by Amanda Scott
“But you are not my aunt, ma’am. I am only distantly related to your husband, a slight connection to you at best.”
“I promise I shall not regard it. Perhaps it would be more appropriate for you to call me Cousin Elizabeth, but that would make me think of Cousin Lucy—down at Dambroke Park, you know—and she is quite old. I prefer to be called aunt.”
Catheryn’s ready sense of humor was nearly her undoing, but the laughter went no further than her eyes. “I will be happy to do as you ask, ma’am. It would be churlish to do otherwise. Besides,” she added frankly, “I should like very much to have you for my aunt.”
“Wonderful!” applauded the countess. She took a dainty bite from her crabmeat sandwich and wrinkled her brow. “Where was I? Oh, of course, Tiffany. I am afraid Dambroke found it necessary to reprimand her for her extravagance. She has been wasting the ready, as Teddy would say.”
“Teddy?”
“My younger son. He’s away at school—Eton, of course.” Catheryn nodded, allowing her to dismiss Teddy. “At any rate, she has been spending too freely of late, and I know Dambroke has tried to be patient, but he was prodigiously angry this morning. I found him sitting at the library desk behind a pile of her bills. The foolish girl had run through her allowance and then ordered the rest of the reckoning sent to him. He was exceedingly displeased, I assure you.”
“I can believe it, ma’am, but she must have known he would not like it.” Catheryn remembered the stern blue eyes and wondered at Lady Tiffany’s temerity.
“My daughter considers no one’s wishes save her own. As I mentioned before, she flouts him at every turn. Why, at Christmas he refused to let her attend a country house party. She was not yet out, you know, and it would have been most improper. She threatened to starve herself, but fortunately Jean-Pierre prepared a crème brûlée for dinner that night, so it came to nothing.” The countess sighed deeply, then gave herself a little shake and touched her cap as though to be sure it was on straight. With a glance at the closed door, she observed that she could not imagine what was keeping her daughter.
Catheryn had been wondering if the afflicted damsel would put in an appearance at all. Having managed a hearty meal during the countess’s discourse, she now eyed the nearly empty tea tray with misgiving but salved her conscience with the thought that, should Lady Tiffany prove to be hungry, the tray could be replenished. Helping herself to another cake, she noted that the countess seemed to have fallen into a brown study and returned to her own reflections.
Her conversation with the earl had left her with the impression that he was a fair-minded, intelligent man who would not easily be influenced by anyone. His air of command was almost awe-inspiring. Clearly, he expected instant obedience from his household and would not long tolerate such behavior as his sister seemed capable of displaying. He was cold, aloof, exacting, probably arrogant, certainly challenging, elegant, suave, vastly intriguing—and quite above your touch, my girl, she told herself sternly.
Forcing her thoughts into a new direction, she considered the countess, who was everything her Aunt Agatha was not. Lady Caston—tall, thick-waisted, horse-faced, and crisp-voiced—displayed an air of the grande dame that was totally lacking in the countess. Making the fetter’s acquaintance was truly a novel experience. Her impulsive generosity was captivating, and Catheryn felt, without understanding the feeling, that she had known her for many years. Clearly, Lady Dambroke had little if any sense of duty to her children and was primarily interested in her own comfort and pleasure. Some of the things she had said were downright shocking, but Catheryn found her delightfully charming nonetheless and willingly overlooked them. At this point her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. She raised her eyes and nearly exclaimed aloud at the vision they encountered.
Lady Tiffany Dambroke stood on the threshold, her hand resting lightly on the door handle. Her slimness made her appear teller than she actually was, and the raven curls piled high atop her exquisitely shaped little head added to the illusion. She was attired in an elegant afternoon gown of rose twilled sarcenet, cut simply and caught in high above the waist with a white silk ribbon, the ends of which trailed to the hem. The dress was cut low at the bosom, and a rope of seed pearls was wrapped twice around her lovely throat. The color of the gown seemed to be reflected in her glorious complexion and also, Catheryn thought stupidly, in her eyes. This thought and the realization that she was staring rudely brought Miss Westering to her senses. She dragged her gaze back to her hostess.
“I’m pleased you decided to join us, Tiffany dear,” that lady was saying mildly. “Allow me to make Miss Westering known to you.” Tiffany let the door swing to behind her and advanced into the room. “My daughter, Lady Tiffany, Catheryn. Pay no heed to her attitudes, if you please. She merely puts on airs to be interesting.”
Nothing daunted by this stricture, Tiffany held out a beautifully manicured hand and made a slight bow. Catheryn wondered briefly if she was expected to kiss the hand. Mentally shaking herself, she arose with her customary grace, politely offered two fingers, and returned the curtsey. Barely allowing their fingers to touch, Tiffany moved to the tea tray and poured out a cup for herself.
“I collect, Miss Westering,” she said loftily, seating herself on a small gilt and velvet chair opposite the sofa, “that you are in some manner related to us. I don’t believe I’ve heard your name mentioned before this day, however.”
Before Catheryn could gather her wits to answer this haughty speech, the countess interposed, “For heaven’s sake, Tiffany! Do try for a little conduct, or Catheryn will think you raised in a cow byre. I declare you put me to the blush.”
Recognizing a light of battle in the red-rimmed eyes, Catheryn attempted diversionary tactics. “Dear ma’am, pray do not scold her. She is quite right to question my presence. It must seem that I have thrust myself upon you all and that it is I, rather than she, who is sadly wanting in conduct. Why, you know yourself that Lord Dambroke was displeased with me,” she added sweetly.
The countess stiffened beside her, but the calculated speech had had the desired effect. Lady Tiffany visibly abandoned her supercilious attitude. As Catheryn had hoped, where his lordship condemned, she would empathize. “Was my brother angry with you for coming to us, Miss Westering? Whyever for?” The countess relaxed and moved to refill her own teacup, while Catheryn summoned a rueful smile.
“I’m afraid he was shocked by the fact that I have run away,” she said. “He simply could not understand my feelings.”
The countess turned in astonishment, unable to let such a statement pass. “Really, my dear, you exaggerate!”
But before she could continue, her daughter interrupted. “Oh, Mama! Must you always defend him? He is positively Gothic. You know he is. I can just imagine the sort of Turkish treatment he accorded poor Miss Westering. You are not shocked by her conduct or you’d not have presented her to me. And if you are not, then why should he be? It is outside of enough!”
“Tiffany dear, to speak of your brother in such a way is not seemly.”
“Piffle!” replied her undutiful daughter. “Why, I can see just how it was. Heaven knows I’ve my own experience of his distempered freaks and that, let me tell you, puts me in great sympathy with Miss Westering. I wonder she does not fall into strong hysterics just thinking of the interview she must have had with him.”
Judging by Lady Dambroke’s rigid countenance that it was time to turn the conversation into more acceptable channels, Catheryn spoke up hastily. “Yes, but I promise I shall do no such thing, my lady, for your mother kindly came to my rescue and invited me to stay with her whilst his lordship looks into some trifling matters for me. She has also promised to help me make all right and tight with my aunt and uncle, which is no easy task, believe me.”
“That’s kind of Mama, I’m sure,” Tiffany said, “but who are you, Miss Westering? Are you truly related to us?”
So Catheryn explained the relationship and th
en, not wanting to go into all the details again just then, turned the conversation to Lady Dambroke’s promise to sponsor her, adding that she was very grateful.
“There’s no need to thank me, child,” said the countess. “It is the only sensible course, so that you may accompany us to the balls and parties we are forever attending. I daresay,” she added in an aside to her daughter, “that with a little effort I may even procure vouchers to Almack’s for her. Emily Cowper will oblige me, I think.”
“Splendid,” Tiffany approved. “And she must be included in our own ball, of course. That is, if Dambroke doesn’t disapprove of her staying with us until then.”
“Leave Dambroke to me,” advised the little countess with airy unconcern. “Now, Tiffany shall take you upstairs, Catheryn, and I shall send Fowler, my dresser, to you half an hour before dinner to help you make ready. Mind you do not chatter long, Tiffany,” she went on, “for Catheryn was up before the birds and will want to rest before dinner. You should do so, too, my love,” she added kindly. “Your eyes are quite red, you know, from weeping. Not at all attractive.” She followed them to the door. “Please do not neglect that letter to your aunt, Catheryn. You will find materials with the standish in your room. Dambroke will be sure to ask if you have obeyed his instructions and will not be pleased, I’m afraid, if you have not.”
“I’ll do my best,” Catheryn said with a chuckle, “though I’m sure I don’t know what I shall say, for she will be amazingly angry. I must rely upon your note to calm her.”
“Well, I don’t know,” her ladyship said doubtfully. “After all, I am not acquainted with Lady Caston, though I daresay that after being in a worry, she will be grateful to know that you are safe here with me. I shall beg her to let you stay a good long time, too, and perhaps just mention that I shall introduce you to my friends. She will recognize that as an excellent opportunity for you, I make no doubt. We must just hope it will answer the purpose.”
III
WHEN TIFFANY PUSHED OPEN the door to a second-floor bedchamber Catheryn exclaimed with pleasure, mentally comparing its serene luxury to the decayed grandeur of Westering and the austerity of the chamber she had occupied at Caston Manor. The tranquil atmosphere was enhanced by well-executed woodland scenes decking white-paneled walls, pale green curtains framing a view of the rear gardens, and late afternoon sun spilling a bright golden path across the green carpet. Catheryn’s meager belongings had been unpacked, and Tiffany moved at once to examine a pair of miniatures on the nightstand, asking if they were of Catheryn’s parents. When Catheryn nodded, she exclaimed, “But how beautiful your mother was!”
Catheryn agreed. “Yes, was she not? Much prettier than I can ever hope to be.”
Instead of refuting the statement, Tiffany stared at her thoughtfully. “Yes, very likely. But you have a great deal of countenance, Cousin, and I daresay could make much of yourself if you would but try. That dress is sadly out of date and ill-fitting, and you have allowed your complexion to get too brown. That will fade if you have a care of it. You are too short to be really elegant and have too sturdy a figure to be described as exquisite or delicate, but your eyes are very fine and your hair is lovely. If we put our heads together, I believe we can turn you out in style. The critics shall applaud you as a taking little thing.”
Somewhat taken aback by this candid assessment, Catheryn smiled doubtfully but replied in agreeable tones, “I shall place myself in your hands, my lady.”
“Very well though you must call me Tiffany, you know, if we are to be cousins. But now, tell me all about yourself.”
Catheryn complied willingly enough and soon decided, despite her first impression, that she could easily come to like the girl. There was warmth in the ready laughter following her unflattering description of Edmund Caston revealing a naive friendliness under that sophisticated veneer. She knew, too, that she would welcome Tiffany’s experience and good taste when it came time to select her new wardrobe. Nevertheless, when Tiffany left, Catheryn breathed a sigh of relief and turned her attention to composing a brief note to Lady Caston. Once it was addressed and sealed with one of the wafers provided for the purpose, she removed her dress, curled up on the bed under a soft quilt, and soon fell fast asleep.
A gentle touch some time later caused her to stretch like a kitten and turn to her other side. A hand grasped her shoulder firmly, jogging her until she opened one sleepy eye and then the other. Suddenly remembering where she was, she came wide awake, sat up, and pushed her hair out of her face. A gaunt, middle-aged woman in a simple blue armazine gown stood beside the bed.
“You must be Fowler!” Catheryn exclaimed, impulsively holding out a hand. The woman hesitated but finally extended her own. Catheryn squeezed it warmly. “How kind of you to offer your services,” she said, slipping off the bed. She sensed that Fowler did not approve of her and probably condemned her easy manners, so she summoned her most appealing smile. “It is quite a compliment to her ladyship that you have agreed to help me, for it cannot be a normal part of your duties to wait upon impecunious young relatives, and that’s precisely what I am at the moment. I shall not be a credit to you either, for the only evening dress I have is an old white muslin. I shall look a perfect drab.” She paused to light the candles on the dressing table, watching Fowler’s expression reflected in the mirror for signs of a thaw. The woman remained silent, her lips pursed, but she seemed to be studying her with a rather professional eye. Hoping the look signified interest in her predicament, Catheryn spoke almost shyly. “Do you think you can help me?”
Fowler pulled herself together. “As to that, miss, there’s no saying what might be accomplished with a little imagination. Their ladyships, having canceled their engagements for the evening, have decided not to change for dinner. My lord will wear evening dress, but that need not concern us, since he is going to one of his clubs after. Just you fetch that muslin, and we’ll see what can be done.”
Catheryn obeyed with alacrity, delighted that Fowler seemed willing to put forth a good effort on her behalf. Pulling the gown from the French garderobe, she laid it out on the bed, where the dresser eyed it askance. It certainly was a rather shabby garment, adorned with a faded pink ribbon that added nothing to its appeal.
“It’s rather awful, isn’t it.”
“That it is, miss, but if it’s all you’ve got, we’ll make do. ’Tis a mercy it’s simple and not one of them frilly embroidered things such as was the style some years back. Like as not, the threads and ruffles would all be frayed.”
“It has been darned a few times.”
“So it has, but that can’t be helped,” Fowler answered crisply. Ringing for a chambermaid, she sent her to ask if the Lady Tiffany would kindly lend Miss Westering the lilac ribbons purchased the previous week at the Pantheon Bazaar. The girl bobbed a curtsey and fled to return moments later with the ribbons.
“With the Lady Tiffany’s compliments, Miss Fowler, and she begs Miss will keep them if she likes.”
Fowler nodded approvingly. “Saw they didn’t match the dress,” she said with cryptic satisfaction. “Told her so at the time.” She nodded to Catheryn. “We’ll replace that sash with the long one and thread the narrow one through your hair.” She motioned to the maid, still hovering inquisitively in the doorway. “Come you in, Mary, and shut that door. You may tend to the sash. Now, sit you down, Miss Westering, and we’ll see what’s to be done with your hair.”
Catheryn watched the mirror in fascinated silence while the skillful fingers twisted and curled. Weaving lilac ribbon with one hand, Fowler arranged curls into a seemingly artless jumble with the other. Catheryn readily agreed that the style became her very well and complimented her skill.
Fowler deigned to smile. “Thank you, miss. ’Tis a pleasure. You’ve got lovely hair, I must say.” Catheryn blushed and began to mumble something by way of a thank-you, but Fowler brushed her words aside, commanding her to get into the dress that Mary now held ready. By the time her toilette was comp
leted to Fowler’s satisfaction, Catheryn had decided she liked the dresser very much, and Fowler had begun to address her as Miss Catheryn, a high compliment. Despite Fowler’s lofty position, Catheryn learned quickly that she took her lead from her mistress and was not at all high in the instep, except below stairs, where it was quite naturally expected of her.
Confident that she looked as well as she could, Catheryn picked up the note to Lady Caston and sallied forth to the yellow drawing room where she found the rest of the family gathered to await dinner. The earl was deep in conversation with a strange gentleman who stood with his back to the fire, while Lady Dambroke and Tiffany occupied the sofa and gilt chair respectively. It was evidently the first time Tiffany had encountered Dambroke since their confrontation, for she was looking rather sullen. Nonetheless, she jumped up and went quickly to meet Catheryn who, surprised by the presence of another guest, had hesitated in the doorway.
“How pretty!” the younger girl exclaimed, effectively interrupting the gentlemen’s conversation. “Fowler has worked a miracle indeed! Mama, do but see how nice Catheryn looks.”
With a bemused smile, Catheryn allowed herself to be nearly dragged across the room, albeit wondering what possessed her sophisticated cousin to behave in such a manner. Tiffany’s hand trembling in hers gave her the necessary clue. Clearly a case of nerves, she thought, as they approached the countess.
Lady Dambroke spoke in a more placid manner. “You look charmingly, my dear. Is that your note to Lady Caston? Just give it to Dambroke and he will frank it for you. Oh, first let me make you known to Lord Thomas Colby. Dambroke’s cousin, Miss Westering from Somerset, my lord. Lord Thomas is a friend of Dambroke’s, Catheryn, and has agreed to take potluck with us.” Miss Westering and Lord Thomas bowed and murmured appropriate commonplaces. Catheryn gave Dambroke her note.
