by Liz Carlyle
“Just dress, miss,” Mrs. Peppin encouraged. “He would not have sent for you a’thout he believed you needed.”
“Very well, blast it,” she said. “Put Filou back in Mamma’s room, and have Athena saddled. Oh, and Peppie? Tell Fendershot to load my pistol, and put it in my bag.”
Mrs. Peppin winced. But Kate was not about to let a cow suffer needlessly, be it forty guineas or four hundred, if there was truly nothing to be done. And some of the things that could be done to save the poor cow were horrid in and of themselves …
Well, just like the rest of her troubles at present, those alternatives didn’t bear thinking of.
Still, some days, Kate wondered how her life had come to this. She had grown up expecting an ordinary life; happiness, marriage, and children. Even until yesterday, truth be told, she had not entirely given up on that dream.
And now she had suffered what was the most miserable night of her life since Stephen lay dying. Even the dog had apparently felt sorry for her. She was so angry. So deeply angry with herself, and yes, with Edward—and for what? For refusing to tell her about his daughter?
Did she really imagine herself such a significant part of Edward’s life? Was she so naive that she believed being bedded by a man obligated him to share his life’s story? His every sin and secret?—both of which were numerous, she did not doubt.
Oh, Edward enjoyed her companionship, she realized. But at the end of the day, perhaps she was no more important to him than poor little Annie Granger. No, she was just ordinary Katherine Wentworth, called to tend a laboring cow!
“As if I know bugger-all about that, either,” she muttered to herself, and rather vulgarly, too.
It was just the sort of language one picked up around a farm. Language, really, that a lady had no business knowing, and should never have been exposed to. But she did know it; this was far from her first birthing. Sheep, cattle, and once even a draft horse; Anstruther and her grandfather had begun to drag her along to every crisis before Stephen’s body had gone cold in the grave.
After all, what had been the alternative for Bellecombe?
For her to marry Reggie?
“Ha!” she said aloud. “As if he’d know what to do, the little nancy-pants. Better I should marry Tom Shearn.”
With that sentiment in mind, Kate washed her face, dressed, and twisted up her hair into a ruthless knot. Having forgone her corset in favor of speed, she simply dragged on her boots, seized her crop from its hook, and went downstairs to find Tom.
AFTER OVERSLEEPING, A rare event indeed, Edward was required to rush down to breakfast. He’d spent the previous afternoon in the saddle, touring every corner of his new property. Now, as he dressed, he felt a faint sense of hope stirring—at least on one emotional front.
Yes, Heatherfields was so neglected it would take five or six thousand pounds, Anstruther had calculated, to set it to rights again. But oh, what a house it would be when finished! He had practically stolen the estate from Reggie, the damned, desperate fool.
Far from being a mere shooting box, Heatherfields was instead a tidy Elizabethan manor house of perfect proportions and once-elegant gardens, the whole of which was essentially unaltered by time.
Anstruther had been especially cast down by the nearly uninhabitable interiors, but Edward, strangely, had not. He had known Lord Reginald Hoke for the wastrel he was, and expected the worst. Far better the rooms were unaltered and unkempt, if it meant they had not been ruined by two centuries of bad taste and indiscriminate plastering.
Restored to its sixteenth-century glory, Heatherfields would be the ideal place for Annie to begin young adulthood. The sort of home to which prospective suitors might be brought; a house meant for landed English aristocracy, the very thing rich young merchants and sensible bankers’ sons would aspire to become.
And they were just the sort of young men who could not afford to turn up their noses too thoroughly at Annie’s uncertain parentage, and who, once wed, would not trouble themselves to quell the speculation that their new bride might—just might—be the granddaughter of a duke, however unlikely that scenario was.
But Edward was getting ahead of himself when the house might require years to be brought up to snuff—particularly if they uncovered the woodworm Anstruther predicted. By then, Annie would be ready for those rich young suitors. And however awkward and infrequent Mrs. Granger might make his visits, Edward did want to help the child.
Engaged in tying his cravat, he caught his own reflection in the mirror and considered, not for the first time, his inadequacy for such a task. He wished suddenly he could ask Kate’s counsel; not about just the renovations and the land, but about Annie. What did he know, after all, about a young girl’s needs? Or how to launch her into society? Or—more daunting still—how to convince Mrs. Granger to even permit it?
The damned woman still resented him; resented both his help and his interference, even though circumstance compelled her to take both. She was still hell-bent on sheltering the girl, but could she not see that hiding Annie away merely made the gossip worse?
Oh, Edward had no quarrel with gossip if it could be turned to his purpose. The ambiguity about Annie’s origin was likely better than the truth. But Annie was growing up. The world would have to be told … something.
He would have liked to tell Kate the truth—insofar as he knew it. But to what end? There was nothing for him at Bellecombe. There could never be. Kate wouldn’t have him, and he wouldn’t want her to. So why throw Annie on the pyre of his flamingly bad choices?
Suddenly, his cravat knotted to the wrong side. Edward’s fingers clawed at the too-tight knot, then tore the damned thing off and flung it across his bed.
Was that what he wanted? To bare his soul to Kate? To promise his undying love, and swear to be a better man? Well, it would not work. His blood might be uncertain, but his past was all too clear.
Moreover, old Pettibone the headmaster had been right; there was a vicious streak in Edward that would not yield. Indeed, he had embraced it. It had enabled him to survive a harsh life, even as it marked him ever after. A double-edged sword always cut two ways.
No, better to simply savor Kate’s companionship through the coming days, and forge something like an abiding friendship, if he could. He had no wish to involve Kate in some tawdry, ongoing affaire—and she wasn’t fool enough, thank God, to permit it.
And yet, how was he to visit Heatherfields over the coming months and years without yielding to the temptation to see her? In his heart and in his memories, Kate and Bellecombe and even the staff were knotted as tightly together as this damned cravat he could not get untied.
He ripped the second off, hurled it aside, and buckled on a black stock instead. Whatever hard choice wanted making, it needn’t be made today. Perhaps, if Kate’s headache had waned, she might agree to ride over Heatherfields with him as he inspected the fences. What was the harm in asking? In fact, there was a great deal of wisdom in it, since she owned the adjoining property.
His spirits lifting at the notion of spending time with her, Edward shrugged into his coat and hastened downstairs to the breakfast parlor. Unfortunately, he found no one there save Aurélie and Nancy Wentworth. An overstuffed carpetbag sat just inside the door, the pug curled on the rug beside it, snoring.
“Bonjour, Mr. Quartermaine,” sang Mrs. Wentworth from beneath a lacy, broad-brimmed hat of pink silk. “Is it not a lovely morning to be off on an adventure?”
“Indeed, ma’am,” he said, looking about the room in hopes of conjuring up Kate. “In fact, I think I shall ride round Heatherfields again. Has Lady d’Allenay come down?”
“Not a hair has been seen,” said her mother with a toss of her bejeweled hand. “Katherine has gone out already, I daresay.”
Nancy Wentworth didn’t so much as look at him. Indeed, her hands lay fisted upon the table, white-knuckled. “There was a sick cow, Peppie said,” she answered into the tablecloth. “She’s gone to tend it.”
&
nbsp; “Oh,” said Edward, disappointed. “How long does that sort of thing take?”
“All day, sometimes,” said the girl.
“Ah. Too bad.”
He went to the sideboard to pour a cup of coffee, musing upon whether to chase after Kate, or to simply await her return. He glanced again at the sleeping dog, and the carpetbag.
“Is someone leaving us today?” he asked.
“Non, non, merely shopping!” said Aurélie Wentworth a little loudly. “I have some gowns there which require lace and shoes and, oh, la!—all manner of trifles!—but the trifles must match, n’est-ce pas? So I take them. For matching.”
“Of course.” Edward took some kippers and eggs then returned to the table, but just then Anstruther appeared in the doorway.
“Well,” said the estate agent a little gruffly. “I am come, Nan. If you’re ready? Morning, Quartermaine.”
Nancy Wentworth rose, but her face was bloodless. “Yes … yes, I’m ready.”
Anstruther gave the girl his arm almost formally, and Mrs. Wentworth followed them out, waggling her fingers to Edward as a sort of afterthought.
“Bonjour, Mr. Quartermaine!” she said lightly. “We shall have all manner of things to talk about when we return!”
Edward could not imagine what, since he had no interest in female fashions, or their accouterment. He had never troubled himself to keep up the sort of mistress who required such attentions. He preferred Kate’s manner of dress, now that he thought on it; simple, functional, and suited only to its purpose. Well, except for that green and gold confection …
As to Nancy, the poor girl looked a little sullen. And yet there had been a hopefulness in her eyes when she had looked at Anstruther. Clearly the girl was suffering mixed emotions over something, thought Edward. And why was Anstruther escorting them anyway? Something to do with buying a plow?
Edward shook his head. Anstruther, for all his recalcitrance, looked to be as under the cat’s paw as the rest of Bellecombe when it came to Aurélie Wentworth. But there was no helping the poor devil, so Edward sipped at his coffee, and returned to his musings about Kate in the green and gold gown.
KATE RETURNED HOME in the late afternoon with Tom Shearn riding alongside her. On one or two occasions, the poor man was nearly required to poke her upright, so physically exhausted did she find herself.
“A good day’s work, m’lady,” said the young man as they rode beneath the inner portcullis.
“Thank you for staying, Tom,” she said as he leapt down. “It was more than poor Jenks and I could manage. Two calves, and most of the day. Who could imagine it?”
“Happy to serve, ma’am,” he said, helping her dismount. “I’ll just take Athena round to Motte, shall I?”
“Mercy ’pon us,” declared Mrs. Peppin, meeting her at the door. “You look a fright, miss.”
“Congratulate me, Peppie.” Kate’s smile was wan. “I’m a new mother twice over, and we’re about … oh, twenty pounds richer?”
“So you may hope,” said Peppie. “But Mrs. Wentworth will have spent that in ribbons today. Well, miss, let’s get you a bath drawn. Stop staring, Jasper, you gurt gawkamouth, and set to it. Happen you’ve not seen blood and muck afore?”
With a tug of his forelock, the young man darted off.
“Bless you, Peppie,” said Kate. “What time is dinner?”
“No one’s said, miss,” reported Mrs. Peppin. “Half-seven, I daresay?”
Kate turned, already starting up the stairs. “What, has Mamma not returned?”
“Not a sight of her, miss, since eight o’clock when they set out for the village.”
“The village? Why go through the village to reach Exeter?”
The housekeeper shrugged. “I couldn’t say, Miss Kate, but turn toward it they did, for Hetty was up t’ tower shaking out rugs and saw as much.”
“Oh, well.” Kate turned back to the stairs. “Half past it is, then. Aurélie and Nancy will have to eat something cold if they are late.”
On the next landing, however, she bumped squarely into Edward, who was coming down from his newly situated room one floor above. Nerves already on edge, Kate felt her heartbeat ratchet up, and that familiar longing twist through her.
And then she remembered Annie Granger.
“Kate!” He jerked to a halt, eyes widening, and moved as if to catch her by the shoulder. “Kate, my God. Are you all right?”
She glanced down at her stained habit, but kept moving. “Quite all right,” she said calmly. “The perils of being a lady farmer, I fear. Shall I see you tonight at dinner?”
He stood stock-still on the landing. “Yes, of course,” he said after her. “But Kate, I wanted to tell you—”
“Can it wait until after dinner?” she said matter-of-factly, striding down the passageway. “I shall have more time then.”
“Well. Certainly.”
She didn’t turn around again, but set a businesslike pace all the way to her room. Once inside, however, she slammed the door and bit her lip.
Then, on muttered imprecation, she went to the sideboard and extracted not the cordial, but a bottle of Anstruther’s good Scotch whisky she kept hidden for just such a purpose. Pouring out two fingers’ worth, she slung half of it back and let it burn, blinking her eyes rapidly—a response not entirely attributable to the whisky.
Good heavens, she hurt all over, and it wasn’t just her heart. Her right arm felt as if it had been yanked from its socket, and the left not much better. Moreover she was filthy. No, she smelled. Of mud and blood and manure, and of the sweat of the day, too.
She certainly didn’t want to think of Edward or Annie on top of all else.
She threw back the rest of the whisky, then hastened through to her dressing room to strip herself bare. Soon she could hear the clatter of the tub being carried in—the big, copper contraption, too; the one ordinarily reserved only for Aurélie’s two-hour champagne-and-buttermilk soaks, the preparation of which drove the poor dairymaid half mad.
Beyond the door, bless her, Peppie was exhorting the footman to carry up the cans faster, and in short order Kate was floating in water up to her chin, the temperature so hot her skin was turning red.
To her shock, Tillie, her mother’s maid, came in—ordered to do so, no doubt, by Peppie. The maid washed Kate’s hair in Aurélie’s best savon de Marseille and rinsed it out in vinegar, then scrubbed Kate’s arms, legs, and back in Mediterranean sea salt. By the time she was finished, Kate felt clean again—and regrettably spoiled.
Afterward, the maid combed her hair dry by the fire, then curled and pinned it up in a fashion that was far too elaborate for Kate. But she was too tired to argue, and with her muscles no longer aching, her thoughts once again fixated on her heart.
She could not get Annie Granger out of her mind. And yet, for the life of her, Kate could not remember what the child looked like. Like Edward, perhaps?
And what would Edward’s children look like? Golden-haired and green-eyed? Handsome, almost certainly.
On a wave of sadness, Kate went to the wardrobe and took out a shawl. She had to shake these blue devils off; she had duties to attend. With Aurélie and Nancy away, it fell to Kate to entertain Julia, de Macey, and Sir Francis. They were likely trickling downstairs already.
But in her oddly peevish mood, Kate suddenly decided the color of her shawl was wrong, and flung it on the bed. The cashmere sailed onto her pillow like a cloud and landed with a soft rattle. She was halfway back to the dressing room when she realized that made no sense.
Curious, she turned around and marched back again. Lifting the shawl, she flicked back her covers. A fold of thick, cream-colored letter paper lay in the center of her pillow. With a strange sense of unease, Kate picked it up.
LADY JULIA HAD just stepped from her room and paused in the passageway to fondle her earbobs, as if wondering whether she’d made the best choice, when Kate burst from her room, the letter still in hand.
“Heavens, Kath
erine, you look frightful!” said Lady Julia.
“Julia,” she rasped. “My God. Do you know anything about this?”
She shoved the letter into Julia’s face. The lady took it, skimmed it, then burst into peals of laughter. “Oh, Aurélie!” she declared. “What next?”
“What next?” screeched Kate, snatching it back. “I shall tell you, Julia, what’s next. Uncle Upshaw will have her head on a pike over Temple Bar, that’s what’s next!”
Julia had drawn back as if hysteria might be contagious. “To be sure, you’re likely right,” she said more soothingly. “Poor Kate. I’m so sorry for laughing. This is terrible. What can I do?”
Kate didn’t even stop to think through her next words. “Go upstairs,” she demanded, starting down the corridor, “and tell Mr. Quartermaine I need him. I’m going downstairs to find Peppie.”
The latter was easily done; letter in hand, Kate flew down the stairs, almost plowing the poor housekeeper down.
“Lawks, miss, such hurry-scurry!” said the housekeeper. “Have ye seen a ghost?”
But reality was settling in, and Kate was beginning to feel more sick than angry. “No, but I fear, Peppie, that I soon shall,” she rasped, “and that ghost will be Mamma’s. Uncle Upshaw is going to throttle her!”
Mrs. Peppin took the letter. “Well, burn my wigs and feathers!” she cried after a moment. “Getting married—?”
Just then Edward came dashing down the stairs. “Kate?” His boot heels rang hard on the marble as he strode through the hall. “Kate, what’s happened?”
“Oh, Edward.” Kate looked up at him with desperation in her eyes. “It is beyond comprehension! Aurélie has persuaded Richard and Nancy to elope!”
“Good God!” he said. “Elope? But … how?”
Mrs. Peppin thrust the letter at him. “And that, sir, is the very question,” she said. “We know not how, but only who’s behind it. Lawks, what’s to be done, Miss Kate?”
Kate set a hand to her forehead.
