Just as Thomas had convinced himself that he was chasing his own tail, there was some movement across the graveyard. He peered out to see that carriages were drawing up outside the church and mourners were beginning to gather.
There suddenly seemed to be an awful lot of people making their way through the graveyard to the Ambrose family plot. There were certainly more mourners than a man of such foul manners and character would deserve, that was for certain. Still, like the funerals of many a titled man, most in attendance were there out of a mixture of societal duty and curiosity. Maybe that would one day be his own fate, for he would undoubtedly be buried a Duke, barring any further tragedies in the Carlton family.
Would his own graveside one day be lined with the curious? The dutiful?
At that moment, he saw her. She was wearing black but had chosen not to wear a severe black veil to cover her face, and for that he was grateful.
Thomas leaned forward, leaves brushing the sleeve of his coat as he tried to get closer as if a few inches would make his view of Catherine so much clearer.
As far as Thomas could see, Catherine was as youthful and beautiful as she had been on that last, wonderful, terrible night; the night that had haunted him every day since he had scuttled away through the semi-darkness from the Barford estate before anyone else could see him.
Her brown hair looked smooth, and it shone in the sunshine. He could just make out the almond shape of her eyes; the eyes he would never forget as long as he lived.
Thomas fought an urge to stride out across the graveyard to be at her side. How many times he had thought of their reunion, an affair imagined in his head to be so romantic and full of joy. It had never occurred to him that the next time he saw her would be at a funeral to which he would not be welcome.
Thomas felt his heart lurch as she saw her link her arm through that of a tall, slender man. The very thing he dreaded was to see her at the graveside on the arm of her husband. But he quickly realized that the man was none other than Philip Ambrose, the new Earl of Barford.
He was right, Catherine had come to support her brother on that day. It was doubtful, even though he had not spoken to her for so long, that she would truly be there to mourn her father.
Almost feverishly, Thomas scoured the mourners looking for someone he did not recognize. It was a lengthy task, but he was most intent. There were no men around her at the side of the grave whom Thomas did not recognize and, after several minutes of squinting into the crowd, he was sure he knew the rest of them by sight if not by name.
Of course, that did not mean that Catherine was not married. She might well have a husband who could not or would not attend. Still, he hoped that idea was as unlikely as it seemed.
Thomas could not make out the Reverend’s words exactly, catching just snippets of phrases in the common liturgical tones of most holy men. He could not take his eyes off Catherine, wishing he could see her more clearly. He could see her beautiful face, but not well enough to make out her expression. He had no way to read her feelings at that moment.
He wanted to read her, to know what was going on inside her head and heart. It was all he had to support her with, even if his support would, by necessity, be unknown and anonymous.
As he stood in the cover of the trees, Thomas wondered what they would say to each other if they had that moment to themselves. Would he tell her how relieved he was to see no husband at her side? Would she smile and reach for him, evaporating the last eight years as if the two of them had never been apart?
He imagined her touch and found that it was not difficult to do. Thomas had paid no heed to any other woman since Catherine had left, despite the fact he was engaged to be married to Lady Eleanor Barchester, daughter of the Earl of Winsford.
He had only agreed to the engagement after years of grinding down by his father. Within days of Pierce being buried, the Duke had fully turned his attention upon Thomas, keen to groom him for his role as the heir to the Duchy. For the Duke of Shawcross, there had been no period of mourning his first-born son. He had barely missed a step from one day to the next, barking instructions at Thomas as if he had always been the heir and not the spare.
With Pierce gone, and the tremendous weight of guilt on his shoulders, Thomas had found every day torturous. And the idea that he would never find Catherine after his failed attempt in Derbyshire had stripped him of all hopes of a happy or even vaguely contented life.
He had quietly railed against his father, never truly arguing with him, but making no attempt to search for the bride his father had been insisting upon for so many years.
Thomas was perpetually reminded of his duty to marry a woman of good blood and to sire an heir for the next generation. It was almost pathological, his father’s desperation to project his seed and family name into a distant future he himself would never see.
For himself, Thomas could not have cared less. Whilst he had taken on the duties of the heir, he had only done so in some sort of morbid respect to his brother. In no time at all, Thomas realized the weight of constant pressure and lack of self that his brother must have felt for all those years, and it made him feel guiltier than ever.
Although Thomas had always been blessed with more than his fair share of intelligence, he wondered at how easily he had ignored everything Pierce had had to endure over the years. What a strain it must have been for him to suffer his father’s constant attention and boorish instructions on every move he made.
It was simpler for Thomas in many respects because he cared little for his father’s opinion of him, unlike poor Pierce to whom it had always been so important. Or important up until the moment he had betrayed his brother and realized his father’s good opinion could never, ever be won.
But still, it had been far from easy. Thomas was making ready for a role he did not want and a title he cared nothing for. But the fact was that there was nothing else for him to do but succumb to it all. There was nowhere else for him to go, and if he wanted a living at all, he would just have to grit his teeth and bear it.
And gritting his teeth had been exactly what he had been doing ever since he had finally given in to his father and agreed to court Lady Eleanor Barchester. He had little interest in her and had easily seen her for exactly what she was; a title hunter. A young lady who would be a Duchess if she had anything to say about it.
She was confident without being particularly intelligent or talented, and only beautiful if overdone costumes and characterless features were your want in life. To Thomas, she was a symbol of his lack of autonomy in the world.
And now, perhaps, she had become something else. As Thomas’ mind raced with possibilities, wild notions of real meetings with the woman he still loved more than life itself, perhaps Lady Eleanor Barchester would be an obstacle to his happiness; an inconvenience of the highest order.
The change in the Reverend’s tone caught Thomas’ attention and drew him back into the present moment. The service was drawing to its conclusion, and the mourners were moving just a little.
Philip Ambrose threw a handful of dirt onto the coffin, as was traditional. Catherine, however, had clearly chosen not to participate in any way and stood stoically with her hands at her side.
“Good for you, my love,” Thomas said under his breath and smiled.
She was still strong; she was still his Catherine.
Thomas had moved just a little in a bid to get just one inch closer to her. The movement, however, caught the eye of one of the mourners; Catherine.
She looked up sharply, seeming so strange as the rest of the congregation stared down into the grave. She was the one difference, the only person who stood out. She had broken the coherence of the group, but he was the only one who could see it.
Thomas dared not move a muscle, but she continued to stare over, her gaze unbroken.
At that moment, Thomas knew that she had seen him. Even if it had been for just the briefest moment, he was certain that she knew it was him.
Chapter 18
It had been a relief for Catherine to get away from the so-called mourners and back to Barford Hall. She had not imagined for a moment ever seeing that place as a refuge again, but now, less than a day after she had arrived from Derbyshire, she did.
When she first arrived from Derbyshire, her carriage drawing up outside the front of the hall, Catherine had felt a familiar old sense of doom settle around her like a cloak. It was so familiar, in fact, that she realized she must have lived her whole life there with that very feeling down in the pit of her belly.
She peered out of the window at the gleaming stone front and was strangely amazed by the sheer size of the hall. How vast and unwelcoming it looked to a person who had spent the last eight years within the welcoming walls of Ivy Manor.
Catherine stared up at the windows, too many to count, and wondered if anybody peered back out at her from within.
“Allow me, My Lady.” The driver had opened her door and was ready to help her down.
“Thank you,” she said meekly and felt a little shudder at the formal address.
She had been only Catherine in her home in Derbyshire, never Lady Catherine. Sometimes Miss with the servants, but never, ever My Lady. She had not wanted it, and Celia and Charles Topwell had seemed relieved by that. Theirs was a small establishment, and their comfortable and warm staff would have felt awkward and much less confident.
And for Catherine, it had been such a wonderful break with tradition. She had never realized how very isolating a title could be until she no longer used one and found herself in such warm and constant company.
Catherine stepped down with the help of the driver and stood on the gravel apron just staring at the great wooden door. She felt lost as if she did not belong there, and she did not. Her legs would not propel her forward to take her to the stone steps leading up to the door. She was a guest, a stranger, not family.
Worse still, despite knowing her father to be dead, she could hardly trust it and imagined him flying at her, his colour high and countenance furious as he demanded to know what she thought she was doing there.
“Catherine?” came a familiar voice behind her.
Catherine shrieked and spun around, fully expecting to see the angry-faced father of her imaginings bearing down upon her.
Of course, he did not, and she gave a great embarrassed sigh of relief to see Philip standing there.
“I am so sorry, Catherine. You are a little earlier than I expected, and I fear I was not inside the house ready to receive you.”He turned and looked back towards the stables from where he had just come. “I am just returned from town. Forgive me.” He smiled at her, but she could see a little unease in it.
Philip looked as cautious as she felt, and she knew he was waiting for some cue from her. She felt like a child again and looked at him as she always had. As if they were in trouble of some kind and silently awaiting the physical manifestation of their father’s wrath together.
“He really is dead, is he not?” Catherine asked and then smiled as she realized how ridiculous her question was.
“Yes,” Philip said and slowly began to grin. “Would you care to see him? He is laid out in the library of all places.”
“Good Lord, no!” Catherine said and raised a hand to her mouth as Philip laughed.
“How wonderful it is to see you,” he said and advanced upon her with his arms outstretched and all signs of awkwardness gone.
The moment she was in his embrace, Catherine relaxed entirely. She had missed Philip more than she could ever say, and as suddenly as she had relaxed, she was in floods of tears.
“I know. I know,” he whispered and turned her towards the front of the hall before quickly turning back to the driver. “My man will be down in a moment to take Lady Catherine’s things.”
“Very good, Lord Barford,” the man said, and Catherine bristled a little.
Philip had simply been Lord Ambrose when she had last been home, and it seemed so strange now to hear him addressed with what was her father’s title.
“Of course. Lord Barford,” she said and was glad of a distraction from her tears.
“It will take a good deal of getting used to,” he said and gently took her arm to lead her into the hall. “We shall go into the drawing room, and I will send for some tea and sandwiches; what do you say?”
“Thank you. I am so tired suddenly.”
They walked in comfortable silence all the way in, stopping only so that Philip might help her out of her cloak and bonnet on the way. The drawing room when she entered had clearly not changed at all in all the years she had been away.
The same dark green and red prevailed to make it the most unsettling space. It was all too severe, too dark, and the determinedly masculine decoration made the immense room seem very much smaller than it really was.
Tea was finally served to them by a maid she recognized but whose name she could not remember. The woman looked at her with shy warmth, and Catherine, now more used to servants who were not terrified of their own shadows, smiled broadly.
Only a day later, and Catherine could hardly remember what she and her brother had talked about in that first meeting of theirs. She had been a tumult of emotions on the inside and had only a vague recollection that she had told him of Celia and Charles’ kindness to her over the years.
Being truly exhausted, Catherine had finally begged to be released so that she might sleep. Philip, as understanding and sweet as he had always been, helped her up the stairs and told her that she need not force herself to come down to dinner. She was to rest well, and some food would be sent up to her chamber later.
Catherine had awoken the next morning with a sense of relief. It was as if she had survived her first night back at Barford Hall and so could trust that the man who had made her so very unhappy really was in his coffin in the library, awaiting his own burial.
She knew it was a little irreverent to allow such positive feelings on the day she was to attend her own father’s funeral, but she was determined not to let guilt and shame permeate her life any more than it had done already. Catherine had truly had enough of such emotions and was fully intent upon burying them alongside the old Earl of Barford that day.
The funeral had been everything she was expecting, or almost, at any rate. The mourners had neither surprised nor disappointed her with their eager attendance, and only the curious appearance of Thomas in the trees on the other side of the graveyard had made the event suddenly unusual.
Catherine had entertained the feeling of being watched throughout the service but, seeing nothing in the distance, she tried to dismiss it. But when Philip had leaned in to throw the customary handful of earth on her father’s coffin, she had seen a movement over by the trees and recognized Thomas immediately.
She knew she had not exactly recognized him by sight for he was well hidden. But she had seen enough movement to know it was him; she recognized his size and shape, not to mention the fact that she was certain she could actually feel his presence.
For the remainder of the funeral, she had maintained her study of the trees, knowing he was in there somewhere and desperate to catch a real glimpse of him. Her heart was pounding, and her mouth was dry, almost as if they were truly about to be in one another’s company for the first time in years.
All the way from Derbyshire, Catherine had both hoped and feared seeing him again. He had never left her thoughts, especially since Henry reminded her of him daily. Henry’s red-brown hair was the exact shade of his father’s, and his eyes were an identical pale blue, so identical that one could be forgiven for thinking they had been plucked from Thomas’ own head.
Only Philip taking her arm to lead her back to his waiting carriage had drawn her attention away, and she followed him blindly, hardly able to concentrate on a word all the way back to Barford Hall.
Love Stories of Enchanting Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 42
