Lady Silence

by Blair Bancroft

  “A shooting party is scarcely the place for a female.”

  “Activities are arranged for the wives,” his mother responded repressively. “I always accompanied your father when he decided to reduce the population of partridge, pheasants, grouse and woodcock. And possibly ptarmigan and a hare or two,” she added to demonstrate her acquaintance with Scotland’s fine variety of wildlife.

  “I should have remembered,” Lady Moretaine continued. “Ashby goes to Wishart each year at this time. I doubt he will return before All Saints Day.” She sighed. “I believe you must simply tell that woman we will visit as soon as he is in residence at Castle Moretaine.”

  “I must?” Damon said, a spark that might have been humor kindling in his usually solemn dark eyes.

  “Indeed,” his mama retorted. “I do not correspond with that . . . with the other Lady Moretaine.”

  Whatever had occurred between the two countesses of Moretaine, Damon thought, it must have been momentous. Or was it all a tempest in a teapot, female bickerings over little or nothing? Women were such strange creatures.

  Shame struck him. He was echoing nearly forgotten mutterings of men over brandy at their clubs. The mutterings of soldiers had been more charitable—a wistful, even worshipful, longing for the women they left behind—sometimes even as they fondled the dark-eyed doxies at their side. Not that Wellington had ever complained of the absence of his wife, of course. But he’d always had the pick of the Peninsular crop, had he not? And little sentiment for his poor Kitty, left cooling her heels at home.

  Damon supposed that to women men were strange creatures. In truth, how dull the world would be if the Good Lord had not made the thoughts and actions of one sex incomprehensible to the other. Even his mama was frequently a mystery. And the women who followed the drum had to have been as mad as they were gallant. And Katy Snow? Katy was a most strange creature, he could not deny it. Yet her singularity added to her appeal.

  As he did so often at table, Damon glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. There she sat in a gown the color of light jade. The gauzy fabric she wore tucked into her bosom was woven with silver thread. Candlelight reflected off her porcelain skin, her rosy lips, the wispy blond curls escaping her upswept coiffure. The green eyes were hidden, however, demurely lowered to her soup.

  The dowager interrupted the colonel’s vicarious enjoyment of his table companion. “We must have some new gowns made for you, Katy, before we visit Moretaine.”

  Katy choked on her soup, coughing and vehemently shaking her head at the same time.

  “Indeed, yes,” declared the dowager, after Colonel Farr rose to the occasion by springing up to pat his secretary on the back.

  Katy’s coughs eased, but she sat there, with tears still dripping down her face, shaking her head as hard as her breathlessness would allow.

  The colonel produced a handkerchief and gently dried her tears. Ignoring him, Katy thrust out her hand, index finger jabbing downward with considerable force. The emerald eyes, as belligerent as he had ever seen them, shot fire.

  “You will not eat in the kitchen,” Lady Moretaine stated firmly. “Nor do you need to look at me so, Damon. I am not proposing to adorn the child in silks and satin. In fact, I concede the necessity of clothing her as a proper companion while at Castle Moretaine. The new gowns I speak of will be plain—though not wholly without appeal,” she added as Katy stared at her in dismay. “Believe me, child, I am far too fond of you to expose you to my daughter-in-law’s wrath. We shall make every effort to have you disappear into the woodwork.”

  Colonel Farr’s snort of derision was enough to set the candles in the center of the table to fluttering. But all he said was, “She needs a new riding habit as well. And no need to dip into your purse, mama. I shall stand the nonsense. Without an owner roistering his way through society these seven years, the estate has done very well. Palmer’s a good man. Have the reckonings sent to me.”

  “That is generous, my dear. Thank you.” Lady Moretaine and her son avoided Katy Snow’s indignant gaze by turning their attention to the trout sprinkled with chives just placed before them.

  Castle Moretaine was in Gloucestershire, not far north of Bath. Castle Moretaine was not at all where Katy Snow wished to go.

  Castle Moretaine was close by Oxley Hall, an ugly four-square manor house without a hint of architectural style, except for its construction in what was commonly known as Bath stone. Its walls might be lighter than the soot-drenched houses in Bath itself, but the heart of Oxley Hall was black as a moonless night. Dark as the people inside it.

  She would never go back. Never!

  Farr Park was her sanctuary, yet there was no way she could beg to stay at home while Lady Moretaine braved her daughter-in-law’s uncertain temper . For most of the years Katy had attended the dowager countess, she had been young enough to easily avoid the dreaded Drucilla’s notice. The younger Lady Moretaine paid only a single duty call on her mother-in-law each Season in London. The remainder of their enforced meetings were at routs, balls, and other ton events that Katy Snow did not attend. This past Season, however, had been more difficult, for the earl’s wife had finally noticed the delicate beauty of the elder countess’s companion. She had asked questions, demanded answers. Drucilla had not been pleased by the encroaching little chit’s origins, her all-too-charming person, nor by her mama-in-law’s obvious preference for what the younger countess referred to as the Upstart Tart.

  Worse yet, it was likely Lady Oxley was on calling terms with the younger Countess of Moretaine. The thought was nearly paralyzing. A variety of disguises flitted through Katy’s mind. A wig? Penciled lines of aging? Hunched shoulders? But disguise was impossible without an explanation to the countess. And the colonel. And that, of course, was wholly impossible.

  Yet the alternative—discovery—was too terrible to contemplate. For, legally, she was underage and had no rights. She was chattel. She could be disposed of, like a sacrificial pawn on a chessboard, at the whim of her guardian. She could be screamed at, shouted at, beaten. Used as a “convenient.” She had no rights. No one to whom she could complain. Not even the vicar had been willing to interfere between a recalcitrant child and her guardian.

  So she had run away.

  And now she would be going back.

  “Katy, Katy, my dear, what is wrong? You look quite pale.”

  Katy Snow looked down at the uneaten trout on her plate and, of course, said nothing at all.

  Katy sat tall in the saddle of the her dainty bay mare and gazed down at Farr Park. From here—from this very spot—she had first seen the solid rectangle of the house, the drive lit by torches, the sturdy stables off to one side beyond the gardens. With snow stinging her face, hunger in her belly, and despair in her heart, she had stumbled to the top of this hill . . . and found paradise. Warmth, food, kindness. A lightening of her soul.

  A home.

  And now she must risk it all on a visit to Castle Moretaine. For no excuse was sufficient to explain a refusal to accompany Lady Moretaine. When forced to live in close confines with The Dreadful Drucilla, the countess needed her support. Yet for both the dowager and herself, Katy feared the results. There was something ominous afoot, as if a storm cloud were moving in—now just a wisp of gray here and there, but presaging a great mass of shadows yet to come.

  Surely not. Her childhood fears were rearing their heads, expanding into monsters . . .

  No, indeed. The fears of those last months of her childhood were monsters. Else she would not have run away. Would not be here, gazing down so longingly, so lovingly, at her refuge.

  But with Damon Farr in residence, was it still a refuge? Surely the most diabolical mind could not have devised a more clever trap. And she, fancying herself the most clever of mice, was attempting to spring the trap and seize the cheese without damage to her person.

  Katy slumped in the saddle, glowering at the corner of the great house that housed the bookroom. Colonel Damon Farr thought her an
adventuress. Lower than a servant. A convenience to be used and discarded at will. They might have agreed to a truce, but it was tenuous at best. She’d caught the assessing glances, the speculation, the flashes of disgust when he realized what he was doing.

  Undoubtedly, the colonel had been raised with all the tenets of honor, duty, and gentility, but Katy suspected a good deal of his better nature had been stripped away in the crucible of war. The Damon Farr of the present was quite capable of making use of her skills and contemplating other, more intimate, services, even as he thought her a scheming adventuress.

  Perhaps because he thought her an adventuress.

  The saddest part was, he would not be far from wrong.

  “You have become a statue, Snow.”

  She had heard him coming, had known he would stop and speak to her. Had felt her heartbeat quicken, her breath shorten, even as she kept her eyes fixed on Farr Park below.

  “A lovely sight,” he offered.

  A double entendre? Did she want him to be looking at her as he said it, not at Farr Park. Haymarket Ware, whispered the breeze. Ha-aymarket Wa-are.

  “Look at me, dammit!”

  Katy’s hands jerked, her mare caracoling close to edge of the steep drop-off. The colonel, grabbing the bridle, towing Katy’s horse back from the brink. “Idiot female,” he roared, “you shouldn’t ride if you can’t control your horse. I’ve a good mind to forbid it.”

  She was the idiot? When he had gone from caress to bark in the space of seconds, startling her no end. The man was impossible, with no way to tell what he would do next. The drunken but carefree young man she remembered would never have treated her so. But that man had been lost in the war, with only a rare glimpse surfacing in the grim, reclusive officer who now lived at Farr Park.

  Katy patted her mare’s mane, attempting to coax a calm in her mount she could not feel herself. She squared her shoulders, looked her Nemesis straight in the eye. See . . . my head is up, my pride intact.

  “We will be leaving for Castle Moretaine sooner than expected,” he told her, still frowning. “I have had a letter from my brother’s steward informing me that Moretaine has cut short his shooting trip. It seems he took a chill in the confounded Scottish weather, and, rather than staying by the fire to recover, he wishes to return home. He should, in fact, be in residence by the time we arrive. Naturally, my mother is anxious to attend him. As a child, Ashby was ever subject to inflammations of the lungs.”

  Even as Katy nodded her understanding, she was urging her mare forward. Her mistress, not trusting The Dreadful Drucilla to attend her son, would be frantic with worry.

  The colonel grabbed her bridle. Katy rocked in the saddle. Glared.

  “You will listen to me carefully, Snow,” said the colonel, towering over her on his black stallion. “You will efface yourself at Castle Moretaine, be no more than a dark wraith trailing in my mother’s wake. No stylish gowns, no winsome smiles, no putting yourself forward. You will remember that you are nothing, a product of the gutter raised to the astonishing heights of upper servant solely by my mother’s generosity.”

  Katy stared at him, trying not to blink. Attempting to appear stoic when her face threatened to crumple under his onslaught. When she longed to open her mouth and howl, say it wasn’t so.

  “According to my mother, my brother’s wife does not associate with servants. She does not wish to see you, hear you, or acknowledge your existence. You are dust beneath her feet. Is that clear?”

  Katy’s anger faded, just a trifle, for most certainly she did not wish to be seen. Greatly daring, she raised cupped palms before her face, pantomiming the reading of a book.

  The colonel appeared thoughtful. “If our stay is a lengthy one,” he ventured, “I will wish to work on my book. You may assist me. And if you are asking if you may read, I see no reason why you may not,” he added magnanimously. “Though you are warned not to do so in front of Lady Moretaine. The younger countess,” he clarified, as Katy’s brow wrinkled in a puzzled frown.

  She patted her mare’s withers, raised her brows.

  “As for riding . . . I suppose it may be arranged—if I make the request directly to Moretaine. He’s an obliging fellow, for all his poor taste in women.”

  Ashby. Damon tried to picture the older brother he had not seen since he left for the Peninsula. Ashby had been about the age he himself was now. An earl. A great prize on the marriage mart. Always a bit too thin, too solitary, serious to the point of pomposity. Although he performed his duties as earl with punctilious attention, he had had to be pushed into the London social scene by his mama and, later, by his brother, who had been as outgoing as the earl was reserved.

  When Damon was on the Peninsula, however, his mama had written of Ashby’s transformation after his marriage to the most sparkling diamond of the Season of 1811. Ashby had become quite the man about town, she declared, pleased that her eldest had blossomed at last.

  And now look at us, Damon thought in disgust. Moretaine is disillusioned, haring off to Scotland to flee The Dreadful Drucilla, and I have become a worse recluse than my brother ever thought of being. A fine pair, we are.

  Ashby had always admired his quiet, responsible older brother, without ever feeling the least desire to stand in his shoes. He had, in fact, rejoiced in his freedom to be the carefree young man about town and, later, in his freedom to choose a life of adventure in the cavalry. Until that long, bloody day in June when there was nothing left on the battlefield but a sea of the dead and dying—red coats, blue coast, green coats, horses . . .

  He’d known Waterloo was the end. Honor be damned, he never wanted to see a battlefield again.

  He was damaged. He knew that, even though he’d never admit it. Even his love for his mother was somehow . . . remote. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, care about people, because it hurt too much when he lost them.

  And that included Katy Snow.

  Katy. Damon’s thoughts thumped back to the present. The little minx was still there, regarding him with anxious eyes. Such a tasty little morsel. Drucilla would snap her up in a single mouthful. A pity his mother would defend the little baggage as fiercely as a bear guards its cub. Life without Katy Snow would be so much more . . . peaceful.

  “Be sure your dressmaker delivers your new gowns immediately,” he snapped. “You have only today and tomorrow to pack.”

  After acknowledging his order with a curt nod, Katy turned her mare and rode off down the winding path that led to Farr Park. Damon watched until she disappeared from sight into a small copse at the base of the grassy hill. A puzzle . . . an irritant . . . an intrigue. Temptation. That was Katy Snow.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Nine

  Katy laid the last of her four new gowns on her bed, then stepped back, examining them with critical intensity. Two dirt brown, a gray that was nearly charcoal, and a dark blue. High in the neck, long in the sleeve. She scowled.

  “They ain’t—aren’t—so bad,” said Clover Stiles. “Quality cloth, and, see, there’s a bit of trim on each. Piping, tucks, a dab of lace on the blue.”

  Katy heaved a sigh, shoulders and bosom heaving, though not a sound escaped her lips. Reluctantly, she nodded. It wasn’t as if she wished the occupants of Castle Moretaine to notice her. These gowns were perfect for her purposes. But . . . she was eighteen, and if what she felt for the difficult colonel was not love, it was as close to that emotion as made no difference. She was young, her mirror told her she was lovely, and she had given up hiding her light under a bushel long since. And now she was expected to efface herself, fade into the paneling as if she did not exist. Well, these gowns would certainly do it. The Dreadful Drucilla was not the only person for whom she wished to be invisible.

  “Oo-oo, I knew it!” Clover exclaimed. “It ain’t all vanity, is it, my girl? You’re thinking you won’t cut such a dash before the master. Well, let me tell you, Katy Snow, it’s grateful you should be, for, like I’ve told you time and again, no good can come of him
noticing you’re beautiful. Men like that sample the wares and move on. The very best you can get is a few months in a rose-covered cottage before he tires of you and passes you on to one of his friends. Or maybe leaves you flat to fend for yourself. Or with a bun in the oven and no place to go but the workhouse. And you can stop glaring at me, ’cuz that’s just what’ll happen if you don’t take off the blinders and see life as it is. You can’t have him, and there’s an end to it. Though the way he is now,” Clover added a shade less brusquely, “’Tis hard to understand why you’d want him.”

  Agreed. If she had not known what it was to suffer, she might be repulsed by the colonel’s glowering ways. Instead . . .

  Katy turned her head away from Clover’s astute gaze, idly fingering the narrow white lace at the cuff of the dark blue dress. The maids’ uniforms at Farr Park had more trimming than this, the least drab of her new gowns. She hated them. She welcomed them. For now was the time to put away her fantasies, to find a way to be in a room, yet not part of it. To be so dull and inconsequential that no one noticed her.

  She had guarded her virtue well through the years, aided by Lady Moretaine and Farr Park’s staff, but reputation was the least of her worries at the moment. There might be those who put virtue above survival, but Katy was quite certain that those who whispered of a fate worse than death had never had to survive the slightest buffet of ill-fortune. Katy knew better. Death was forever. There were fates worse than loss of virtue.

  So she would wear these ugly gowns and sit in the shadows because the alternative was discovery. Pain, humiliation, suffering in mind and body.

  But never enough to prefer death. She was a survivor. She was Katy Snow.

  No, she wasn’t. It was a lie. Her whole life at Farr Park, a lie.

  “Should have ordered more while we was in town, sir,” said Benjamin Briggs, the colonel’s valet, shaking his head over the few garments laid out for packing. Briggs, yet another indication that his employer’s heart did not match his hardened exterior, was an ex-soldier fallen on hard times, whom Damon had somehow acquired between Dover and Farr Park, as his former valet had long since procured a place elsewhere. “You was a boy when you left home, colonel. There’s nothing from the old days as fits exceptin’ your cravats. Mayhap your dress uniform?”