Lady Silence

by Blair Bancroft

  Jarred out of his none-too-sanguine thoughts by the post chaise’s sudden turn to the left, Damon leaned forward to drink in the sight of the curving drive leading to Farr Park. He was home. By God, he was home!

  Farr Park was a fine eighteenth century structure of mellowed red brick with a well-scythed park ornamented by the exotic shapes of several Cedars of Lebanon and the colorful glow of numerous copper beeches. His mother had written that the gardens behind the house still thrived. His steward vouched for his stables, his crops, and his sheep.

  A shiver shook the colonel’s lanky frame. How was he coming home to all this when so many others had died?

  Damon Farr uttered a word usually reserved for his troopers. For there was his staff, every last one of them, poised under the heat of the August sun on either side of the front entry. Mapes, standing at the forefront, looked surprisingly like a sergeant-major in spite of his conservative tailoring. He was still a beanpole of a man, Damon noted, with an angular jaw and a bit of gray beginning to show. Beside him was Mrs. Tyner, plump-faced and heavier by a stone or so, her beaming face looking as if she never had a serious thought when, truth be told, he’d often wished he had someone with her efficient organizational skills with him on the Peninsula.

  And there, running down the steps like the veriest schoolgirl, was his mama, Serena, Dowager Countess of Moretaine. He would have sworn he had no tender emotions left, but his feet insisted on running to meet her. When he recovered enough to put her from him for a good look, Damon discovered she had changed very little. The countess had always been slim and was now perhaps even more so. And, yes, her hair showed more gray than brown, but her eyes were filled with pride and joy. (He made a silent vow not to disillusion her.) His mama’s gown, the colonel noted, was in the first style of elegance, not unlike the day gowns of the highborn ladies in Vienna and Brussels. Obviously, living in the wilds of Wiltshire had not cut his mother off from the world of fashion.

  Colonel Farr endured the formal welcome of his staff with far more aplomb than he had tolerated his long-ago farewell, for Wellington’s officers had had to put on a good front no matter how they felt, no matter what conditions they faced. And then, finally, he was alone, staring at the walls of his room as if he had never seen them before. On the Peninsula Old Hooky and his entire staff would have considered themselves blessed to share a suite of rooms the size of his personal apartment. And, now, it was all his. As was Farr Park, an inheritance from his Uncle Bertram for which he had never been more grateful.

  Supper was a quiet affair, exactly as he wished. Damon paid little attention to his mother’s apologies for the absence of her companion, the oft-cited Katy, until Lady Moretaine added that she feared the dear girl did not wish to intrude. Nonsense, of course. Dear Katy would never be encroaching.

  Dear girl? He must have misheard. For years he had pictured Katy as an elderly cousin or maiden aunt. No matter. He’d find out soon enough. For the moment, he was content to eat Mrs. Huggins’s welcome-home feast, a compilation of his favorites, including pea soup with bacon and fresh herbs, dressed crab, asparagus in white wine and cream, minted lamb, and a Florentine of oranges and apples. Grandly topped off, after his mama left him in solitary splendor, by a generous sampling of the port he’d had shipped home from Portugal.

  With each sip Colonel Farr’s foreshortened world seemed to take on a more rosy hue. At Farr Park, the problems of the world beyond Wiltshire would not intrude. In the morning his new life awaited him. And tonight he need only fob off his mama with some of his more humorous tales. Strangely enough, there were more than a few. Somehow—yes, somehow—he would manage to get on until the shadows went away.

  During the weeks after Waterloo, with his duties down to seeing that his wounded were tended, letters written to the families of the dead, and his able troopers sheltered and re-equipped, Damon had had time to select a method for the exorcism of the shadows—the ghosts, if you will—that haunted him. Some men, he knew, could put the war behind them, as if dropping the handle of a pump, shutting off the rush of water on the instant. He envied them, but he could not emulate them. He would, therefore, make an effort to record his experiences. Not that anyone would ever read what he wrote, but if a man were going to crawl into a box and pull down the lid, he must have some occupation, must he not? Concentrating on the memoirs of Colonel Damon Farr should do the trick.

  Or should he write something people might actually want to read? Perhaps a comparison of Wellington’s maneuvers to great commanders of the past, a treatise that would appeal to not just military officers and trainees, but to the many Englishmen who were grateful to those who had rid the world of the overly ambitious Little Emperor.

  After spending the morning with his long-suffering steward, Elijah Palmer, Damon sat at his mahogany kneehole desk, frowning at the blank paper centered in front of him. He glanced at the quill sitting in its standish, then back to the paper. His frown deepened. He raised his eyes to the tall windows to his right, felt a slight amelioration of his gloom as he noted that the gardens did indeed still flourish. He reached for the quill . . . hesitated . . . then, barking one of the worst of his acquired foreign profanities, buried his head in his hands. How could a man write if he couldn’t make up his mind what he wanted to write about?

  A small thump. Damon opened his eyes to a silver tray on which reposed a steaming cup of tea, fragrant with spice, and a matching china plate with macaroons and two biscuits, one that looked like ginger, the other vanilla or lemon frosted with sugar. His mouth watered.

  But how . . . ? For nearly seven years his life had depended on being alert, yet he had not heard anyone enter the room.

  He looked up. Straight into the face of an angel.

  She was young, she was beautiful. Blond and green-eyed, with a figure that would have inspired whole regiments to duel for her favors. Her gown, sprigged in blue, was modest for a gentlewoman, decidedly out of place on a maid. No matter. She was far more mouth-watering than the biscuits.

  The girl bobbed a curtsy, turned to leave.

  “No, wait!” Colonel Farr, catching the frantic note in his first words, lowered his voice. Who are you?” he asked.

  Merciful heavens! Yesterday, her view of the returning hero had been obscured by misty eyes and a sudden attack of shyness that had kept her lurking behind Jesse, the tallest footman. Still fixed in her mind was the drunken boy who had stumbled down the stairs on his way to war. Not this whipcord-thin, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, lantern-jawed, imposing adult. With lines radiating from the corners of eyes as dark as his hair, deep-cut slashes from nose to chin, cheekbones that formed lines of their own, and a mouth that looked as if it never smiled.

  Yesterday, she had been afraid to put herself forward, afraid to join the homecoming celebration for fear that when Colonel Damon Farr remembered how she came there—when he recalled the careless largess that had resulted in her elevation so far above the waif rescued from a cold winter night, he would have her dismissed on the instant. In the light of a fine August day, she had gathered her courage and had decided to brave the lion in the privacy of his den. And all she was gaining was the knowledge that her savior, whom she had worshipped through all these years, was far harder and more implacable than she had ever dreamed.

  “Who are you?” he repeated. Far more ominously.

  If you think I’m going to tell you, you are quite mistaken!

  The blasted girl stuck up her chin and stared straight back at him. Blond . . . green eyes. A memory flickered to life. A child with matted hair and a borrowed gown. Something odd about her . . . ah, yes, he’d been told she didn’t talk. “Ring the bell,” he ordered. Silently, she glided across the thick Persian carpet and did as she was told. “Stay!” he added sharply, as the girl continued on toward the door. She skidded to a halt, folded her hands demurely in front of her. She stayed.

  “Mapes,” the colonel demanded as the butler entered the room, “tell me about her.”

  “Ah
. . .” The butler cleared his throat. “You may recall, sir, the little miss we took in the night before you left, the one that came to the kitchen door during a snowstorm?”

  “I recall a waif, Mapes, one not even fit to be a tweeny.”

  “You said we could keep her, sir.”

  “Yes . . . and I wasn’t myself at the time, as I recollect.”

  “A bit askew, as I recall, Mr. Farr, colonel, sir, but you never was one to turn a child out into the snow.”

  Damon drummed his fingers on the mahogany desk top. “And what would you say we have now, Mapes?” He waved a hand toward the girl who was standing regally straight, taking it all in. “Who, pray tell, is this? Lady Silence?”

  “’Tis Katy Snow, sir,” the butler declared, happy to have a solid fact to grasp. “You see, Mrs. Tyner said she looked like something the cat dragged in, so we decided to call her Kate or Katy. And since she came to us in the snow . . .” Mapes allowed his voice to trail off, casting a hopeful look at his master, who used to be such a gay, charming, and generous lad.

  “And she still doesn’t talk,” said the colonel flatly.

  “No, sir, not a single word.”

  “Yet, if I am not mistaken—and, pray, do not fail to enlighten me if I am wrong—this is Katy, the companion my mother has frequently mentioned in her letters?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “I see.” Though he certainly did not. “And how is it possible for a girl who cannot talk to be anyone’s companion, let alone companion to the Dowager Countess of Moretaine?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Damon saw the girl bristle. Interesting. The chit was quivering with rage when she was the jumped-up scullery maid or orphan or whatever the hell she was. She ought to be quivering because she was shaking with fright, but he had dealt with too many young men her age not to be able to tell the difference between fright and rage.

  “She fetches and carries, colonel. Runs errands to the village. She helps the countess with her embroidery, arranges flowers a real treat.” Mapes broke off, coughed behind his hand at this digression from his customary stately presentation. “You see, colonel,” he added, “it did not take long for us to see she could not tell a feather duster from a carpet beater. Didn’t even know the proper way to wash a dish or hang up laundry. Not that she didn’t try—she surely did—but ’twas clear she’d had no training in service, sir. When Lady Moretaine came to us, she took to Katy right off, and it was a blessing to see the child blossom when she was put to chores she understood.”

  “Good God!” the colonel growled, as the implications began to dawn, for he had not become a colonel solely because of his ability to purchase his exalted rank.

  While his mind wandered over a problem that might be more serious than anyone had thought, he continued his conversation with Mapes. “Are companions not supposed to read to their employers?” he inquired with more than a touch of sarcasm.

  Mapes straightened his shoulders, stretched his considerable height half an inch taller. With eyes fixed somewhere over his employer’s shoulder, he replied, “Fortunately, colonel, Lady Moretaine seems to enjoy reading to Katy.”

  “Indeed. How odd of me not to think of that.”

  “She takes baskets to the sick and infirm, colonel, and helped make lint bandages during the war, and—”

  “Enough!” the colonel roared. “But she never talks?” he added more softly. “Not even a squeak at sight of a mouse?”

  “Never, Mr. Farr. Not once.”

  “You may go, both of you. But, ah—Katy . . . do not think you have heard the last of this. I shall have much more to say on this subject after I have spoken with my mother.”

  When the door closed behind his two employees, Colonel Farr ran a hand through his dark brown hair, clutching a handful and tugging ‘til it hurt. Damn and blast! Home not yet a full day, and he had a mystery on his hands. Either he was giving houseroom to a shockingly adept adventuress or else he was harboring a sprig of the ton, an underage runaway for whose disappearance he could be charged with kidnapping.

  Not to mention the fact that the girl aroused feelings he could only term lust. If he had ever had the capacity for love, it had died long since. He lusted. She was a girl of no background, no family protection. Although honor forbade her seduction, he rather thought he’d left that on the battlefield as well.

  Katy Snow. A common name for a most uncommon girl.

  Katy Snow. Who did not talk.

  Katy Snow, who was likely a brass-faced hussy, who had honed herself a place at Farr Park through the soft hearts of his staff and his mama’s gullibility.

  His body was dazzled. His mind had taken her in dislike.

  And she dared be furious with him. Yes, she was, he knew it.

  Who did she think she was? Ah, but that was the problem, was it not? She, and only she, knew the answer. And did not tell. For years she had made fools of them all. But he was home now. And nobody made a fool of Colonel Damon Farr.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Three

  Katy, whose attic room had long since given way to a fine chamber not far from the countess’s own, slipped down from her high bed, and settled on a seat beneath an open window. A soft night breeze wafted the scent of the garden from two stories below. A three-quarter moon cast a pale glow over the irregular shapes of hedges, flower borders, fountains, and winding paths. A fantasy garden in silver, as fleeting, as ephemeral, as her life.

  She’d been so happy at Farr Park. The months, the years, of her growing up, had drifted from one day to the next on a haze of contentment. Of course there had been a few moments . . . Katy’s lips curled softly in remembrance of broken plates, unstarched shirts, Mrs. Tyner’s frown as she found dust where Katy had never thought to run a duster, Mapes’s haughty and terrifying scowl when he had found her charging down the front family stairs at what he later described as “full tilt.” But they had all been kind, even as they threw up their hands and wondered whatever would they do with Katy Snow.

  And then Lady Moretaine had arrived. And ever so gradually, the youngest member of Farr Park’s staff—the not-quite-child with patrician features and proud bearing—had become, if not a lady, then certainly a gentlewoman. Her ability to read had been revealed even before the dowager countess came to Farr Park, when any search for the rescued waif always ended in the library. So perhaps it should not have been such a surprise to discover Katy could not only sort silks, but was capable of setting as neat an embroidery stitch as Lady Moretaine herself. The mystery child wrote in a flowing, well-formed script. She could arrange flowers, as if to the manor born. She could drive a pony cart, ride a horse. And on one well-remembered day the entire household had come to halt when notes were heard from behind the closed door of the music room. The pianoforte. Someone was playing the pianoforte.

  Katy Snow.

  Katy supposed she should not have been so bold. Yet pride was a terrible thing. Combined with childish bravado, it was lethal. When Lady Moretaine decided to set her to stitching a sampler, she had stayed up half the night decorating the small piece of cloth with every embroidery stitch she knew. The dowager had blinked, exclaimed, rung for Mrs. Tyner, who had echoed Lady Moretaine’s surprise and praise. And, after that, Katy had succumbed to the temptation of revealing the skills of a young lady of quality. So many disasters those first few years, so many scolds—surely it would have been inhuman to continue to keep her light under a bushel.

  And now, at eighteen, she was a respected member of the household, a well-known figure in the village, the only wrinkle in her smooth path the occasional necessity of demonstrating to overeager males that her inability to talk did not mean they could do as they would with her. But, today, she had looked into Colonel Damon Farr’s eyes and seen doubt, suspicion, and something far worse. For years now, the household at Farr Park had awaited his letters with bated breath, poured over every word, sought his name in the military despatches printed in the newspapers. He was a hero, their darling, the
wonder of his mama’s life. The object of Katy Snow’s devotion. She had filled her head with daydreams of the tousle-haired drunken boy staggering off to war, with thoughts of soothing his brow, satisfying his every whim, as she did for his mother.

  But there her dreams had stopped, for her mind would allow her to go no further. Not from naivety but from horror, for Katy Snow well knew that men were not always what they seemed. And what she had seen in the eyes of Colonel Damon Farr was not only suspicion, but lust. Why, why, why, when she had been so happy?

  No . . . she had been content. Comfortable, well-fed, accustomed to her routine. But happy? Perhaps not. She was eighteen, an age to be wed. Yet before her stretched only endless years of fetching and carrying. No husband, no children, no home of her own. By chance, augmented by her own wits, she had found shelter, a place to grow up. But now she could almost see the walls beginning to crumble around her. She recalled the carelessness with which the boy had allowed her to stay, recognized his generosity for the indifferent exercise of noblesse oblige that it was. She had mistakenly idolized a man who, instead of a hero, had become a sharp-eyed, lecherous old man who was going to be a problem. Lust was bad enough, but what if he should make inquiries?

  What to do, what to do, what to do?

  To Lady Moretaine, she was almost like a daughter. To her son, she was a nobody, a possession. Someone to be used as he chose. She had read of men and wars in the books of the vast library compiled by Damon Farr’s uncle. And of the fate of women at the hands of soldiers. No, she did not at all like the flare of appreciation in the colonel’s eyes, no more than the scorn and anger that swiftly followed.