by Liz Carlyle
“—which would explain the overcooked breakfasts we’ve been eating round here,” Kate added in an undertone. “I thought, Peppie, that you’d decided he was a rich scoundrel who’d left his illegitimate child hidden away in the countryside?”
Mrs. Peppin’s gaze left Kate’s. “Oh, well, it’s not for me to judge, miss,” she said a little guiltily. “It’s hard not to like the gentleman, that’s all I’ve to say in the matter. Ever so polite, and never a sharp word to staff.”
Kate’s head was beginning to ache—this, on top of eyes which had been so red and stained from crying, she had been compelled to hold a cold facecloth to them before coming downstairs this morning.
“Well,” she said, pushing up from the table. “I’m off to the estate office to find Anstruther. After that, I’m meeting Uncle Upshaw at the new rectory to make sure he finds it good enough for Nancy. In between, if I’ve time, I’d better go round through the village and look in on the newlyweds, just to give them the cut of Uncle’s jib.”
“But what can Upshaw have to say about any of it now?” demanded Mrs. Peppin. “The house or the marriage, come to that?”
Kate shook her head. “There’s nothing he can say, honestly, with Nancy having spent a night alone with Richard,” she said. “Even an annulment, or whatever one calls it, would spell ruin for her. But Mamma has treated Uncle shabbily; as if his wishes were of no import whatever.”
“I don’t know, miss,” said Peppin. “Seems to me His Lordship was being unreasonable and your mother cleverly got round him.”
“Good heavens, you sound like Edward,” Kate muttered. “Then end justifies the means! And perhaps it does. I do not know. But I’m going through the motions of trying to appease Uncle Upshaw because his feelings do matter, Peppie. He has been nothing but kind to Nancy and me.”
“Oh, aye,” said Mrs. Peppin, “in his own stiff-rumped and mighty way!”
“But he is family,” said Kate, rising from her chair, “and one should not quarrel with one’s family if it can be avoided.”
“Well, blessed be the peacemakers.” Mrs. Peppin had stood and was going through the pocket of her smock. “But about Mr. Edward—”
“What about him, Peppie?” asked Kate a little snappishly.
The housekeeper extracted a letter. “This came for him in the morning’s post,” she said. “From London, it is. Isn’t he to be at dinner tonight?”
“Oh … heavens.” Kate considered it. Edward was a new neighbor; one who had until today been a guest in her house. “I don’t know. Give me the letter, Peppie, and I shall think what’s best done.”
Taking up her hat and her riding crop, Kate left the housekeeper’s sitting room feeling more beleaguered than when she’d gone in—which had been quite a lot—and wondering if Peppie, too, meant to take Edward’s side in this business.
Which was foolish, she told herself, when there was no side. She was not at war with Edward.
She was at war with herself.
And this morning she had awoken the most dreadful suspicion that she had somehow wronged him. He had said he was not Annabelle Granger’s father. And Edward had never shown himself anything less than honest—almost blatantly so. From the very first, he had admitted things about himself he might easily have hidden, or glossed over.
But she could not think of that now, Kate reminded herself, going out into the sunlit bailey. Their relationship had been dangerous at best, and if it was truly over …
She found herself blinking back tears again, and hastened across the cobblestones into the shadows of the estate office, relieved to find it empty. After blowing her nose and dashing her cuffs beneath her eyes, Kate set about catching up the accounts that had been let go since her mother’s arrival, while she lay in wait for Anstruther.
He came in half an hour later, his boots muddied and his attitude formal. He greeted her civilly, of course, and sat down at his great desk opposite to bring Kate up to date on the morning’s events around the estate. She, in turn, went over the accounts. They were still looking for ways to come up with the cash to purchase the tin mine in Cornwall.
At the end of it, Anstruther sighed. “Nay, it’s not to be, lass,” he said, shaking his head. “Ask Upshaw, but to borrow money now, rates in the City being what they are …”
“No, no borrowing.” Kate closed the account book with a heavy thud. “We’re nicely above water, Anstruther, and we’re staying there. I do not need to ask Uncle’s advice in that regard.”
Anstruther looked relieved, and set his hands on his broad, muscular thighs as if to be off.
“No, no, no,” said Kate, throwing up a hand. “Anstruther, we are going to talk.”
“Aye, we just did, didn’t we?” But with a wary expression, he sat back down.
Kate drew a deep breath. “Something happened last night,” she said. “A bit of awkwardness to do with Aurélie. I should hate you to catch wind of it, and think wrongly of her.”
He set his head at a sharp, quizzical angle. “That’s naught to do with me, my lady.”
“Oh, don’t my lady me, John Anstruther!” said Kate impatiently. “You’re no more sensible than Aurélie, I begin to think. And by the way, just how long—and how often—have you been—er, keeping company with my mother?”
“Hmph,” he said. “That would be our business.”
“It was,” Kate admitted, “until this week. Now out with it. Mamma will make me no sense; I needn’t even ask her. We’re a family, Anstruther. I wish to know everything.”
“Then you’ll have to wish on, miss,” he said stiffly.
Kate scowled. Then, shoulders slumping, she shook her head. “Not everything,” she said wearily. “Just … the when, and the who knows. What else can come back to bite us, Anstruther? I cannot guard your back unless I have some notion.”
Anstruther was quiet a long moment, his huge index finger going thump, thump, thump! atop his desk. Then he stopped, and rubbed it alongside his nose. “A long while, then,” he said, “if ye must know. Since you were a wee lass, and I came down to take up this post. And no one knows, as best I can tell ye.”
“Were you … in love with Mamma?”
“Aye, long ago, I suppose,” he said, “when I first met her. I’d just come down from university, and was visiting here. Aurélie was young still, Nan’s age or thereabout, and your brother was just a babe.”
“But nothing came of it?”
He shook his head. “Not until your father strayed some years later, and took to dice and drink,” he said. “But I dinna wish to speak ill of him, miss, so I’d as soon leave it at that.”
“You don’t feel guilty, I take it.” Kate managed to smile.
“I didna say that.” Anstruther’s expression was grim. “But in any case, aye, your mother and I have known one another long and well, Kate. Sometimes we’ve been friends; sometimes more.”
Kate was beginning to think it was mostly sometimes more, for a great number of things seemed to be falling into place—this, despite the fact that she was so distraught over Edward she could barely think straight.
She drew a deep breath. “So—all those business trips to London all these years—for me and for Grandpapa,” she ventured, “it was not just to save him the travel, or to save me the embarrassment of running into Reggie, was it?”
He gave a barely discernable shrug. “No.”
Kate leaned back in her chair, and crossed her arms over her chest. “So, in summary,” she said, “you and my mother met, fell for one another to some uncertain degree, and commenced an on-again off-again love affair both here and in London. And all the while, gossip has pegged her to the Comte de Macey, along with various other rakes, rogues, and scoundrels?”
“Aye, weel, from time to time, lass, your mother and I fell out,” said Anstruther darkly, “when I didna do to suit her.”
“Yes, but we’re talking about a span of twenty years,” Kate pointed out. “And Mamma’s actual affaire with de Macey, I beg
in to think, was of very short duration.”
Anstruther looked sheepish. “Aye, a few months,” he admitted, “until I came to my senses.”
“Ah, bucked up stubborn over something, did you?” she muttered. “Well, I need not know what. But Anstruther, Aurélie is a widow, and has been some years. De Macey can find someone else to use as wallpaper. Why don’t you pursue her openly if you care for her?”
“What, court the woman?” Anstruther looked aghast. “Miss Kate, it wouldna do.”
“I can’t think why,” said Kate. “Unless you’re put off by the fact that she’s mentally unhinged.”
“I haven’t the wherewithal to give her the life she should have,” declared Anstruther. “I’m not of her ilk.”
“Indeed not, you’re a good deal more sensible,” said Kate. “As to your wherewithal, I don’t doubt for a minute you’re rich as Midas. You’ve a lovely manor house at South Farm, and you’re certainly as wellborn as Mamma. Her mother was the governess, you’ll recall, and her grandfather little more than a jumped-up Parisian greengrocer.”
“Nay, it wouldna do,” he said again.
Kate shrugged. “You must suit yourself,” she said amiably. “No doubt she’s more than most men would wish to take on. But your post here could not be more secure, as you very well know, all your bad-tempered, self-sacrificing protestations aside. So if you wish to have her, but haven’t the courage to pursue her seriously, then you must take the blame upon yourself, not me.”
“Hmph” was all he said.
“Very well, then.” Kate gave up, and snatched her hat and crop. “I’m riding into the village to drop in on Nancy and Richard. May I depend upon you to bring Uncle Upshaw out to the new rectory for our poke-about?”
“Aye, I’ll bring the carnaptious, fykie fellow,” grumbled Anstruther under his breath, “and will be wishin’ my ears stopped wi’ wax, I dinna doot.”
“I have no idea what you just said,” Kate replied evenly, “but I shall see the both of you at eleven o’clock sharp. Pray do not be late, for we’ve twenty-odd guests for dinner tonight.”
“Aye, aye, I ken.” He waved her away.
Then, her memory stirred, she turned from the door and extracted the letter. “Anstruther, could you drop this by Heatherfields, and tell Mr. Quartermaine we still hope to see him at dinner tonight? After all, he’s our neighbor now.”
Some inscrutable emotion passed over Anstruther’s face. “Aye, lass, no trouble a’tall.”
Then Kate snared her lip an instant. “And about that little dust-up last night—”
“No need,” he said, waving her off. “Heard all aboot it already. And fair pleased with herself, she was, too.”
“Oh,” said Kate. “But Mamma is still abed and no one else has—”
Anstruther lifted his head from his ledger to smile thinly.
“Ah.” Kate slapped her hat on. “Well. I see. I shall just be off, then.”
Then, for a third time, she turned back. “Anstruther?”
“Aye?” He slapped his pencil down.
Kate hesitated, carefully considering her words. “Did you ever wonder if … well, if when a person wants what they cannot have, do they ever …”
He crooked one grizzled eyebrow. “Aye?”
Kate just shook her head, the explanation failing her. “Mamma, I mean,” she managed. “Her capriciousness. Her willfulness. Could it be all of a piece?”
“All of a piece of what?” he said.
“Her unhappiness,” said Kate.
His massive muttonchops twitched as if his jaw muscle was jerking.
Kate sighed. “There, Anstruther, I’ve said it,” she went on. “I fear Mamma is unhappy—unhappy in her way, I mean. And though it certainly does not fall to you to make her happy, consider if perhaps what you want isn’t so far removed from what she wants, and—”
“It is,” he tightly interjected.
“Fine.” Kate nodded, and seized the doorknob.
“That’s to say, Kate, it must be.” Then he hesitated a long moment. “But I shall think on it. Aye, lass. I shall think on it a time.”
Stunned into near silence, Kate went around into the outer bailey and helped Motte saddle her horse. Athena was tossing her head in the cool, autumn air, but the stall beside her looked empty, and oddly forlorn.
Motte slicked a hand down Athena’s withers. “Aye, the big fellow’s gone orf ter ’is new home,” he said soothingly. “More apples for you, me fine girl.”
It was a cold comfort, those extra apples, thought Kate, thanking Motte for flinging her up into the saddle, and then setting off across the bridge.
All the way down the hill, in fact, and up the next, Kate’s mind was in a tumult with thoughts of Edward. The certainty that she’d made a grievous error was growing within her, and a sense of desperation was building.
She kept telling herself—as she had for some time now—that even setting aside his treatment of poor Annabelle Granger, Edward was entirely wrong for her; that his past and his business dealings made him unfit even to know. That his being at Bellecombe, even as Aurélie’s guest, had constituted a risk to her good name.
But it was almost as if she no longer cared. As if the weakness in her knees had sapped all power of logic.
Kate reminded herself of Nancy, and of the sweet promise that her marriage to Richard held. Of Aunt Louisa’s three daughters yet to be married. Already they struggled with all the titters and gossip surrounding Aurélie’s racy, headstrong behavior. They didn’t need Kate to become the subject of wagging tongues. Aurélie, at least, was a widow, and permitted a measure of latitude.
But Kate, as always, was stuck somewhere in the middle—and a little tired, to be honest, of worrying about everyone else.
Her self-pity, however, was at once severed when she topped the last hill, and looked down toward the intersection at Edward’s fateful milestone. There, by the more modern signpost that pointed toward the village, was a late lamb—one far too young to have been separated from its mother.
The poor thing was bleating so plaintively, Kate could hear it all the way down the hill, and even when she had nearly reached it, the lamb struggled, but didn’t shy away as one might expect.
“Poor mite!” Kate murmured, curious. “I will set you back over the fence.”
Dismounting, she draped Athena’s reins in the hedge, and stepped onto the verge to examine it, and still the lamb did nothing but cry, its pink tongue trembling pitifully.
“Now, however did you get out, little lamb?” she asked, reaching down to scoop it up.
Only then did she realize the poor thing had got caught in a rope.
Kneeling, she realized it was not caught, but, horrifyingly, it had been tied. A thin rope had been wrapped around its pastern, and tied to the bottom of the signpost.
“Those bloody village lads!” she said to the creature, now yanking a little dangerously at the rope. “We shall have their heads, little lamb. Be still, and let me get this loose.”
In a trice, Kate had the knot untied around its leg and turned quickly to scoop it up, drawing it to her chest. But Kate never made it back onto her feet. Suddenly, the lamb began to flail. And then there was a flash of white before her eyes, and Kate could not breathe.
She dropped the lamb, scrabbling backward with her bootheels, clawing at the hand clapped over her face, fighting to rip away the great wad of cloth that covered her mouth and nose. But Kate could see nothing; nothing but the distant hedgerow, and the little lamb skittering toward it.
And then Kate saw nothing at all.
CHAPTER 18
In Which Anstruther
Delivers a Swift Kick
The kitchen chimney at Heatherfields smoked. Ashy, acrid clouds roiled from its grimy maw, then drifted languidly to the bare, black-beamed ceiling—but not before scorching out Edward’s nose hair and sending him reeling back with a cough that sounded of consumption and impending death.
Where was Vesta, he
thought sourly, when you needed her?
There was no home here. Hell, there wasn’t even a hearth. There was just a filthy, entirely antiquated kitchen with a massive black hole belching ash and ruin.
“Told ’ee it smoked,” said the wizened old man behind him.
“You said, sir—and I quote—it be ter’ble smeetchy,” Edward snapped, “though I begin at last to grasp your meaning.” On a spate of sudden anger, he seized the poker and thrashed violently at the fire.
“Here now, mind ’ee the chimley-crook, sir, do!” cried the man. “The missus must hang the pot thereon.”
“A pot of what?” Edward stood and turned, still grasping the poker.
Mr. Cutler threw up his arms as if to ward off a blow.
On a curse, Edward flung the poker aside. “A pot of what, sir?” he asked a little more gently.
“Supper,” said the old man, “and d’ee wish a chimmer made up, sir?”
“A chimmer?” Good God, did these people not speak the Queen’s English? “No, but I now need a hot bath. And what in blazes is a chimmer?”
Mr. Cutler looked wounded. “Upstairs, sir.” He stabbed a finger at the filthy ceiling. “A bed-chimmer. Missus zaid I was vor ax o’ ’ee d’ee mean to stay past supper? Or do ’ee go back to the gurt house?”
“Ah, a bedchamber,” said Edward, his wrath collapsing in on him, only to become something like grief. “No, Cutler. I will not be going back to Bellecombe. I’m at Heatherfields to stay.”
“Aye. Well a’ fine then.”
The old man nodded, but he might as well have been shaking his head, so doubtful of Edward’s sanity did he seem.
And Cutler was right, Edward realized. He was a little mad.
Moreover, his arrival here had thrown the elderly caretaker into a muddle, and left his not-so-elderly “missus” less than pleased. She was out, so far as Edward could grasp from the Somerset accent, attempting to kill a chicken for his dinner.
Hands set stubbornly on his hips, Edward turned in a slow circle, taking in the miserable room with its scarred wooden worktable, and its massive Welsh dresser racked with dusty platters and plates, some of which still looked encrusted with only God knew what.
