“Hush!” hissed Dona Blanca as Rankin announced the Earl of Ailesbury.
Archibald Courtland Audley, first cousin to both Thomas Audley and William’s father, General Sir Quinton Audley, regarded the other occupants of the room with the superior mien of a man who is fully aware of his own consequence, though perhaps a trifle doubtful of the social standing of those around him. He made his formal bow to Lady Everingham, deigned to accept the introduction to his startlingly beautiful young relative and her foreign chaperone, and to Mr. Somersby who was not known to him. “Well, William,” said the earl, weighting each word as if his sentences were crafted of gold, “I did not expect to find you here. I believed you to be laid up with the fever.”
Catherine was left with the impression that William had been audacious indeed to rise from his sickbed without the earl’s permission.
“I leave for the Peninsula just after Christmas, my lord.”
“Returning to Wellington, are you? Well, that is all right then. I am confident you will bring honor to the family, my boy. And if you should see your father, render him my felicitations on a job well done at Pamplona.” Ailesbury rocked back on his heels, looking down his nose at William with the benign superiority of his exalted rank. “And now, young man, I fear I shall have to ask you to take yourself off, for I have come a long way to speak with your cousin Catherine and bear greetings from Lady Ailesbury and Lydia.”
Refusing to be routed, Lieutenant Audley inquired, “What? No greeting from Edmund, my lord?”
“Do not be absurd, William. You are well aware that Norwell is safely tucked up at Oxford. Naturally, he would have sent his greetings if he had known I was to be in London. Now off with you, young sirs,” he added with a forced attempt at joviality. “I wish to be private with cousin Catherine.”
When the two young men had made their hasty farewells, Lady Everingham asked if Lord Ailesbury wished to be completely private with his young cousin. He tut-tutted and allowed that although it might be proper for the head of the family to be private with a married lady, though of tender years, he fancied he had nothing to say which might not be said before all three ladies. After this ponderous judgment, the earl settled himself into a chair next to Catherine.
Cat, well aware she owed her father’s family her most polished manners, turned the full force of her smile on Lord Ailesbury, only to discover her noble cousin was regarding her as if she were some unknown creature dropped from the sky. Or more like—as she later confided to Bess Fielding—crawled out from under a rock. Accustomed to nothing but blatant admiration from even the most stiff-necked and monogamous of men, Catherine found herself speechless.
“I do not understand,” declared the earl a bit querulously, “why your father should not have left you in my charge. I am, after all, his own first cousin and head of the family.”
Catherine’s gaze flew to Lady Everingham. Was it possible this pompous nobleman was not even aware of the implied insult to his hostess? She could scarcely tell him that Thomas Audley had said he’d be damned before he’d let Archibald and Malvinia Audley have any say over his daughter’s life. Clara Everingham’s bosom heaved dangerously, her mouth flattened into a grim line.
Catherine reaffixed her smile. “Surely, uncle, you are aware my father worked for the government for many years. It was only natural he should ask his colleague Lord Everingham to look after me during the few short months until my majority. I am certain he felt your good wife was quite occupied with her own two children.”
It was apparent Lord Ailesbury had heard very little after the word government. “What’s that you say? What can you mean by worked for the government?”
Catherine raised her golden eyebrows, widened her eyes. “Oh,” she breathed, “you did not know. Papa was a spy, you see. I am told I may talk about him now that he is gone,” she added ingenuously. “He was a very superior spy. He headed our intelligence service on the Peninsula for as long as I can remember. And I assure you he enjoyed it immensely.”
The Earl of Ailesbury removed a large handkerchief from his well-filled brown kerseymere jacket and mopped his brow. His ponderous volubility was reduced to a single, “Good God!”
Clara Everingham and Blanca Dominguez exchanged surreptitious smiles of satisfaction before returning their rapt attention to the principal combatants.
Ailesbury recovered sufficiently to present his next bone of contention: “Is it true you have married a foreigner, Catherine? Surely this is not what is expected of an Audley?”
Catherine’s good intentions cracked completely. “I was born in Portugal, my lord. To me, Blas is not a foreigner.”
“Blas? Blas?” Lord Ailesbury frowned. “Not the name I recall . . .”
“Blas is . . . was a nickname,” Cat said hastily. “And you may rest easy,” she added with considerable bitterness. “He was Don Alexis Perez de Leon, and he is dead. So you will not be called upon to acknowledge a Spanish connection.
Lord Ailesbury had the good grace to apologize and offer his condolences before his enormous sense of self-worth sent him plunging back to the topics he had come to discuss. “Lady Ailesbury—my dear Malvinia—keeps up a goodly correspondence with acquaintances in London. Certain–ah–things have come to her attention, Catherine. You must admit, my dear, your behavior must reflect on all the family, most particularly your cousins Lydia and Edmund, It was outside of enough when we heard about the incident in the park and that you had taken up with Wrexham—Wrexham of all people!—whose intentions are quite shockingly apparent. But when news reached us of the child and your letter to Napoleon . . . well, you can imagine, my dear—poor Lady Ailesbury nearly had strong hysterics. It took vinaigrette and burnt feathers, let me tell you. I fear you must explain yourself, my girl.”
As the earl paused for breath, silence reigned. Catherine sat very still indeed, while Lady Everingham and Blanca stared at her in consternation.
“Napoleon?” Blanca hissed. “I cannot have heard correctly, Catarina. He could not have said Napoleon.”
“Catherine?” queried Clara Everingham with great deliberation.
Cat sat still as a statue. It was rather like the time she had found herself in Marshal Junot’s study. For all the maturity of her twenty years, she once again felt very young and not nearly as clever as she had thought.
“All my life I have been trained to secrecy,” Cat admitted quietly. “But when I met Amabel Lovell, I was so happy to have found a friend of my own age, I was careless. I thought I was finished with the years of silence, that what I did or said could no longer matter. I was wrong, and I am sincerely sorry.”
“Sorry pays no toll, young lady,” said the earl severely. “Explain yourself.”
“Knowing second-hand tales had a way of exaggerating the truth, Cat did not hesitate to offer full details of how Pierre had come into her life. The portrait she painted of a small boy sitting beside his dead nurse, surrounded by the carnage of battle, was enough to silence even Ailesbury’s insensitivity. “There were four letters in all,” Cat ended. “We did not know the name of the colonel thought to be Pierre’s father, so I wrote to the general commanding the chasseurs at Vitoria. To Marshal Jourdan, to the staff of Joseph Bonaparte, and to the staff of Napoleon Bonaparte. All the letters were alike. Each said we had been told the boy might be the son of a colonel of the chasseurs. That’s the French light cavalry,” Cat explained politely. “We—Blas and I—explained how Pierre had come to us, that he was alive and well, and where he could be found when the war is over. Surely, my lord, there can be no wrong in attempting to reunite a father with his child?”
The Earl of Ailesbury fished out a large white handkerchief, wiped his brow. “You are telling me,” he said with ominous emphasis, “that—never mind how you accomplished it, for I am sure I do not want to know—you actually sent a letter to the French general staff, not to mention the Bonapartist king of Spain?”
Carefully refraining from glancing at the other two ladies, Cather
ine nodded her head. “Yes, my lord.”
“We are ruined,” Ailesbury groaned. “Utterly ruined. I will be struck from the role at White’s, booed in the House . . .”
“Don’t be nonsensical, Ailesbury!” Clara Everingham snapped. “I confess this tale had not yet reached my ears, but I know the ton well. Catherine is more like to be the heroine of the hour. As if her beauty weren’t enough, she will now be known as the woman who cared enough about a child to reach across enemy lines, risking the wrath of both Horse Guards and the Corsican monster himself.”
“You are all quite mad,” pronounced Dona Blanca. “I am going to my room. Where you will join me, Catarina, when your cousin Ailesbury has left us.” Blanca’s tone of command was so unlike her usual calm self, Cat blinked.
After a further quarter of an hour of dire predictions interspersed with scoldings and a lecture on the conduct expected of an Audley, the Earl of Ailesbury departed, still shaking his head.
“You may not be aware, Catherine,” said Clara through lips thinned into a grim line, “but we have just been insulted in more than the obvious.”
Her mind fixed on how she was going to make peace with Blanca, Cat stared in surprise. “It can be worse?” she inquired drily.
“Malvinia Audley and your cousin Lydia should have bestirred themselves to come to town to meet you. No, my dear, do not make excuses for them. They do not live so far from town. They have sent Ailesbury to look you over when they should have come with him to welcome you to England themselves.”
Cat digested this in silence. It was, she decided, a pity one could not choose relatives as one chose friends. “I find it difficult to believe that Ailesbury, Sir Quinton, and Papa shared the same grandfather,” she pronounced with considerable feeling.
And finally, belatedly, it occurred to Cat the Earl of Ailesbury was not alone in giving offense. With her small chin tucked down in unaccustomed humility, Cat went to stand in rigid formality before her hostess, where she apologized for the actions which threatened to bring scandal to Everingham House. Abject and articulate, Cat cited her thoughtlessness, her carelessness, her selfish disregard for anyone’s pain but her own. She had brought disgrace to those who had been her dearest friends and benefactors.
“You may disregard it, my dear,” said Clara grandly when Cat had poured out her heart. “It is merely another challenge to be met. Until your arrival I was not aware of what a staid and boring life I led.”
“Nonetheless,” said Cat firmly, “I believe we have overstayed our visit. After guests such as we, you will need a few weeks to recover.”
“As long as you return for Christmas.” Clara bounced to her feet, gave Catherine’s stiff shoulders a hug. “Like our dear Wellington’s efforts on the Peninsula,” she said with conviction, “it may be a long struggle, but in the end we will prevail.”
Cat climbed the stairs to the third floor of Branwyck Park, an eager smile softening the porcelain perfection of her features into a radiance which had seldom been seen in recent years. She was home. Strange it should be so easy to call Branwyck home. But Blas had bought it for her, and at the moment it was all of him she had.
Cat’s smile broadened into outright joy as she threw open the door of the nursery. An array of bright colors brought life to the large rectangular room. New red and white check curtains adorned the windows, with matching covers on the chairs and window seats. The book shelves had been augmented with a large number of new volumes which Cat had had sent down from London. A child’s drawings decorated a portion of one wall. On a large rectangular table two armies of tin soldiers confronted each other, long thin lines of red against masses of blue. Stunned, Cat stared at the mock battle. Who had been teaching Pierre tactics? His father? For surely no one at Branwyck Park knew the contrasting methods of attack used by the warring Peninsular armies. The boy was truly a ranking officer’s son.
Pierre, abandoning his precious new rocking horse, catapulted across the room and launched himself at Cat. As she swung him up into her arms, he hugged her so tightly about the neck she was forced to gasp for breath.
“Easy, my pet,” she cried, “or I shall think you missed me.”
He buried his blond head in her shoulder and hung on for dear life. She was, of course, consumed by guilt. Her stay in London had been longer than expected, nearly a month. A lifetime to a four-year-old who had already had too many people disappear from his life.
She had, however, done all she could for Pierre, short of her physical presence. In addition to refurbishing the nursery and providing him with the youth and cheerfulness of Nan, the nursery maid, as well as the motherly Rosalía. Cat had also employed the seventeen-year-old daughter of the local vicar to read to him in her beautifully modulated English. The girl also practiced her French on Pierre, something the small boy found vastly amusing. The two had quickly developed a rapport in which Pierre indicated his approval of her pronunciation by a wide range of smiles, frowns and grimaces. All this had been relayed to Cat by letters from Mrs. Plumb.
It would seem, Cat admitted grudgingly, that life in England was not quite so bad as either she, Blanca, or Pierre had feared.
Much later that afternoon Cat wandered back down the stairs, her mind a whirl of contradictory emotions. Not feeling up to conversation, she slipped into the spacious sitting room next to her bedroom and firmly shut the door. Sinking onto one of the window seats, she contemplated the complexities of her London relationships.
She had promised to return to London in time for Christmas at the Everinghams. And there, except for occasional visits to Branwyck, she was expected to stay. Meeting people, fitting an entire new wardrobe, learning to cope with the frequently odd mannerisms and expectations of London society. Fulfilling her promise to her father.
Oddly enough, a Season in London was no longer a duty she dreaded. Sir Giles, Clara, Gordon Somersby, her cousin William, Amabel Lovell . . . Wrexham. All were giving her a more tolerant view of the strange world that was London. Even Wrexham was not as useless and frivolous as she had thought. She had learned from Sir Giles that the earl spoke regularly in the House of Lords, supported a wide variety of charities, and was a well-respected landlord of his country estate.
He was also making a considerable impact on her life. She was using him, Cat freely admitted it. An occasional qualm of conscience was assuaged by her certainty he knew it. The Earl of Wrexham was exactly the fine gentleman her father wished for her, but she had few doubts about his intentions. There was little possibility of cracking the earl’s hide-bound heart, even if she wished to do so. He would marry for family, for dynasty, for proper bloodlines and wealth untainted by gaming halls or mysteries. A charming, elegant rake, Wrexham, but one harboring a surprisingly conventional core. He respected her mourning because she demanded it, but he was playing a waiting game. Wrexham was in search of a mistress, not a wife. He was, however, good company, his consequence enormous. And his attentions were particular enough to keep potential suitors away. Including those who would have courted any woman who came with a country estate such as Branwyck Park. In short, the Earl of Wrexham was both entertaining and useful.
And then there was Amabel. Cat smiled as she recalled one particular afternoon when her lively new friend was visiting Everingham House.
“Listen to this,” Amabel cried, waving a handsomely bound book at Catherine. “You simply will not credit it.” With a dramatic gesture worthy of Mrs. Siddons, Amabel held the book out before her and declaimed: ‘It is of the last importance to their happiness in life that they should early acquire a submissive temper and a forbearing spirit. They must ever endure to be thought wrong sometimes, when they cannot but feel they are right.’ Now, I ask you, how could anyone write such nonsense for a princess of the blood? Poor unhappy Charlotte to be instructed by Hannah More! It is the outside of enough for any woman to be so taught, but what is the point in being a princess if one must be forbearing?”
Miss Lovell tossed the book onto the sofa,
a mischievous smile suddenly lighting her face. “Of course I can quite understand why your cousin Ailesbury sent you such an edifying treatise, Catherine. Oh, do not look so, my dear, I did not mean to tease you. It is all my fault you are in such a pickle. I was a complete ninnyhammer to repeat what you told me.”
Catherine, a scant two years senior to Amabel Lovell, suddenly felt closer to Methuselah. “Amabel, ordinarily I find your intelligence of the first order, but I fear you have entirely missed the point of Miss More’s words. You and I may say we find them appalling for what they advocate, but that is precisely what you asked me to teach you. How to repress your feelings and do as others think you ought rather than what you would wish to do. And a sad example I have set, to be sure. I can create a false impression with ease if the cause if just, but for my own benefit I find I am too stiff-necked to bend to the ways of the ton.”
Amabel rushed to Catherine’s chair and knelt at her feet, clasping her hands in her own. “You must not take it to heart, dear Catherine. There is absolutely no point in your attempting to be deemed ‘unexceptional.’ In your case it is simply not possible. You must accept you are unique and pay no mind to what lesser mortals think.”
Lesser mortals. Lesser mortals indeed. Only Clara Everingham’s social consequence and the obvious and arrogant support of the Earl of Wrexham had turned aside the potential disaster of her letters to France.
Cat’s thoughts returned to Branwyck Park with reluctance. Her first day back and already she was discovering it was considerably easier to keep the ghosts at bay in London. Amabel’s gay chatter and kind heart, Clara’s competence and good sense, Wrexham’s admiring glances —sensual and exciting, a balm on the hurt of Blas’s silence. These new friends steadied her, gave her strength.
But here . . . here at Branwyck she was alone. For it was Blas’s house. And he was not here.
The Sometime Bride Page 27
