“Catherine?”
She didn’t look at him. Was she hurt? Angry?
Crispin crossed to where she sat, but the moment he reached her side, Catherine stood and stepped away from him, her back to him. She kept her blanket clutched around her shoulders.
He stood behind her and laid his hands on her arms just below where the blanket slipped over her sagging shoulders. He half expected her to pull away from him, but she didn’t. Neither did she turn to face him. Crispin stood there, his hands lightly pressed to her arms, at a loss for something to say or do.
Catherine broke the silence. “I made him angry,” she said quietly.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I decided I needed to stand up to him. I’m not sure it was such a good idea, after all.”
He felt her shudder. She should not have had to face her uncle alone. Crispin stepped around to face her. He immediately tensed, his eyes taking in her purpled cheek and split lip.
“Did he do this to you?” But he already knew the answer.
“I argued with him,” Catherine’s voice quivered, her eyes cast downward. “He was so angry.”
“The bl—” Crispin turned toward the door. Thorndale would be nursing a broken nose within the hour.
A quiet sob stopped him before he’d taken a single step. Catherine needed his attention first.
Crispin gently laid his hands on her shoulders, trying to take hold of his own anger long enough to calm her fears. “I am going to tell Hancock not to let Thorndale in the house again.”
“I would appreciate that,” Catherine answered quietly, obviously fighting to maintain her composure.
“I can’t believe that—” Crispin bit back a word that was entirely inappropriate to utter in front of a lady. “That he would do this.”
Catherine didn’t answer. Her fragile-looking hand, still red from yesterday’s scalding, darted out from under the blanket to rub tensely at her temple.
What did a husband say to his wife in such a situation? She still wouldn’t look at him. Maybe she was angry, but he’d never seen Catherine angry. More likely she was disappointed in him.
Crispin had an almost overwhelming urge to pull her close to him and wrap his arms around her. He, who’d never spoken nonsense in his life, was ready to spout hundreds of meaningless words of comfort if it meant seeing her at ease once more. Before he could utter a single nonsensical phrase, Catherine stepped further from him, turning to face the empty fireplace.
“How was the meeting with your solicitor?”
An abrupt change of topic, to be sure. “Fine,” he blurted. “But, that’s hardly—”
“You seemed anxious when you left.”
“The message he sent sounded urgent.”
“Did you complete the . . . the annulment?” Catherine’s voice sounded smaller than usual.
“No. We, er . . . Not exactly.”
Catherine turned to face him again, an odd look in her eyes that Crispin at first interpreted as relief, though he quickly dismissed the idea. She had asked about the annulment. Lizzie had insisted that Catherine would be miserable in a forced marriage. If anything, he ought to be seeing frustration in her eyes, especially considering his repeated failures to protect her from her uncle.
“But you went there to discuss the annulment?”
Why was she so insistent on discussing this? And why did that word grate on his nerves suddenly?
“The legalities make this very complicated.” The legalities were hardly the most complicating factor. If Crispin could just make a decision, the entire thing could move forward. Still, he continued to vacillate.
“Complications?”
For a fraction of a second he was tempted to tell her about his indecision, that he felt an odd, inexplicable pull to her that he couldn’t explain and couldn’t ignore. He could have begun the annulment proceedings that first day, but weeks later he continued to postpone the decision. In the end, he wasn’t willing to admit that she had somehow gained that hold over him. A man had to have some dignity. “There are a great many things to be done,” he fudged. “Arrangements . . . for the future, that sort of thing.”
“I have been thinking about that as well,” Catherine said. “Where I’ll go and what I’ll do afterward.”
Crispin couldn’t tell if she’d been contemplating her future without him as a positive change or not. Attempting to sound unconcerned, he asked, “And what conclusions have you come to?”
“I have decided I will need to find some sort of employment, a means of supporting myself.”
The image Lizzie had painted of Catherine slaving away on some remote estate for a family of questionable character reentered Crispin’s mind with tremendous force. There was no guarantee these fictional employees would treat her any better than her own uncle.
“I don’t think that would be necessary, Catherine.”
“But I have nothing to live on.” She still hadn’t looked at him. Crispin didn’t know what to make of her refusal to even glance in his direction.
“That is, actually, what I spoke to my solicitor about.” That seemed to capture her attention and she glanced back at him. Her bruised face distracted him from the topic. He fluctuated between storming from the room to hunt down Thorndale and an almost crushing desire to pull Catherine into his arms and protect her from abusive uncles and heartless employers and the vicious gossips of society.
She is counting on an annulment, he reminded himself. Catherine had brought up the subject and had made her preferences on the outcome of their marriage obvious. Her only concern was where to go afterward, not whether or not the annulment should be pursued.
“You discussed with your solicitor what to do about me?” It sounded rather cruel and impersonal when she phrased it that way.
“No,” Crispin said. “He discovered that you are entitled to an inheritance through a maternal relation, though he is still ascertaining the details. It should be sufficient for you to live on after the . . . annulment.” The word stuck a bit in his throat.
She turned away from him again. Crispin resisted the urge to reach after her, to ascertain why she seemed unable to even look at him. Did she dislike him so much? Find him lacking in some way?
“You seem to have everything figured out.” Her detached tone widened the chasm he felt growing between them.
“I am trying to help,” he said. Why did her simple statement make him feel so blasted guilty? He’d gone above and beyond his duty in looking after her future. He’d delayed and debated against the most convenient course of action for himself out of concern for her. “Did you think I would throw you out on the street?” Her unspoken accusation stung.
“My own uncle did.”
Now she was comparing him with Thorndale? Crispin leaned against the mantel, clenching his teeth in frustration. Thorndale! Did she truly think him as horrible as that man? Weeks of debate and worry and she thought him no better than her skinflint, heartless uncle. “Yes, except I am throwing you out with a small fortune to live on, gentleman that I am.” The sarcasm was beneath him, but he’d never been particularly good at enduring misjudgment.
Silence hung heavy between them. She offered no smashing rejoinder or set-down, as Lizzie or Edward or Philip would have done. They did not put up with his cynicism.
“If you would please let me know when you have more details about this inheritance, I would appreciate it,” she said with surprising authority. “I will endeavor to set my affairs in order as quickly as possible.”
She thought he was pushing her out the door? Crispin turned back toward Catherine. She’d allowed her blanket to remain on the sofa. Deep blue bruises shaped suspiciously like thick fingers marred her arms. The bruise on her face had darkened just in the few minutes since Crispin had discovered her injuries. And yet she wasn’t falling apart. Catherine seemed suddenly collected and dignified. She held her chin up and looked directly at him.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she maintained
her almost-confident demeanor, though a tear slid down her cheek, “I am not feeling well.”
Catherine walked quickly to the door leading to her bedchamber and slipped inside, closing the door behind her. Crispin heard it lock.
He crossed the room. “Catherine,” he said through the door. “I . . . uh . . .” What was he supposed to say? I am not a complete cad? Or, I’m not actually throwing you out? Perhaps I’m sorry. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d be apologizing for, except that she seemed upset and he’d been a little too cynical.
He ran his fingers through his usually tidy hair and let out a long breath. If Catherine really was in favor of an annulment, he ought to be grateful. Shouldn’t he be? That solved his dilemma. But he still felt unsure. She didn’t seem precisely overjoyed at her future. Was she uncertain as well?
Crispin stepped away from the silent door, his mind spinning. His indecision wasn’t fair to either of them. Mr. Brown would have details on Catherine’s inheritance soon, and Crispin vowed he would come to a decision immediately thereafter. No more debate, no more delays. One way or another, they would know what their future held.
Chapter Eighteen
Forty-eight hours had passed since Thorndale’s visit, and Crispin had yet to see a glimpse of Catherine. She hadn’t come down for dinner the night of Thorndale’s forced departure and had bowed out of the evening’s entertainment—a trip to the opera—claiming she did not feel well enough to attend. Crispin hadn’t been alarmed, not really. She’d been upset and understandably so. Thorndale’s visit could not have been an easy one to endure nor forget.
When she didn’t appear at any meals over the next two days and firmly, through her abigail, declared herself not at home to visitors, Crispin began to wonder if Catherine might really be unwell and not simply overwrought.
“She has been a touch feverish,” Jane confirmed a couple hours before Lizzie, Edward, and Philip Jonquil, the Earl of Lampton, were due to join them for a dinner en famile. Crispin had sent for Jane, wanting to know what he couldn’t seem to find out for himself. Catherine didn’t reply when he spoke to her through the door, and he didn’t feel at liberty to simply enter, despite her being his wife and Permount being his house.
“Should I send for a doctor?”
“It will pass,” Jane said. “It always does.”
“Is she sick often?” Crispin hadn’t guessed Catherine had a weak constitution. She seemed fit enough.
“After a harsh”—Jane seemed to search for the right word—“punishment, she sometimes isn’t well. Fevers ’n’ such. The doctor from Bath what checked on her now and again said it was nerves. Bein’ frightened and all.”
“She really has been ill?” Crispin moved toward the door of the library, intending to go directly to Catherine to check her condition himself. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“She said to not say nothin’, my lord. Said you wouldn’t appreciate the bother.”
Crispin turned back toward Jane. The bother? Catherine’s well-being had never been a bother. It was an absolute essential! “Will you please inform me in the future whenever Lady Cavratt is unwell? Whether or not she thinks I would care to know?”
“O’ course, my lord.” Jane curtsied. Crispin thought he saw the momentary flash of a pleased smile.
“Will she be joining us for dinner this evening?” Crispin asked before Jane could slip from the room.
“She hasn’t decided yet, my lord.”
Crispin nodded his acknowledgment and the abigail left. Catherine’s refusal to confide in him bothered Crispin more than he cared to admit. Their marriage really was little more than an overblown misunderstanding, and yet it troubled him enormously that his own wife didn’t trust him. Or perhaps she didn’t think he cared.
In fact, he’d spent the past two days debating what precisely he ought to do about the situation with Thorndale and Catherine. He’d been sorely tempted to hunt Thorndale down and plant him a facer or two . . . or ten. He’d very nearly done just that, but something nagged at him. While he wouldn’t let Thorndale inside Permount House again, he knew he couldn’t be everywhere with Catherine, and the possibility existed that Thorndale would take any revenge he sought for Crispin’s retaliation out on her. She’d been so adamant the night Thorndale had dined with them that Crispin not cause trouble. She’d insisted it would make Thorndale angry. The very next morning that anger had been directed at Catherine.
Rather than undertake a very cathartic rampage at Thorndale’s residence, Crispin had spent his time wondering if Catherine was angry with him or disappointed or simply ready to be rid of him. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms and it bothered him tremendously. Knowing she’d kept to her rooms because she wasn’t well, he worried ever more. Crispin wasn’t accustomed to worrying about people.
Blast it all, someone should have told him his wife was ill! He could have sent for a doctor or seen to her comfort. She at least would have realized he wasn’t entirely heartless. She might only be in his house a short while longer, but he did not want her to be miserable.
An idea struck a moment later that brought a smile to Crispin’s usually somber face.
* * *
The young maid curtsied and scurried from the room, leaving Catherine completely at a loss. The package that had apparently come for her didn’t appear to have been posted. In fact, the only direction written on it was simply “Catherine” in decidedly masculine writing. Catherine pulled at the strings, allowing them to fall loosely to the tabletop.
Mere minutes remained before she needed to be downstairs for their family dinner. She had already dressed. Her coiffure was complete. The maid from below stairs had entered with the mysterious bundle only moments before Catherine had intended to leave her rooms. She’d checked the looking glass one more time, hoping Jane’s now-perfected formula for minimizing and covering bruises had worked well enough to make her presentable.
Her face she deemed passable. Her arms were another story entirely. She simply hoped her long gloves would cover the bruises enough.
Curiosity overcoming her, Catherine peeled back the parcel paper. A folded piece of paper lay on top of something wrapped in silver tissue. What could it possibly be? Catherine pulled her reading glasses from the bedside table, took the folded paper in her hands, and read.
My dear Catherine,
Please accept this as penance for one of the many crimes of which I stand, sadly, guilty. This being the most heinous—a hanging offense, I am told—it is the one for which I wish to first begin making restitution.
I hope you will be a merciful magistrate and not sentence me to anything too severe. My valet would not begrudge me a tear-stained cravat, but he would most certainly resign should my neck wear accompany me on a long incarceration.
I sincerely hope you are feeling recovered enough to join us this evening, as I am convinced not one of our party is coming for my sake, criminal that I am.
Repentantly Yours, etc.
Crispin
Catherine reread the note twice. Recompense for his criminal activities?
She pulled back the silver tissue paper. The package smelled of sugar. All the more curious, Catherine quickly pulled back the last layer of tissue. A single, perfectly round fairy cake sat centered on a porcelain tea saucer. Catherine stared for a fraction of a moment before understanding dawned.
He was, for the first time, referencing the lighthearted, wonderful morning they’d spent laughing over tea cakes and acts of treason.
Catherine refolded the note and held it for a moment pressed to her heart. A smile spread across her face. She read Crispin’s note one more time. “My dear Catherine,” he had written. Dear Catherine.
He didn’t seem upset with her. She’d worried about that. He’d certainly been short with her the day of Uncle’s visit. She hadn’t been particularly pleased with him, either. Her heart had sunk at his admission that he was getting closer to finalizing the annulment. Until that moment, she’d held some h
ope that he would change his mind. She liked him—more than liked him, though she wouldn’t allow herself to confess to more than that. She had wanted him to comfort her after the encounter with her uncle, to commend her for the show of backbone, despite its less than pleasing consequences. Instead he’d callously declared his intention to throw her out. The rejection had proven too much for her.
Perhaps, she thought, her mind replaying the tone of Crispin’s note, he regretted the argument as well. She looked back at the fairy cake, something which only they would have found humorous, a piece of lighthearted banter that was theirs alone. He couldn’t be so entirely indifferent to her, could he?
She needed to see him, to try to decide what he thought of her, if he thought of her. But she could not bring herself to do so with witnesses. Should he so thoroughly reject her again . . .
Catherine hurried to the door in her dressing room that connected with his and knocked. Would he be in his rooms still? He might not appreciate the intrusion into his private space. But, she told herself, she wouldn’t stay long.
She turned the handle, opened the door, and stepped across the threshold into uncharted territory. No one stood in the dressing room. She passed into the bedchamber beyond. Her rooms and these adjoined one another but had very little in common. Her own bedchamber was decorated in light, pale colors. Crispin’s was paneled in deep cherrywood, the floors covered in rich carpets of deepest blue. The room even smelled different: like sandalwood, like Crispin.
He stood framed by the doorway to his own sitting room, watching her approach with obvious curiosity and a look of confusion that bordered on alarm. “Hello, Catherine.”
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 15
