When matters had become clear to her after the reading of her father’s will, their uncle’s grand suggestion had been to split the children up amongst various relatives. This, when they were in the throes of the deepest of grief for their parents. His second suggestion was that Kate marry a dear friend of his who was doddering on the brink of the grave and might just welcome such a luscious armful as Kate. But Kate had managed to resist this tempting offer, as genteel prostitution, though legal, held no interest for her.
As matters now stood, her family was beginning to unravel. Simon and Meg would go along merry as grigs for several more years, but please heaven, let nothing happen to the money needed for Bertie’s schooling. As the heir, he was the only member of the family who was officially Church of England, as was traditional in the family, to allow him to take his seat in the House of Lords one day. It was imperative for his own good that he attend Harrow, then Cambridge. It was Kate’s and Lady Alice’s intention that he have every advantage, not to mention that he learn the social niceties necessary to keep him on the straight and narrow.
The young boy, outwardly steady and calm, nevertheless occasionally showed signs of the wild blood of the family. Without the proper education among his peers, with no guiding male hand, Kate was worried her brother would kick over the traces and run away to take the King’s shilling or some such thing. Yes, they all needed a steady influence, something to look forward to, something which would help them out of this shabby poverty. If highway robbery of those who could well afford it was making the village in general, and the Thoreaus in particular, wealthy again, not a hair would she turn over the illegality of it.
Kate wound up her internal diatribe of blame, guilt, and self-justification with an utterly sincere promise to God of all manner of saintly behavior as soon as money was less tight, when a sudden burst of screams cut through the open French doors. Her heart in her throat, she hobbled to the terrace overlooking the lawn.
But no vision of spurting blood, severed limbs, or unconscious siblings met her eyes. It was merely the usual altercation between Meg and Simon. Faint with relief, she leaned against the doorway, eyes closed, to regain her composure. Seeing her, hearing her cry of alarm, Caro and Bertie rushed over. Ignoring her protests, they each took an arm and settled her back on the settee. As Caro fussed with the quilt, Bertie went to the desk for the marble-covered novel she’d been reading earlier.
“Is this a good book, then, Katie? May I read it after you’re done?”
“Yes, it’s wonderful,” Kate enthused, then frowned. “And no, you may not read it ever.”
Bertie grinned.
Kate, meekly, and not ungratefully, accepting Caro’s ministrations, didn’t see him flipping through the volumes until it was too late. There was an odd sound in his voice when he turned to her.
“What is this map for, Katie?”
Kate’s eyes flew open. “Ah--it’s for--er--” Inspiration struck and not a moment too soon. “It’s for the pageant. I was planning on having the Roundheads gallop in from the east and the Royalists from the west,” she babbled. The she realized what a magnificent spectacle it would make and sat up, excited. “They could meet on the green and clash, swords flashing in the breeze, tunics of red and blue, gleaming armor--”
Bertie’s eyes glowed. “Oh, yes! And the Cavalier could actually rob a coach! On horseback! With guns and cannon! Wait till I tell Simon.” He threw down the map, but before he reached the doors, Cook announced visitors.
“Mr. Weilmunster, Mr. Dalrymple.” Then she turned and stomped back across the marble floor to the kitchen stairs.
It was all Kate could do to stifle a laugh as the two men entered. Mr. Weilmunster in sober country attire which matched his sober country face, Mr. Dalrymple swathed in rich purple and green, enhancing his reputation as peacock.
Mr. Dalrymple, she perceived instantly, was once again playing off the manners of a fop. He was wearing so many fobs on his watch chain it was a wonder he didn’t tumble over. His parasol he stood open in the corner, the streaming sunlight casting lacy shadows on the worn carpet. The more Adam Weilmunster grew visibly disgusted, the more lispy-wispy Mr. Dalrymple became. Despite the fact that she was still annoyed with his antics the other night, Kate was not proof against the unholy glee in his eyes as he bowed over her hand.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the look of alarm on Bertie’s face as he looked about for an escape, but it was too late. Kate greeted the visitors as they came up to the settee. From behind them she watched as Carolyn made a beeline for the French doors and freedom before their guests saw her. But Kate, wearing a determined smile, caught her arm as she sped past. Caro skidded to a stop, looking pleadingly for deliverance, but her sister was unmoved. If she had to suffer, they all had to suffer. That is, she hastily corrected herself, good manners expected nothing less.
So it was understandable that the visitors were greeted with a trembling smile and a gurgle of laughter, convincing each that he was being welcomed with extra warmth.
After bowing to Kate, assuring her that soon she would be right as a trivet once more, Mr. Weilmunster, who subscribed to the rule that children should be seen and not heard (his whole life, indeed, seemed proscribed by rules), nodded to Caro and seated himself. Bertie he ignored completely. But the look on his future-sister-in-law’s face told him this lapse had been noted. Somewhere down deep inside might be a kernel of kindness, but with little wisdom to go with it, it stayed hidden. He could only sit, watching the easy manners of those born to the purple. Truth be told, he harbored an envy bordering on loathing for these people, with the exception, of course, of his darling Lucy. Saving his lack of birth, about which he could do nothing, he’d settled, instead, on despising the class, taking refuge in piety of the most annoying sort.
This afternoon, gall lashed at his heart at the elegance with which his rival bowed over Lady Katherine's hand. He sensed something, whether it be a look, or a smile, or simply an air about the two of them. Not quite smelling of April and May, but certainly of deep understanding. He soured all the more when Mr. Dalrymple made it a point to greet the young earl with a slight nod and outstretched hand. The look on the youngster’s face was such that Mr. Weilmunster wished he’d thought of doing that. It was no small thing to want to ingratiate himself with the titular head of the family one wanted to marry into.
For that was the great desire of Adam Weilmunster’s life. The moderately fortuned middle class son of middle-class parents who no one would mistake for anything but cits, he wished, wanted, hoped, and dreamed of joining the nobility. His first wife, married so young, had given him neither the wealth, status, or children he so desired. Without the money to buy a title, he had decided to marry into class and had chosen the Thoreaus.
Lucy, had she but known it, was his second choice, despite her gentle nature and her genuine affection for him. Kate had been the first, but even a parvenu like Adam Weilmunster knew such a creature was above his touch by more than birth. If he could have gotten away with it he would have married Lady Alice, since he was reasonably certain she had monies of her own and no inconvenient guardian to hinder his spending it. But someday, someday soon he’d have his own fortune. In fact, plans were now afoot with a scheme he had no doubt would bring him as much money as even he craved and a titled wife to boot, if he could only stay alive to enjoy it.
Despite her lingering aches and pains, Kate was enjoying herself hugely. Really, it was as good as a play to watch to the two men stalk about each other like a pair of fighting cocks. With any luck, they would break into a fight and she could have them both arrested for dueling. The thought of the two men squashed together in the roundhouse caused her to beam with delight. Only the courtesy with which Mr. Dalrymple had greeted her brother, his chest stilled puffed up with manly pride, gave her pause. An unexpected burst of emotion caused a lump in her throat. More than ever, it gave her new impetus to gather the money needed for his future. For a brief moment, she actually co
nsidered marrying so to provide her siblings with a father, but the silent antics of the two men sitting on either side of the room, each pointedly ignoring the other, made her wisely rethink.
“Enchanted to see you again, Lady Katherine,” Mr. Dalrymple began, flashing an embroidered handkerchief. Bertie and Caro exchanged significant glances, but contented themselves with swiveling their heads from one to the other, rather like a match of battledore and shuttlecock.
“How very much I’ve missed partnering you at Almack’s.” Had he but known, it would have gladdened Edmund considerably to think of the soul-burnings this mendacious speech had on Mr. Weilmunster. “Such a bore the Season has been without you, naughty girl.”
“Our Lady Katherine, Kate, if I may,” bristled Mr. Weilmunster, “Is quite a beloved figure in our small society.”
“All of London has missed your beauty and wit--”
“All of Oaksley revolves about her womanly attributes and kindness--”
“--remember the time the Prince of Wales--”
“--care for those less fortunate!”
The two stopped, glared at each other, then turned back to begin again. Edmund picked up his parasol, twisting the handle so that it twirled slowly over his head, casting lacy patterns of light and shadow on his person.
“May I offer you refreshment, gentlemen?” Kate put in, mindful of her duties as hostess. She reached for the bell pull, only to be interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of two children quarreling. The French doors were pushed violently aside as Meg and Simon ran in and skidded to a halt in front of Kate.
“Katie, Katie,” shouted Simon, “Meg says I don’t do the somersault right, but I do, I do!” So saying, he took a deep breath and hurled himself to the floor, rolling from side to side.
“No, he doesn’t! Not like at Astley’s!” Meg made a good start, getting down on her knees, but somehow she ended up leaning on one shoulder with her legs flailing about in an excess of ruffled pantalettes.
Mr. Weilmunster rose, his face a mask of irritation. “These children are quite out of control,” he pronounced. “Let to run wild in this way can lead only to wildness and immorality.”
The deafening silence which greeted his remark gave him the hint that he had erred. The Thoreaus glared at him to a man. Only Mr. Dalrymple, anxiously inspecting his cravat in a mirror, appeared unmoved.
Kate took a deep breath and wondered once more what Lucy saw in this repellent swine. He was being more obnoxious that usual today.
“She’s a little girl, Mr. Weilmunster. But I do always insist that Lucy and Carolyn wear breeches whenever they turn cartwheels," Kate said, smiling, though her eyes were narrowed in fury.
Mr. Weilmunster’s thin chest swelled with indignation. “Never will you cause me to believe that such paragon of womanly virtues has ever done such an indecent thing in her blameless--” he glared at Kate, as though to make sure she knew on whose shoulders rested that blame, “--pure, and pious existence!”
Kate decided it was time to throw the cat amongst the pigeons. With one deliberately raised eyebrow, she glanced out the open doors. Mr. Weilmunster followed her gaze. The look on his face was one of such dismayed shock that Kate almost—almost--had a moment of pity for him. But this was swiftly banished when he stalked to the door.
For there, out on the lawn, was his pure and pious chosen lady showing excellent form as she leapfrogged a lichen-covered gargoyle. Her breeches were clearly visible under her skirts.
“Lucy, I must have a word with you!”
The four in the salon watched, appalled. Caro opened her mouth as if to say something, but Kate shook her head. Let Adam Weilmunster hang himself with his own rope.
Lucy obeyed her swain’s request. She paused in the doorway, face pink, her hair every which way. Kate thought her sister had never looked prettier.
As much as he knew he was digging his own grave, that part of Mr. Weilmunster’s brain which overrode the common sense God gave a goose, spoke. In truth, he was more angry at Lady Katherine, for the prank she’d played on him at the assembly, making him look like an idiot in front of most of the village.
“Never have I been witness to such shocking behavior in one who should be genteel. Your behavior violates several of the Seven Deadly Sins--”
Far from protesting at his words, Lucy hung her head meekly. Kate almost broke her silence, but a look from Mr. Dalrymple kept her quiet.
Mr. Dalrymple took out a jewel-encrusted quizzing glass and leveled it at the two in the doorway. “I would be most interested to know, precisely, which one she is violating.” He yawned languorously, then ruined the effect by winking at Bertie.
Mr. Weilmunster sputtered. “Well, sirrah, the sin of--of lust!”
Mr. Dalrymple examined him through his glass, his eye hideously enlarged. “Surely, dear fellow, that fault would be yours alone.”
His championship and comment were so unexpected that Kate and Caro exploded in a flurry of giggles, hastily suppressed.
Mr. Weilmunster, knowing he was being bested, but unable to stop talking, was so upset that flecks of spittle flew from his mouth. It was an unappetizing sight indeed.
“Never have I met a family so lost to all the propriety which society holds dear. Common decency alone--”
“The Thoreaus have aspired to be common.”
Mr. Dalrymple turned his quizzing glass on Bertie, who stood, trembling with anger mingled shock at so addressing an elder.
“Oh, well done, my lad.”
Bertie seemed to grow several inches. He continued firmly, “I must ask you sir, to refrain from speaking to or about my sisters in such a way.”
With every fiber of his being, Adam Weilmunster tried to prevent his next words, but to no avail.
“You impudent puppy! How dare you speak to one of higher moral, if not social, caste than anyone in this family?”
“Fine moral speaking!” returned Kate, unable to control her tongue any longer.
Bertie, white as his well-worn shirt, trembled at this over-the-top display. “Sir, I would ask you to leave this house.”
Mr. Weilmunster, dignified too late, folded his lips together. He looked to Lucy in mute appeal, but she seemed frozen, staring at him with wide eyes. He turned to Mr. Dalrymple, “Surely you, as a man of the world, must agree with me that such goings on cannot be tolerated, especially in those of our fair sex. That such rambunctious play is utterly wrong for one of our first families.”
“I certainly agree with you on that point,” conceded Mr. Dalrymple. He snapped his quizzing glass shut. “The quality of gymnastics it has been my misfortune to observe this afternoon is appalling.” He fixed Kate with a stern look. “The children must of course be taught correctly.”
So saying, he handed his jacket to Meg, his parasol to Simon, and turned a perfect somersault on the worn Aubusson carpet.
“Now,” he shook out his ruffled shirt sleeves. “Those whose sister has shamefully neglected their circus training may follow me to the lawn and learn correct cartwheel technique. Those who have been asked to leave this house by the master,” he nodded to Bertie, “would be wise to do so.”
All glances swiveled to Lucy, who looked as though she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. So she did neither. Recovering swiftly, she cleared her throat, put her hand on Mr. Weilmunster’s arm, and led him to the marble foyer. If he’d actually had a chin, now would have been the time to thrust it into the air. There was a brief exchange of murmurs, than the distinct sound of a door being shut with exquisite care. Lucy passed by the arched doorway to the drawing room and ran up the stairs, a muffled sob in her wake. Lucy, the sweetest of sisters, was broken-hearted over that maworm of a Weilmunster.
As much as Kate longed to join the others on the lawn, where Mr. Dalrymple was indeed turning admirable cartwheels, she nevertheless made her way painfully up to Lucy’s room. Outside the closed door, she paused. Wishing to heaven that their aunt, who always seemed to know the precise words to all
eviate hurt or soothe ruffled feathers would magically appear, she took a deep breath and knocked on her sister’s door. There was no reply, so she turned the knob, opening it slightly.
“Lu? May I come in?” There was still no answer. Kate pushed the door open and peeked in. Lucy was sitting in the window seat staring unseeing out the window. In the distance bright splashes of yellow, gold, bronze and scarlet made the autumn landscape stunningly beautiful.
Quietly, Kate went to stand by her sister. The deep red curls, so unlike her own stick-straight, orangey mop, shone like the maple tree outside in the autumn sunlight. Without any idea what to say, she raised her hand, stroking Lucy’s hair as her mother had comforted her when she’d cried.
Lucy sat stiff and silent. Then, with a sudden, wrenching sob, she turned to Kate.
“How could you do that to me? To him? It's all your fault.”
Kate, stunned by the attack, was momentarily at a loss for words.
“My fault?” Innocent for once, she stood, open-mouthed, as her sweet sister gave her a tongue lashing like she’d never had before.
“Yes, your fault!” Tears of anger continued to roll down Lucy's face. “He’s never this way unless you’re around. You bring out all that is worst in him, egging him on to say such horrible things.”
Hot with anger, Kate gave back as good as she got.
“I couldn’t bring out the worst in him if there was no worst to be found. And furthermore, how can you stand there and defend him after he said such things about your family? And not for the first time, I might add.”
“You just don’t understand.”
“No, I certainly don’t,” Kate snapped.
“Adam is wise and knowing, and he truly wants only the best for those around him --”
“Is that why he continues to criticize you, me, your brothers and sisters? Why he has so little sense of the rudiments of courtesy to trample on their feelings and dictate their behavior?”
“He’s actually quite kind --”
The Prince in the Tower Page 3
