by Joan Wolf
Edmund and several other men whose horses were close by looked at her and smiled. It was impossible not to smile at Catriona, at the blazing gaiety in her face, at the sheer happiness in her voice.
“You did splendidly, Kate,” said Squire Winthrop. “You put the boys to shame.”
“Indeed. Miss MacIan can hunt with us any time,” said Mr. Matthews, a young man from the next parish. He looked at her with something in his eyes that Catriona did not recognize.
“Let’s get going,” said Edmund’s suddenly cool voice. “It’s getting chilly sitting here.” And obediently Catriona had allowed her horse to fall in beside his.
“That Matthews fellow is a bit of a commoner,” Edmund said as they rode home together.
“Why do you say that?” asked Catriona, surprised. “I thought he was very nice.”
He looked at her in silence for a minute. “Did you?” he said then. And changed the subject of conversation.
When she was fifteen, a traveling company of actors arrived in Burford. They were to perform something called The Beggar’s Opera, and Catriona was wild to go. The duchess said she could not.
“These traveling shows are not at all the thing, my dear,” she said disapprovingly. “And there will be a rowdy crowd in the audience. Wait till you are older, and we’ll take you to the play in London.”
But Catriona could not wait. George was home from school for the summer holiday, and she teased him into going with her. “Edmund will murder us if he finds out, Kate,” George had said at first apprehensively. Although he wouldn’t admit it to Catriona, George was a little afraid of the duke.
“Pooh,” retorted Catriona. “He won’t find out. Henry and Margaret will tell a story for us.” Catriona was ruthless about dragging her satellites into her plans.
“All right,” George had finally agreed, lured on by the sparkle in her eyes. “But how are we going to get out?”
“Luke will leave the side door open for us,” Catriona said confidently. Luke was one of the footmen who had abetted her on previous occasions. “And John will leave the tack room open. No one will ever know. Won’t it be fun?” And against his better judgment George had agreed.
The first part of the evening went exactly as Catriona had predicted. They got out of the house with little difficulty, saddled their horses, and rode safely into Burford. The play was to be given at one of the big inns, the Lamb, and they arrived in time to get a seat. Once they were settled, George turned to look curiously at Catriona. She had tried to make herself look older for the occasion by wearing her hair up instead of in its usual braid. And the new hair style did change her. It emphasized the almost exotic slant of her cat’s eyes, the high planes of her cheekbones, the delicate line of her jaw. George stared.
“You look different, Kate,” he said uneasily.
She looked pleased. “Do I? Good.”
George glanced around. He was evidently not the only man who was interested in Catriona;
there were too many pairs of eyes focused on her newly grown-up-looking face. “I think perhaps we should leave,” he said nervously.
“Don’t be silly,” she returned impatiently. “The show is starting.”
The show was indeed starting, but as the play went on it became evident that Catriona was the star. At the first intermission a young man, fashionably dressed, came over to her and tried to strike up a conversation. Catriona, incurably friendly, smiled at his sally and said yes, she was enjoying the play.
George, more and more unhappy with the way this adventure was turning out, said loudly, “I say, Kate, I think it’s time we were leaving.”
“Leaving?” said Catriona blankly. “But the play is only half over.”
“Never mind him, sweetheart,” said the strange man. “You can stay with me.”
Even Catriona recognized the impropriety of this statement. “Of course I can’t stay with you,” she said in astonishment. “I don’t even know you.”
“That can be swiftly remedied,” the stranger murmured. “I'll make it well worth your while,” he added.
“You swine,” shouted George. “Get away from my cousin.” He pushed at the stranger’s chest.
A very ugly look descended over the other man’s face. Catriona grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare touch him!” she cried.
“May I be of service, my lord?” came a deep, rumbly voice, and Mr. Stiles, the owner of “the Lamb, was there. He looked from the stranger to Catriona and George. “Miss MacIan! Mr. Talbot!” he said. “What are you doing here?”
Catriona and George exchanged a guilty look and said nothing.
“Where is His Grace?” the rumbly voice went on.
Catriona and George looked at the floor.
“I see,” said Mr. Stiles grimly.
“His Grace?” said the stranger in quick alarm.
“These are two young cousins of the Duke of Burford,” the innkeeper said disapprovingly. “And I’ll wager His Grace has no idea they have stolen into town this evening.”
“Burford!” said the young man in a horrified voice. “Good God.” He backed away. “Sorry,” he stammered. “Made a mistake. I do beg your pardon....” He was gone.
Catriona peeked up at the innkeeper. “You aren’t going to give us away to His Grace, are you, Mr. Stiles?”
“That I am, Miss MacIan,” the man replied promptly. “In fact, the both of you will come along with me right now. I’ll drive you back to the Castle.”
“Oh, there’s no need for you to do that, Mr. Stiles,” George protested. “We have our horses here.”
“I will stable your horses overnight at the Lamb,” came the inexorable reply. “I have no intention of allowing you two young rascals to ride back to the Castle in the dark. Come along now.”
To their mutual dismay, Catriona and George were forced to squeeze onto the front seat of Mr. Stiles’s gig and were driven, in ignominy and shame, home to Evesham Castle and the Duke.
Chapter Five
They were put in the morning room while Edmund talked to Mr. Stiles in the library. They sat together on a sofa in miserable silence, looking apprehensively at the door. When finally it opened and their cousin appeared on the threshold, instinctively they moved closer to each other, as if for protection.
“So,” said Edmund as he advanced into the room, “you decided to go to the play after all.” His tone was calm, even pleasant, but a shiver went through George and his stomach muscles knotted.
“It was my idea, Edmund,” said Catriona quickly. “George really did not want to come, but I teased him.”
"I see.” Edmund looked at George. “You are, I believe, three years older than your cousin?”
“Yes, Edmund,” said George miserably.
“You knew, I presume, that the Lamb was not at all the sort of place for a young girl.”
“Yes, Edmund.” George’s voice was barely audible.
Edmund then proceeded to inform George exactly what he thought of his character, his conduct, and his intelligence. He did it in the same agreeable manner with which he had first spoken and when he finished George was perilously close to tears.
“Very well,” said Edmund at last, “you may go to your room.” Then, as Catriona made as if to follow George, he added with dangerous quiet, “Not you, Catriona. I have a few things I wish to say to you first.”
Catriona stopped and watched, with envious eyes, George’s departure. Biting her lip, she turned to face her cousin.
“Don’t you have any conscience at all about whom you drag into your escapades?” asked Edmund. His voice had lost all its cool detachment; it was peremptory, warm, and formidably angry.
Catriona looked at him warily. “I—I didn’t think it would be so bad,” she faltered.
“You didn’t think. That is always the problem, isn’t it, Catriona? You don’t think. You don’t want to think. All you want to do is behave like a hoyden and bring disgrace on yourself and on your family.”
There was n
o mistaking the temper in his eyes.
“But Edmund, I didn’t know there would be a man there who would behave so badly. It wasn’t my fault he was drunk.”
“Oh, was he drunk?”
“He must have been,” returned Catriona indignantly. “He was going to hit George.”
“That man,” said Edmund, taking a step closer to her, “was Lord Margate, son of the Earl of Wethersby. He was not drunk. He just mistook you for a common doxy.”
Catriona’s eyes flew wide open, and color flushed into her cheeks. “But why should he think that?” she demanded.
“Look at you.” Edmund’s hand came out and ruthlessly plucked a few pins from her hair. He pulled out some hair along with the pins, and Catriona’s eyes watered with the sudden pain. “You certainly made every attempt to play the part,” he went on, “wearing your hair in that ridiculous fashion, painting your eyes.”
“I did not paint my eyes,” said Catriona, blinking them vigorously to clear away the tears. Her hair started to tumble about her shoulders. “And I only put my hair up because I was trying to look older.”
“Well, you succeeded in looking like a whore,” said Edmund very unfairly.
“I did not,” Catriona contradicted him bravely if unwisely. “It wasn’t my fault if this Lord somebody or other has the deplorable manners to approach a perfectly strange girl with such disgusting thoughts in his mind. I’m glad George pushed him!”
Edmund was furiously angry by now. “And would you have been glad to see George lose a couple of his teeth? Young Margate boxes at Jackson’s in London. He is very good.”
Catriona’s eyes fell before the look in his. “No,” she whispered. “I would not like to see George hurt.”
“Well, in future, then, you must think of the welfare of others before you embroil them in your own headstrong and ill-advised plans.” He sounded utterly disgusted with her. “You may be able to lead George around as if he were your pet dog, but please have the goodness to consider his welfare and reputation, even if you have no regard for your own. That is all I wished to say to you. Good night.”
“Edmund...” She reached out her hand timidly toward him. He ignored it.
“You may go to your room,” he said in a voice that was colder than ice. She turned and fled.
* * * *
Catriona was miserable for weeks. Edmund had been annoyed with her before, but never had he been so angry. She did everything she could think of to placate him. She read studiously for hours every morning; she practised the piano religiously; she made sure she looked neat and tidy at all times.
It was not a regimen she found it easy to follow, and one day in early September warn out from being so good, Catriona slipped out of the house by herself and went for a walk in the woods. She was several miles from the castle when she heard the whimpering of an animal. Closer investigation showed her a small, shivering puppy on the other side of the stream.
“What’s-the matter, little one?” she called to it soothingly. “Are you hurt? Let me help you.” Still talking, she sat down, took off her shoes, and began to wade across the stream. It came about up to her knees, and she would have managed to stay dry if she hadn’t stepped on a slippery rock and fallen. She dropped her shoes. After she had retrieved them, getting even wetter in the process, she made her way to the puppy’s side and knelt in the mud beside him. After a minute he let her pick him up. He had an injured paw.
“Poor baby,” crooned Catriona, “it will be all right. Don’t worry, Catriona has got you. Come on now.” Holding the puppy to her breast, she recrossed the stream and, not bothering to put on her sodden shoes, she made her way back to the ride she had been walking along and started toward the Castle. She had been walking five minutes when she heard the sound of hoof-beats drumming on the ground. She turned and saw a beautiful black mare bearing down on her. It was Edmund.
He pulled up as soon as he saw her and stared down at her bedraggled figure. Her feet were bare and filthy, her skirt was soaked, a puppy was chewing on the end of her long, dark braid, and she had mud on her cheek. She looked about ton years old.
“What happened?” he asked, resignation in his voice.
“It’s this darling little puppy, Edmund,” she said. “I found him in the woods. His paw is hurt. Look.” She lifted the dog for his inspection. Her extraordinary green eyes were full of compassion and concern, and Edmund dismounted.
“Come on,” he said. "I'll give you a ride home.” He noticed for the first time that she was shivering. “Here.” He took off his coat and draped it across her shoulders. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his immaculate shirt and, putting his hands about her waist, lifted her effortlessly into the saddle. He got up behind her and took up the reins. The mare, who had sidled at the unfamiliar burden, quieted as soon as she felt the iron grip of his legs.
Catriona felt blissfully happy. She was so close to Edmund that she could feel the beat of his heart against her shoulder. Every movement of his hands on the reins brought into play the muscles of his forearms. The warmth from his coat and his body enveloped her. She heaved a sigh of satisfaction.
“Can’t you ever stay clean?” he asked. There was laughter in his voice and an odd, tender note, which had been noticeably absent when he had spoken to her of late. He wasn’t angry. Catriona raised her eyes to look at him. She smiled, and her whole face lit up.
“I’ve been very good,” she told him. “I hardly moved for the entire month of August.”
“Yes,” he said. “I noticed. And I must say I wondered how long it would last.” He took one hand from the reins and lightly touched her cheek. “You’ve been outdoors sometimes. You’re brown as a gypsy.”
“Tm always brown,” Catriona replied blithely. “Grandmama thinks it’s terrible, but there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s my Celtic blood. The MacIans are all dark. Look.” She stretched her arm out so that it lay alongside his. Edmund’s forearm was several shades fairer than hers.
Edmund regarded their two arms for a moment in silence. His was fair-skinned, black-haired, and hard as iron. Catriona’s was warmly olive in color, delicately boned, and smooth. “Yes,” he said, his voice a little gruff. “I see.”
“Grandmama is afraid I’m not going to be pretty,” Catriona confided. “She thinks I’m too dark and too small and too skinny. I keep hoping I’ll start to grow a little. Was my father tall like you, Edmund?”
“Diccon was tall enough.”
“But was he six feet like you?”
“No. He was a few inches shorter than I.” There was a moment’s pause as they came out of the woods and headed up the ride that led to the Castle. “I’m surprised to hear that Grandmama has found anything about you less than ideal. She has always given me the impression that she finds you perfect.” His eyes were on the mellow stone of his house.
Catriona shook her head. “Oh, no! I make her laugh, that’s all. She likes that.” She tipped her head back to look up at her cousin again, her eyes flashing green as she raised her face to his. “But she doesn’t disapprove of me as you do,” she added.
“I don’t disapprove of you, Catriona,” he answered, gazing down at her gravely. “But I am responsible for you, and when you do wrong it is my duty to correct you. I do so because I care for you and am concerned for your welfare.”
Catriona smiled, not her usual blazing smile but slowly, almost dreamily. “I know,” she murmured softly. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “But it makes me so unhappy when you’re angry with me,” she whispered.
There was a pause. “Well, then,” he said, “don’t do anything to provoke me.” He pulled up the horse. “We’re home.”
Chapter Six
The following June the Battle of Waterloo was fought, and that August Edmund left for an extended visit to France and Germany. In the isolation caused by the Napoleonic Wars England had slipped far behind the rest of Europe in mathematics, and Edmund had plans to meet with some of the most brilliant and distingui
shed continental mathematicians of the day.
“He is going first to M. Laplace in France,” Catriona informed Frank Winthrop knowledgeably. Frank was the elder son of the local squire, Sir Thomas Winthrop, and had been a friend of Catriona’s for years.
“Who is M. Laplace?” asked Frank.
Catriona stared in astonishment. “He is only the greatest mathematician in the world, Frank. He’s writing what Edmund says is the definitive book on theoretical astronomy. It’s called Mechanique Celeste.”
“Oh,” said Frank blankly.
“What he has done,” Catriona explained kindly, “is to show that the Newtonian theory is capable of accounting for the observed motions of the bodies in the solar system.”
“I say, Kate,” said Frank is great astonishment, “do you really understand all this?”
Catriona shook her head. “No,” she said sadly. “I have no head for mathematics, I’m afraid. Edmund says I’m the most relentlessly concrete person he’s ever met. But I understand— generally—what the idea of Laplace’s book is. What he has done is to portray the solar system as a stupendous machine, moving under the influence of immutable laws.”
“I tell you what, Kate,” Frank said disapprovingly, “you’re turning into a scholar.”
“Hah,” said Catriona mournfully. “There’s little chance of that, I’m afraid. I’m a sad disappointment to Edmund.”
“I don’t see how a man who rides as splendidly as the duke can possibly be interested in mathematics,” said Frank. “Why, he’s going to miss the hunting season this year.”
“I know.” Catriona sighed. “It’s going to be horribly dull around here without him.” They were walking their horses along one of the duke’s rides. “Come on,” said Catriona suddenly, “I’ll race you to the lake!”
“Done,” said Frank, and both horses broke into a canter and then stretched out into full gallop. Catriona won.
Edmund left for France when Catriona was fifteen and was gone for almost a year and a half. They had letters from him from France, from Germany and then—surprisingly—from Russia. Several accounts of his doings appeared in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, and Catriona read them carefully. She understood very little of what they contained, but they were a link to Edmund, she felt, and so she persevered.
