered. "Damned if I don't call him out for this."
His words sparked a bitter anger in Kate, as unexpected as it was unreasoning. She wrenched her hands away. "Aye, isn't that just a man's solution to everything. Blow a hole in someone, and that will mend matters at once."
Harry frowned and straightened slowly to his feet. "What would you have me do, Kate?"
"There's nothing you can do." Leaping up, she brushed past him, swiping at her eyes. "The damage is quite done."
"You might be interested to know that I discovered who purloined that invitation and posted it. It was your good friend, Julia Thorpe."
Kate started only a little to hear her worst suspicions confirmed. "What odds does that make? It was your friends who put the gin in the lemonade and . . . and you promised you would not let them do anything to spoil the fête."
Her voice sounded childishly petulant and, deep in her heart, Kate knew she was being unfair. But her head ached so abominably, she wanted to scream.
"I did my best, Kate," Harry said. She heard him sigh as though gathering the ends of his patience.
He approached again, making one more effort to ease her into his embrace. She backed away, and his arms dropped to his sides, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "You are making far too great a piece of work over all this, Kate. No one else is taking it so seriously, I warrant you."
He could not have said anything less calculated to soothe her. She was miserable, about to perish from humiliation, and no one regarded it seriously?
Harry plunged on, making bad worse. "By the end of the day, the squire was laughing over the affair and even Adolphus was most understanding."
"That is all very well for them," Kate said. "But I assure you my father would not have been amused. It might be thought tolerable for a squire's wife to become drunk on gin, but . . . but—"
"But you are a bishop's daughter," Harry finished bitterly. "I fear I had allowed myself to forget that."
"So did I! Every time I am with you, I end up in the most improper—" She broke off clutching her head, which felt ready to burst. "Please, can you not just leave me alone?"
A heavy silence ensued and then Harry said softly, "Yes, I rather think that it would be better if I did."
There was no rancor in his tones. He sounded so subdued that, despite her own agony, Kate glanced up at him. He looked neither angry nor even irritated, those expressive green eyes frighteningly empty. The powerful set of his shoulders slumped as in defeat.
As he moved toward the door, Kate whispered, "Harry." If he heard her, he pretended otherwise. He bade her farewell, his parting adieu brief, sad, and heartbreakingly final.
Then he was gone.
Kate kept to her room for the rest of the day. By the next afternoon, she continued to send down her excuses, declining to join Mrs. Towers and Lady Dane for luncheon.
The meal was a simple one, consisting mostly of cold meats and fruit. Mrs. Towers picked at a few grapes. Although she had not fared as badly as Kate from the lemonade episode, she bore little appetite, being consumed by worry about her daughter.
Yet she put on a placid front, unwilling to admit as much to Lady Dane. That formidable dame was far too quick to criticize her precious Kate. At the opposite end of the linen tablecloth, her ladyship tapped her fork irritably against the crystal.
"How long is this nonsense going to continue?" she said presently.
"What nonsense is that, Mother Towers?"
"You know full well what I mean—this sorry business of Kate hiding out in her room."
"The child has been ill."
"Humph! Just the same as that Thorpe chit has been ill?"
Mrs. Towers winced. Lady Dane's acid comment referred to the visit the vicar had paid earlier that morning. Reverend Thorpe had come by to convey Julia's farewell to Kate. It seemed Miss Thorpe was journeying up north to stay with an elderly aunt in Scotland, ‘for reasons of Julia's health.’
"Running away—that is what Julia Thorpe is doing," Lady Dane continued, slamming her fork down. "I would have hoped that a granddaughter of mine would have more bottom than that."
"So Kate does. She will come out when she is ready," Mrs. Towers said, although she was not sure herself. What a cruel contrast it
was. Kate had been so sunny and smiling the morning of the fête. It seemed Lady Dane's interference might have done some good after all. Mrs. Towers had been certain that her daughter's most unusual courtship with Lord Lytton was about to be brought to a happy conclusion. Then that disaster in the tent! Mrs. Towers had wracked her mind ever since wondering if there was something she could have done to prevent it. If only she had not been so quick to agree with Kate about the lemonade.
These tormenting reflections were interrupted by Lady Dane. With a mighty scowl, she said, "I hope you have noticed that Lytton has not been back since we saw him ride off so hurriedly yesterday morn. I have had no chance to speak with him, but it is my belief that foolish child has sent him away again."
She flung her napkin down, scraping her chair back. Leaning on her cane, she rose, the familiar martial light coming to her eye. "I can see it is more than time I shook some sense into Kathryn."
Mrs. Towers believed that the last thing Kate needed was more of her grandmother's bullying. "I wish you would not."
As Lady Dane ignored her, stalking toward the door, Mrs. Towers hastened to intercept her. Although she trembled a little, she planted herself in front of her ladyship.
"I thought I had made my feelings clear to you before—"
"So you did, Maisie. You said a good many disagreeable things in your state of intoxication. However I realize you were not yourself, so I am disposed to pardon you."
"I was not that drunk."
Mrs. Towers's admission seemed to crack through the room with all the force of a thunderclap. Lady Dane was stunned into a rare moment of silence. Mrs. Towers's courage almost failed her, but she realized she had already passed the point of no return.
"I do not think your meddling has always done Kate good, my lady. And I forbid any more of it."
This last she said so quietly, Lady Dane had to bend slightly to catch it. As she drew herself up stiffly, Mrs. Towers half expected to be struck aside by her ladyship's cane.
"And what pray tell do you intend to do?" Lady Dane demanded. "Allow the girl to remain closeted in her room until the end of her days?"
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