Lenora’s heart ached, and yet she was aware that Catherine was trusting her with something important. She considered reaching out and placing her hand on Catherine’s arm, but it seemed too intimate. What if it broke this moment growing between them? “I’m very sorry those women said such horrible things about your mother, Catherine. It was wrong of them.”
Catherine drew her arm closer, so both her elbows rested on the table, her chin on her overlapping hands. She met Lenora’s eyes; whatever openness that had been there was now opaque, but not closed completely. “It is not wrong of them if it is true.”
“Cruelty is wrong whether there is any truth in it or not, and they were cruel to say such things.” She paused. She was not used to being a confidante or giving advice on important matters. What those women had said had seeped into this girl’s belief about herself, and Lenora felt the need to say something that might reverse the recriminations. “Beyond that, you are the person who will define your character, Catherine. Not your mother or these mean-spirited women.”
Catherine blinked at her, and then said softly, as though afraid of someone overhearing. “What if I am just like her?”
Another melting sensation in Lenora’s chest caused her to finally reach out her hand and place it on Catherine’s arm. “That is impossible. Every soul is its own, and though we may share attributes with others—especially blood relatives—we are our own selves. God made you who you are, Catherine, and you are unique unto yourself and capable of defining your own measure in this world.”
Catherine turned her head so she was laying on one ear and looking out the window. The movement also meant she laid her head on Lenora’s hand. With a quick prayer for continued success, Lenora extracted her hand slowly and smoothed Catherine’s hair. She was prepared for Catherine to sit up at any moment, throw off her touch, and make some horrid accusation, but she stared at the window for several seconds instead, doing nothing to stop Lenora’s tender attentions.
When she spoke, it was in that same whisper, as if telling a secret. “But I’m so bad.”
Lenora stilled her hand on Catherine’s curls, then gently took hold of her chin and turned the girl’s face so she could meet her eye. “You are not bad.”
“Yes, I am. It is why Aunt Elizabeth and Mrs. Asher got rid of me. It is why I can’t go to school anymore and why everyone hates me.”
“I do not hate you. Aunt Gwen does not hate you.” She paused before finishing. “Your uncle and Miss Keighly do not hate you.”
Catherine looked doubtful and so very young and insecure. Lenora removed her hand and mirrored Catherine’s position, arms crossed on the desk and her chin on her hands. It put them at eye level across the desk. “Do you know that after Aunt Gwen met you for the first time on the promenade, she said, ‘That girl is delightful.’ I have to admit I was surprised. I had had nothing but trouble from you.” Catherine narrowed her eyes, but Lenora pushed on. “You know that to be true, Catherine, so let us speak as friends.”
Catherine nodded as much as she could with her head on her arms, but her defensiveness did not disappear completely.
Lenora chose her words carefully. “Do you know that in the weeks since, I have come to agree with my aunt. Not to say that you and I don’t have our troubles and that there aren’t times when I want to box your ears, but you are a remarkable girl in many ways.”
“Because I can play the pianoforte.” She said it as a fact, with a bored tone that Lenora completely understood.
Lenora was often complimented for her musical ability, for which she was grateful, but not without noticing that it was only thing she was complimented on. Where her sisters would be complimented on this talent, or that ability, or an accomplishment or clever comment, Lenora only had her music. The result of such singular praise made her sometimes feel as though her abilities were her very identity, that no one saw anything more than her skill.
Perhaps Catherine felt as Lenora did—that the only thing anyone admired in her was her ability to play. Such a belief could make someone feel very small and very scared that if something should happen to that trait, she would find herself without any worth at all. Lenora had once jammed her finger in the door and been unable to play for two weeks; it had felt as though part of herself had disappeared.
“Your skill at the pianoforte is exceptional, but that is not what makes you remarkable. What makes you remarkable is the way you can brighten an entire room when you are of a mind to do so. The way you make Aunt Gwen smile. The way you converse so easily with adults—most girls your age cannot do that. I have seen you act in the role of a leader to other girls your age and show amazing dedication to a topic when it interests you. You have a keen mind and . . .”
Catherine’s scowl caused Lenora to trail off. “I cannot even read. A teacher at my last school called me an idiot with a pretty face and a too-sharp tongue. Miss Keighly told me yesterday that I was not fit for proper company.”
Lenora winced, angry with all these adults who had been cruel to this child. “I agree on the pretty face and sharp tongue, but not on your being an idiot. You are working harder than most girls would or could, and you are learning.” Lenora believed what she said, though she still had concerns.
Catherine struggled with basic words and continued mixing up the order of letters, often without realizing it unless Lenora pointed it out. She would make the same mistakes over and over again, as though she could not remember the correction, and yet she remembered enough to be frustrated. With herself, mostly, though she was proficient at turning that frustration on others.
“Lack of one ability does not minimize the others you possess. You make friends easily, and you . . . understand people. Too much sometimes.”
Catherine managed a smile at that.
“Do you know what I think?” Lenora said in a conspiratorial whisper of her own. “I think there is so much going on in that amazing mind of yours that it left out reading to make room. I think that because circumstances were hard for you when you were young, you developed some habits. Some good—like reading peoples’ gestures to determine their thoughts and expectations—and some bad—like knowing how to upset people and take control of a situation if things are not working in your favor.
“The challenge for all of us, myself included, is to use our strengths as a way of overcoming our weaknesses. To be able to look back from every place we find ourselves in life and see that we are better now than we were before. I look at the Catherine of today and the Catherine of two weeks ago and see improvement. Because of that, I can only imagine what I shall see in a few months’ time.” No sooner had she said it then she wished she could take it back. Her two-week trial was over this Friday, and though she had not made a plan, it seemed she’d just committed herself to another two weeks at least.
Catherine held her eyes, and Lenora sensed she was weighing what Lenora had said and trying to decide if she could trust it. This was something else they had in common—neither of them trusted easily but had learned to read the people around them and act in a way that protected them. For Lenora, she kept herself apart. For Catherine, she drew attention away from whatever made her uncomfortable. Two remedies for the same problem—fear of being rejected by the people around them.
“I’m sorry I wrote that letter to Mrs. Henry,” Catherine said, surprising Lenora yet again. “Or rather, forced the maid to write it. I am sorry you had to leave the school.” Catherine had never apologized to Lenora for the letter that had changed everything, and yet, not changed anything, really. Mr. Asher had been engaged all along, letter or no letter, which meant Lenora’s heart would have been broken one way or another.
Lenora managed a smile, though it was not entirely genuine due to the reminder of how painful it had all been, and still was. “I forgive you, Catherine. Thank you for the apology.” She sat back up and busied herself with the primer, then thought of something and looked at Ca
therine. “How did you know we would be at the river that night?”
There was a glint in Catherine’s eye, an involuntary display of the pleasure she found in mischief. “I can tell what people are saying even if I cannot hear them.”
Lenora furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”
“A person’s lips move to form words,” Catherine explained. “When we came to dinner, you left to show those old people to the door, and when you came back, Uncle Aiden talked to you about going to the river. You told him no, but then when we were leaving, you nodded at him and he smiled back.”
“That’s remarkable,” Lenora said, careful to keep any judgment from her voice. “But that does not explain how you knew we were there three weeks later.”
Catherine just smiled, lifted her head, and pulled the slate back to herself, the familiar arrogance back in her demeanor. She picked up her chalk pencil. “O-U makes an ‘oh’ sound and an ‘oo’ sound and an ‘ow’ sound. Which sound shall we start with today, Miss Wilton?”
Lenora gave in, certain she would get nothing more from Catherine, but grateful for the insight she’d gained today. It was a welcome mercy. “Let us start with the ‘ow’ sound this time. Our, out, about, thou, shout . . .”
Aiden attended Miss Keighly to the Pump Room Monday morning, grateful when she ran into an acquaintance who was staying in Bath for the winter. After a polite amount of time, he excused himself from their company, claiming correspondence he needed to address. Miss Keighly frowned, but agreed when her friend expressed how lovely it would be to spend the morning together.
Aiden hoped that her friend was excessively lonely and would seek as much of Miss Keighly’s attention as possible. He did have a great deal of correspondence to attend to, as well as the continued study of several documents regarding the estate.
He had been communicating with the family’s solicitor, the estate steward, and any number of professionals engaged in past management. There was much to learn, but he was dedicated and determined to do his best. Catherine would inherit the entire estate one day, and he wanted the transition to be as smooth as possible. Within the next few weeks, he would need to visit Cheshire; there was only so much he could learn from a distance. He had hoped that Catherine would be established enough that his leaving for a fortnight would be possible, but he was not sure whether or not that was a viable plan now. It seemed a terrible imposition to ask Mrs. Simmons to take the girl for weekends too after she was already doing him such a favor. Perhaps he could put the estate visit off until the Christmas holiday when Catherine could come with him—Lenora’s tutoring kept the same calendar as Mrs. Henry’s school.
Miss Keighly sent around a note later that afternoon inviting him to escort her to dinner, and he steeled himself as he chose his evening dress for the occasion. He needed to learn to enjoy her company. The rest of his life would be miserable if he did not, but then, if Mrs. Simmons’s plan was successful, perhaps he still had an alternative.
As he buttoned up his waistcoat—the plain black silk Miss Keighly had suggested—he paused and began undoing the buttons instead. Miss Keighly was excessively attentive to etiquette, which dictated that a gentleman was to wear a plain waistcoat, preferably white or black, for formal dinners. Only the eccentric and the dandies would wear a colored or patterned garment, which sent Aiden to his wardrobe, where he fingered through the half dozen waistcoats he owned. That his own tastes were rather simple irritated him slightly; he did not own anything that would be considered boisterous. But he did have a silver waistcoat with purple birds sewed into the pattern. It would have to do. Mrs. Simmons was doing her part—though he was unsure what exactly her plan was—the least he could do was play his part. Even if he ended up marrying Miss Keighly—something he dared not hope for or against anymore—he would not allow her to dictate his clothing choices.
Miss Keighly’s eyes were drawn immediately to his waistcoat as soon as he entered the foyer of the White Hart. She scowled sharply, and as soon as they were seated in the dining room, she remarked on his choice. “Did I not specify that you wear a black waistcoat?”
“Do you not like this one?” Aiden said, straightening his back as though to help her get a better view.
“No, actually, I do not. It does not suit you. It makes you look, at best, to be a man who shrugs off societal expectations, and at worst, a rake.”
He had to smile at the distaste in her tone. “A rake? Truly?” Lenora had accused him of the same, but he’d found no humor in it then.
Miss Keighly’s mood did not lighten. She scowled and took a sip of her wine. When she lowered the glass, her expression had recovered. “I would like to discuss the plantation in Jamaica. Please do remind me of the acreage, tenants, and crops.”
Aiden was relieved. This was a topic he quite enjoyed, and they spent the rest of the evening discussing the details of the plantation, which was his sole holding. He hoped to purchase something in England before Catherine inherited the Cheshire estate once she either married or turned twenty-nine years of age. He couldn’t help but admire Miss Keighly’s interest and questions, but he also couldn’t help but wonder if Lenora would be equally interested.
Wednesday was the night of the opera, and Aiden’s heart was in his throat. Catherine had attended the opera with him during a trip to London before and proclaimed it the most boring evening of her life. She’d kept tapping her feet and sighing loudly, distracting the people around them. When intermission came, she darted through the crowd, and it took him ten full minutes before he found her in the coffee room with a plate of biscuits and a cup of tea, quite at her leisure, sitting on a chair that did not allow her feet to touch the ground.
They had left rather than staying for the second half, and Catherine had been quite pleased with the change of plans. Aiden knew Mrs. Simmons was expecting Catherine’s bad behavior to be on display in hopes it would cause Miss Keighly to reconsider their arrangement. He was hopeful the goal would be reached, but anxious about the discomfort ahead. He also worried about the lack of consistency for Catherine. It felt wrong to encourage disobedience when they had worked so hard to improve her behavior, which meant he would have to discourage it while secretly hoping she would misbehave enough to put Miss Keighly off. He hated the complexity, but if Miss Keighly broke the engagement, he could have another chance with Lenora.
He shook his head as he tied his own cravat—he’d become self-sufficient during his time in Jamaica, where it was difficult to find a decent valet. He wondered for the hundredth time why Lenora was so invigorating to him. He knew little of her family or childhood, her politics, or her preferences in literature. That he liked everything he did know about her was the biggest attraction, and yet that there was more to her than the traditional gentlewoman was also appealing. When they were together, the air became rich, and his senses were keen.
He had chosen Miss Keighly months ago because she was everything he’d come to expect in a gentlewoman, and she had been accepting of his situation. He wanted Lenora, however, because there was more to her than met the eye, and he longed to discover what lay beneath. He smoothed his cravat and thought only of the evening ahead—he must not get distracted. As long as Miss Keighly was engaged to him, Lenora was out of reach.
He had rented a carriage for the evening, though most of the patrons would walk, and drew up in front of Mrs. Simmons’s terrace house to collect Catherine. Jacobson let him in, and he waited in the entryway.
When Catherine descended the stairs with Mrs. Simmons, he couldn’t help but grin. Catherine fairly glowed with confidence, and in the moment, she was not a twelve-year-old girl who drove the adults around her mad, but rather she was a young lady on the brink of womanhood. Her hair was curled about her face and pinned up in the back, complete with Mrs. Simmons’s promised ostrich feathers. The blue velvet of her dress was lovely, and silver slippers peeked out from the hem as she walked.
Whe
n she reached the bottom of the stairs, Aiden put one hand behind his back and the other across his waist before bowing deeply. “Might I be the lucky man to have the honor of escorting you to tonight’s performance, Miss Manch? You are an absolute vision.”
Catherine giggled, then immediately put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Mrs. Simmons and Aiden exchanged a look before both of them burst out laughing. Catherine never giggled.
“Stop funning me,” Catherine said as she put both hands on her hips—a much more familiar reaction.
“Yes, m’lady,” Aiden said, pinching his lips together and winking at Mrs. Simmons, who showed equal difficulty in hiding her own mirth. Jacobson helped Catherine don a fur-lined cloak while Aiden glanced up the stairs, wishing Lenora had come to see them off. When he looked away, he caught Mrs. Simmons watching him with a sympathetic smile. He turned his attention to Catherine and put out his arm. Catherine took it as though she were the very lady he hoped to raise her into one day. “I shall return her after the performance, Mrs. Simmons.”
“I shall wait up so that I might hear all about it.” She walked them to the door and gave Catherine a quick kiss on the forehead. Catherine attempted to pull away, but the smile on her face showed that she was pleased by the attention.
“You really do look lovely, Catherine,” Aiden said as they walked down the steps toward the carriage where Miss Keighly waited.
“Thank you, Uncle Aiden.” She sounded almost shy about the compliment, and Aiden filed away the reaction. Perhaps he should find more reasons to compliment her in the future.
He handed her into the carriage and then sat beside her, across from Miss Keighly, who smiled at Catherine. “Good evening, Catherine.”
“Good evening, Hazel.”
Miss Wilton's Waltz Page 20
