Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  Once the kitchen was tidy, a chore Catherine never relished—she missed having Mary there, for the kitchen had been her domain—she headed outside where she was happiest. She was limping her way across the yard when Lord Romeo streaked by on his way toward the front of the house.

  “Someone’s here,” she muttered, changing direction.

  Ramon Perez, eleven years old, and the eldest male of his family since his father had been killed in a mining accident, sat astride one of the livery’s mules. His black eyes sparkled and a grin slashed his swarthy skin.

  “Señor Botts say I take wagon back.”

  “And right he was to send you. I can’t imagine what I was thinking about to leave that poor horse out here.”

  But as Catherine looked, the poor horse had nibbled his way across the fine shoots of grass and the flower border that Sarah planted before she left.

  “How is your mother, Ramon?” Louisa took in washing by day and at night cleaned dishes at the café in return for her small family’s supper. Ramon worked at the livery or wherever he found odd jobs. His sister, Clarita, did chores for Dolly and Chad Hudspeth, who owned the tailor shop in town. Even little Vicente made a contribution by sweeping up the sawdust at Ollie Walker’s lumber mill.

  As Ramon chatted on about what his mother thought of his schooling, Catherine had an idea. But she had to be careful about asking. Louisa Perez had pride and instilled that pride in her children. They would accept no charity, but worked for all they had. The children often wore second, third or even—if well made of good-quality cloth—fourth time hand-me-downs, but they were always clean and neatly dressed.

  “Ramon, please tell your mother that I hurt my ankle. I will need help to do my chores. If Mr. Botts can spare you, would you like to work for me?”

  If possible, his dark eyes sparkled all the more and his grin widened. Catherine knew the reason. She not only was generous with an hourly wage but usually sent him home with a newly hatched chick or a basket of eggs. Ramon had worked a whole day, his decision as the price of a hen, and now had three chicks, one showing signs of a rooster’s fine plumage.

  “When you need me, señora?”

  “Tomorrow morning will be fine. Before dawn. We have to get Miss Lily out of the way before we gather the eggs. She’s been up to her old tricks, hiding one or two eggs whenever she can get away with it.”

  Catherine pretended to pinch the tip of her nose with thumb and forefinger. Ramon made a face then mimicked her. Even the pigs refused to eat rotten eggs. It was the most unpleasant of chores to discover eggs days after Miss Lily, long past her prime as a laying hen, had hidden them in the hope of hatching new chicks for herself.

  Unfortunately for Catherine, and whoever was helping her, Miss Lily often forgot where she had hidden the eggs, and the stench was unbearable.

  “Don’t forget the gloves I gave you, Ramon. Miss Lily likes you, but I don’t want her pecking your hands again. And don’t forget to first ask your mother if you can come.”

  She helped him secure the mule to the back of the buckboard and waved him off.

  But as Ramon disappeared from sight, another small two-seater carriage turned in the drive. Catherine shaded her eyes with one hand, moaning softly when she saw who had come to call.

  Mrs. Horace Pettigrew was back visiting her daughter. She had brought along her youngest daughter. Camilla was the only unmarried one of four girls. Painfully shy, happiest when painting, miserable with her mother’s blatant attempts to marry her off, the young lady also suffered from delicate health. But it was Mrs. Pettigrew’s most offensive habit to boast of the successful marriages she had arranged for her other daughters that made Catherine dislike the woman.

  Camilla had been left behind with her newly married sister in the hopes that she would encourage one of several single men’s proposals while her mother made her monthly visits to her other daughters.

  Catherine couldn’t imagine why they were calling on her. She hadn’t even heard that Mrs. Pettigrew had returned. The carriage was new, and the horse a spirited chestnut, which Camilla handled smartly.

  The girl drew rein, nodded at Catherine, then seemed to shrink back against the carriage seat when her mother leaned forward.

  Mrs. Pettigrew noticed Catherine’s interest in her new spring cape and she preened at the attention. Black braid trimmed the scalloped tiers of soft gray wool. But her hat was a tribute to the milliner’s art. Black straw was burdened with sprays of lilacs, a bow of plaid ribbon, several upstanding feathers and two roses, between which nestled a small stuffed bird.

  It was also a tribute to Mrs. Pettigrew’s skill that the whole hat didn’t slide forward into her ample lap.

  “You mustn’t think me vain, Catherine, for wanting to show off this lovely confection that my dearest Irene insisted she buy me. And the cape, did you ever see such fine work? I declare, the shops in New Orleans are for a woman’s pleasure. You must accompany me the next time I visit my daughter, Catherine. A shopping trip will do wonders for you.”

  Catherine forced a smile that never reached her eyes. It wasn’t the first time Mrs. Pettigrew had made remarks about her scandalous attire.

  “I’m surprised to see you—”

  “You must forgive this unannounced visit, dear. I had the most dreadful trip—”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Mrs. Pettigrew. But here you are, back and safe with your family. And how are you, Camilla?”

  “Well,” she mumbled.

  “She is not,” her mother said with a disapproving look at her offspring. “I declare, I don’t know what I’m to do with the girl. Adelaide informed me that she twice refused to ride out with that nice Mr. Krausse. Julian is doing so well with his butcher shop, too. That young man has big plans. He intends to open another store in Lake Valley. And this stubborn gal of mine can’t see the value in having a husband who will always provide meat for her table. And he’s a thrifty man, too. Has a nice piece of change put by for his future.”

  Catherine had no doubt this was the truth. Mrs. Pettigrew’s latest son-in-law, Gerald Emmet, had opened another bank in Hillsboro. Gerald wasn’t above telling anyone interested in his neighbor’s business who had accounts with his bank and how much they contained. It was one reason that Catherine had kept her small account with Buck Purcell at the First National. Buck would send someone like Mrs. Pettigrew packing if she dared ask him such questions.

  “Perhaps, Mrs. Pettigrew, Camilla doesn’t like Julian.”

  The girl shot her a grateful glance.

  “Nonsense. Young women don’t know who will make a good husband. They have the most flighty notions. Marry a handsome face and you’ll likely repent it for the rest of your life.”

  Catherine, aware of the chores that waited, couldn’t keep a hint of impatience from her voice. “I wish I could invite you in for tea and a chat about your visit, but I have a houseguest—”

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Pettigrew interrupted with a great deal of head bobbing. “That’s why I’ve come to call. I made Mr. Mayfield’s acquaintance on the stage. Such a handsome young man. So refined in his manner. I just knew he would appreciate finding out that we do have people of culture in Hillsboro. So I’ve come to invite him to supper. After all we went through. I declare, I may extend my stay with Adelaide to give my poor nerves a rest. And my darling little Posie just jumped into her bed and refused to come out. Now, where is the charming Mr. Mayfield?”

  “Resting. No doubt he is as exhausted as Posie.” Catherine’s sarcasm was lost on the woman. So this is what I’m going to contend with? Ladies calling to invite him to sample their brand of western hospitality. She couldn’t imagine why the idea of other women seeking him out annoyed her. Aside from her responsibility for his health, Catherine shouldn’t be playing chaperon for the man.

  “Resting? Well, he did appear a bit pale after he helped set the wheel. And I had so hoped to have him meet Camilla. He rushed off the moment the stage arrived.”

  “
Then however did you know he was here?”

  “Why, I sent Gerald to inquire at the livery. Do you think you might see if he is awake and up to receiving company?”

  “Mama, she said the man is resting. And after hearing about your horrid journey—”

  “Don’t correct your mama, Camilla. Catherine will go and look for me. Won’t you?”

  Catherine had no desire to intrude on her boarder’s rest. Not to mention the fact that climbing up and down the stairs would finish her ankle for the day. Knowing that Greg had shared the stage with Mrs. Pettigrew and Posie stirred her sympathy. She almost excused his testy behavior. Anyone cooped up with the woman for more than ten minutes would go mad.

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s face was set. She wasn’t going to take refusal of her request. There was no help to be had from Camilla, who sat clutching her fine wool shawl and all but disappeared inside her wide-brimmed bonnet.

  Catherine shrugged. Short of being rude, she didn’t see a way out.

  “Won’t you come and wait in the parlor?”

  “No, Catherine. And do hurry. If he’s to come for supper, I’ll need to return home immediately. Adelaide will make a muddle of supper unless I’m there to advise her.”

  Camilla rolled her eyes.

  Catherine stifled a laugh. She had had supper with Adelaide twice while her mother was gone, and both times the food and company were most enjoyable.

  Catherine tried to control her limp as she turned toward the house.

  “Catherine’s hurt herself,” Camilla whispered to her mother.

  “Nonsense. That girl’s healthy as a horse.”

  Camilla left her seat and hurried after Catherine.

  “What did you do?”

  “A little sprain. Nothing to worry about.” Then she faced the stairs. “On second thought, Camilla, you shall have to—”

  “Don’t ask me to go up there. I couldn’t. I would just die. I’ve never been near, much less in, a gentleman’s room,” she declared in a dramatic whisper while clutching her shawl near her throat.

  “All you need do is knock on the door. If he doesn’t answer, you can tell your mother he’s asleep. I promise you, Camilla, the man won’t grab you and drag you inside to have his way with you like in some penny-dreadful novel.

  “Please do this for me?” Catherine asked. “I don’t feel comfortable refusing her invitation on his behalf. Who knows, he might have enjoyed her company.”

  “Oh, Catherine, do you know anyone who does? Besides, she said he hurried off. That tells me a great deal.”

  “You’re right. But if I go up, I may not be able to come back down. There are hungry animals waiting for me. Honestly, Camilla, he’s not so bad. I mean, he won’t bite.”

  “Only because you haven’t asked me to,” Greg said in an intimately hushed voice from the top of the staircase.

  Catherine, whose emotions had run the full gamut from embarrassment to anger, couldn’t summon a reply. What he implied…the intimacy of it…left her speechless.

  The addition of a vest over his shirt didn’t add an ounce of respectability, not with such sleepy-looking eyes and his hair tousled as if someone had repeatedly run their hands through the dark thickness.

  Catherine barely heard Camilla’s gasp over the racing beat of her heart. She frowned, and when she did, her expression went from pixie to harpy—a look Sarah or Mary would have recognized as Catherine’s temper at the boil.

  But she would wait to take the impudent Mr. Mayfield to task.

  “Camilla Pettigrew, this is my houseguest, Mr. Gregory Mayfield.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  Catherine noted the young lady all but bobbed him a curtsy as if he were visiting royalty. She was ready to stop her if she did it. The real pity was that Mr. Mayfield was so far from her reach. She would like to wipe his arrogant expression from his face.

  “You’ll be pleased to know you left such an impression on Mrs. Pettigrew that she and her daughter have come to call on you. You might have mentioned that you had a friend in town. Won’t you put on your jacket?” she asked sweetly as a reminder that he wasn’t dressed for polite company.

  A small, knowing smile curled his lips. Catherine’s fingers tightened over the newel post. Her ankle wasn’t pleased at having her stand. As reluctant as she was to leave Camilla alone with him, she knew she had to finish her chores.

  “I’ll leave you to make your arrangements, Mr. Mayfield.”

  “A moment, Mrs. Hill.”

  “Yes?” That couldn’t have been alarm she heard from him. But if it wasn’t, it was close kin.

  “You can’t go off and leave me.”

  Not alarm. Panic. Catherine smiled.

  “You’ll make my excuses to Mrs. Pettigrew and her charming daughter. I’ve only arrived. I wouldn’t think of leaving you alone my first night here. I was so looking forward to another of your culinary achievements this evening.”

  Catherine gritted her teeth. So kind of him to mention the lackluster meal she had thrown together. “Please don’t refuse on my account—”

  “Of course, I will. I am exhausted from my journey. However, you may convey my regrets and tell her I will call upon her in a few days’ time.”

  “Oh, do reconsider,” Camilla pleaded. “She’ll be ever so cross.”

  The outburst was so unlike Camilla that Catherine stared at her.

  “A crossed Mrs. Pettigrew?” Greg murmured with relish. “The thought tempts even the most saintly among us.”

  “Mr. Mayfield!” Catherine slid her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders and turned her toward the door. She was supposed to be angry with him, not offering to ease him from a situation of his own making.

  “Come, Camilla. We’ll tell your mother a little truth and a little white lie. We’ll say he wasn’t in his room. That is true. We won’t mention this conversation. But I promise to tell her that I will convey her supper invitation later.”

  Camilla turned to Catherine, tilting her head back to see beyond the bonnet’s brim. Her wide brown eyes searched Catherine’s face before she looked over her shoulder and upward to where Greg still stood.

  “Mrs. Hill offers wise counsel. I meant no offense, Miss Pettigrew, but three days of nonstop conversation with your mother requires solitude. And Mrs. Hill promised that I will have it here. Didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did. Come along. I’ll tell your mother.”

  Catherine hobbled back to the carriage, related the facts and thought that was the end of it.

  Mrs. Pettigrew had other notions.

  “I am terribly disappointed, of course. But tell me, where is Sarah?”

  Catherine thought of the white lie she had told and an oft-repeated warning Sarah was fond of giving that one lie often led to another. The lie was there, on the tip of her tongue, but any one of ten women would tell Mrs. Pettigrew the truth.

  “Sarah has gone to stay with Mary and her husband until their baby is born.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you are here alone with Mr. Mayfield?”

  Catherine straightened, ignoring the pain shooting from her ankle. The woman’s reddened face warned what was coming. That she would voice one of Catherine’s own concerns made little difference.

  “So it seems,” she acknowledged.

  “Catherine Rose Hill, your reputation—”

  “Is my own affair, Mrs. Pettigrew. I do appreciate your concern, but I’m not in fear of being ravished. Mr. Mayfield’s sister is an old and dear friend. I assure you nothing improper is going on, nor will it. Now you must excuse me. I have work to do.”

  “You have not heard the last of this, young woman.”

  Catherine didn’t answer her. She did heave a weary sigh. Mrs. Pettigrew was right. She was sure to hear a great deal more. What a thoroughly rotten, scrambled day! She couldn’t afford to have Gregory offended by silly gossip. He might ask for his money back and then where would she be?

  Camilla smartly turned
the carriage and drove off.

  “Silly, interfering old biddy,” Catherine muttered as she rounded the back of the house.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Mrs. Hill.”

  “You! What are you doing here? Go upstairs to your room and have your solitude.”

  “My, my, you are in a state. I merely came down to ask if you had a horse I could ride. Now, I think you and I better have a talk. Mrs. Pettigrew, a shrewish and most unpleasant woman that it’s been my misfortune to meet, has made a valid point.

  “There will be gossip, Mrs. Hill. The thing is, what are you going to do about it?”

  Chapter Seven

  “Me?”

  “That’s what I asked.”

  Catherine thought how easy it would be to ruffle his calm, but innate honesty took hold.

  “I must leave that choice up to you. They’ll gossip about me no matter—”

  “Are you saying my sister has sent me to a den of iniquity?”

  “You needn’t sound so pleased, Mr. Mayfield.” And then the imp won out. “They don’t call us the merry widows for nothing.”

  She made to move past him and Greg put an arm out to stop her.

  “I’m serious. I am concerned about your reputation. Delightful as the thought of being with a wicked widow may be, I won’t cause harm to you.”

  “Then kindly let me go. I have chores to do.”

  “Your pardon.”

  But Catherine didn’t move on. She leaned against the corner of the house, watching the late afternoon shadows spread across the yard. The air held that very special scent of early spring. She didn’t notice that Greg wrinkled his nose as the breeze brought the barnyard odors their way.

  She looked at him. He was frowning. “Don’t be concerned. And I’m sure that Mrs. Pettigrew is not the first matchmaking mama who set her sights on you. She’s married off her other daughters and Camilla is the last one. She’ll be back with an offer for you to stay with her. And Adelaide and Gerald. Mr. Emmet has recently opened Hillsboro’s second bank. You would enjoy his company. All he talks about is making money.”

  “I had no idea you harbored a cruel nature. You forgot Posie. And no thank you. I told you I had enough of that woman’s company on the stage. As for matchmaking mothers, I avoid them. Contrary to what women believe, most men do not want to be chased. They prefer to go hunting on their own.