So in spite of the cold, Katy sat and watched the needle-thin boats pulled by horses slowly plodding along the tow path. Ah, yes, this was real life, not the sheltered paradise of Farr Park, the arrogant pleasures of the London ton, or the doddering ancients of the Pump Room.
Katy’s eyes widened as her thoughts struck home. Astonishing! Was this her grandfather, the wool merchant, talking? Was her tradesmen’s blood so hale and hearty that it manifested itself despite all her efforts to be a lady? Katy grinned, and waved to a passing boatman. She was forever destined to see people, she feared. She could not look through the less-than-noble, as was the habit of the beau monde. When she looked at Farr Park’s parlor maid, she saw Clover Stiles. When she looked at the footman, she saw Jesse Wiggs. She saw Alice Archer, Millicent Tyner, Humphrey Mapes, and Betty Huggins. She saw people, not servants.
It was a curse. She would never make a proper mistress for Farr Park. And, of course, a lifetime as the next Countess of Moretaine was quite out of the question—even though her Grandfather Challenor had been a bishop and son of a duke. It was all very lowering. She was Katy Snow, who held her head high so she could not see her feet of clay.
Katy lifted her gaze from the traffic on the canal and took a good look around her. Gray clouds were roiling to the west. Not only was the winter afternoon turning to early dusk, but it seemed a storm might be threatening. She was a long way from Brock Street, which was on the far side of the bowl, requiring her to go down, then up again.
Katy settled her bonnet more firmly on her head, stuffed her hands as far into her red fox muff as they would go. If only her feet were encased in fur as well. The chill from the gravel path had seeped through her sturdy half-boots until her ankles seemed frozen in place, reluctant to move.
She had, of course, brought it on herself. No one had made her walk so far on such a cold day. Wielding a figurative whip over her reluctant body, Katy set a brisk pace back toward the gate. Pulteney Street stretched out before her, surely twice as long as it had been earlier in the day. As she approached the bridge at last, the sky grew darker, the temperature plunged. She could almost smell snow in the air. The enticing items in the shops along the bridge would have to wait.
Ahead of her were several relatively unchallenging blocks to Gay Street and then the long icy climb to the Circus and Brock Street. The first snowflake fell, displaying its crystalline pattern on her forest green pelisse before melting into the heavy wool. Snow. She had indeed brought this imbroglio on herself.
Snow. So like the huge flakes that had fallen the night she arrived at Farr Park.
Katy Snow. The girl the cat dragged in.
Katy took a deep breath, firmed her lips, straightened her shoulders, and set out for Gay Street. But as she walked resolutely past what was left of the old Bath wall, she caught a glimpse of shoppers still thronging Milsom Street. Surely Milsom was as short as the other . . . and not quite so lonely. Nor, perhaps, so steep. And with less ice underfoot, as the throng of shoppers tromped it into shards that soon melted. Head down against the increasing snowflakes, now great dollops of stinging wet, Katy started up the slope of Milsom Street.
Chairmen, too, were hunching their shoulders against the storm, hurrying home with their patrons snug inside before the snow began to stick to the cobblestones. Wheels rattled and hoofs clomped, as the few who kept carriages on Bath’s steep streets, scurried home as well. Katy narrowly avoided slipping on the slick walkway as she backed away from a lamplighter who suddenly stopped in front of her, his long pole swinging high to light a lantern. Muttering one of the colonel’s more meaty epithets, she hurried on. It was still a long way to Brock Street.
“Katy, Katy Snow! Is that you, girl?”
Katy grabbed for her bonnet as a gust of wind threatened to send it tumbling back down toward the river. Peering through the lacy curtain of fat wet crystals, she saw the outlines of a curricle and four great horses stamping and snorting their disgust over being brought to a sudden halt when visions of a nice warm stable must have been dancing through the heads. Damon! It had to be Damon. Only a through traveler would be driving four horses in the heart of Bath. And Damon, she knew, preferred to drive himself on his frequent trips between Farr Park and Castle Moretaine.
Crossing the broad expanse of Milsom Street with her vision obscured by snow and the broad sides of her bonnet was perhaps not the wisest thing she had ever done, but Katy dashed forward with enthusiasm, dodging sedan chairs, carriages, and pedestrians with all the alacrity of a steeplechase. She pulled up, gasping, at the side of Damon’s sporting vehicle, grinning up at him with pure joy. A moment to catch her breath before she could leap up beside him.
“Of all the lame-brained, tottyheaded, idiotish nonsense,” the colonel roared. “What in the name of God and country are you doing out in this weather? And all alone. Are you mad, woman?”
Her toes were numb, lips blue, her nose bright red. Katy didn’t need a mirror to tell her it was so. Her clothing was white with a dusting of snow, her nose was going to start to drip at any moment, and he wanted to read her a scold! She gripped the side of the curricle, willed her frozen foot to rise to the narrow little strip of metal that served as a boost. Damon was alone and could not leave his horses, of course . . . but, blast it all, that small foothold was so much higher than it had ever seemed before. The angle of the hill? Or was it just that she was cold and tired, and filled with fury?
Her foot found the metal bar. Gritting her teeth, Katy dragged herself up . . . and up. A strong hand reached out, hauling her firmly and safely onto the seat. Was that an echoing sigh of relief she heard from her employer?
“What are you doing here?” Katy demanded as soon as she’d caught her breath. Her conscience niggled. This was not at all the gracious thank-you she should have been extending.
“I arrived from Moretaine to discover you gone out for a walk some hours ago. The entire household was up in the boughs. Mama had already sent the servants to every nearby park, the Pump Room, even as far as the Marine Parade. She was quite beside herself. And Clover was certain you’d been snatched up by an Abbess.”
“Oh, dear. I never thought—”
“You never do,” Damon snapped. “You are the most outrageous child.”
“I am nineteen.”
“Really?” Sarcasm dripped, even as Colonel Farr neatly turned his horses in the middle of Milsom Street, bringing all other traffic to an abrupt halt. With a nod of satisfaction, he urged the perfectly matched animals back up the hill.
The horses labored. Lady Silence, seething, lived up to her name as they reached the end of Milsom, turned left onto George, then right onto Gay Street, leading them straight up to the graceful curve of the Circus and finally into the narrow confines of Brock Street.
“Change your clothes, then meet me in the bookroom,” Damon ordered curtly as he pulled up in front of the burgundy red door. “I wish to speak with you.”
“I do not need your scold,” Katy told him as she pried her nearly frozen self off the seat and began to edge over the side.
“No scold. I daresay you have suffered enough for your folly. I wish to discuss another matter entirely.”
Now there he had her. Only slipping on the ice that lurked beneath the snow and breaking her neck could keep her from the appointed meeting in the room with a meager selection of books that passed for a library. Katy tossed a brief nod of assent and slid down, ostensibly ignoring the colonel’s admonition to be careful, even as she made certain her boots had a good grip on the cobbles. Light suddenly pierced the gloom. Jesse Wiggs rushed out, offering a sturdy arm. Home. Whatever Damon had to say, surely it could not take away this sense of belonging. No matter what the countess said, this was her family. These were her people.
Katy turned to say thank-you to Damon, but he was already trotting off, preparing for the turn into the narrow side street that led to the stables. She shook off as much snow as she could onto the tiled foyer floor, then hurried up the stair
s to change.
~ * ~
Chapter Twenty-four
“’Tis the sharp edge of his tongue you’ll be getting, my girl,” Clover Stiles declared as she fastened the buttons on one of Katy’s most demure gowns. A silver gray of softly woven wool, it featured long sleeves and a high neck and gave off the aura of the cloister. A silent order of nuns, of course. Katy’s lips twitched into a half-smile. Ah well. Succumbing to vanity, she wrapped a bright paisley shawl about her shoulders, then examined herself in the pier glass. Damp curls escaped the ruthless confines of the conservative coiffeur Clover had fashioned. An adequate compromise, Katy conceded. One that fit her peculiar status in the household and echoed the confusion in her heart.
Katy turned to Clover, who was regarding her with considerable anxiety. “He has already called me lame-brained, tottyheaded, and idiotish. He says he wishes to speak with me about something else entirely.”
“Oh.” Unaccountably, Clover appeared stricken.
“Clover . . . Clover, what is it? Do you know something I do not?”
Katy’s old friend stared at the carpet, shifted her feet, shook her head. “Ah, no, miss. It was just an idea I had . . .”
“Well, out with it.”
Clover, who never blushed, turned bright pink. “I—I was wondering if Mr. Palmer had made an offer.”
Oh, dear. “And it matters to you?” Katy inquired gently, while struggling to reverse her perspective.
Clover toed the carpet, offered a reluctant nod. After several moments of awkward silence, she drew a gasping breath and plunged into speech. “I know he’s had an eye on you forever, miss, and it’d be a good match for a girl who had no family and couldn’t talk, but now . . . now we know about you . . . well, truth to tell, I thought you was above his touch, and I’ve . . . we’ve . . .” Clover hung her head and faltered to a halt.
“You have an eye in that direction yourself,” Katy finished.
“Yes, miss,” her old friend whispered.
Katy wondered if it were possible to start this day over, to wave a wizard’s wand and have dawn repeat itself. What to say? And how to say it? It was, after all, no more foolish for Clover to long for Elijah Palmer than for Katy to dream of Damon Farr.
Useless, perhaps—in both cases. But perfectly understandable.
“As much as I have always admired Mr. Palmer,” Katy said, taking great care not to betray Elijah Palmer’s offer, “he would not do for me. He is too good a man to have a wife whose heart is given elsewhere.”
“Ah, Katy, I’m that sorry,” Clover breathed, instantly recognizing her friend’s dilemma. “The world is surely a cruel place.”
Ignoring the pain in her heart, Katy asked, with an attempt at a smile, “And what of your plans to be a fine dresser in London?”
“The heart is a wondrous organ, they say—with a will of its own.” Clover pursed her lips in self-mockery, then enveloped Katy in a hug. “Go now and see what his nibs be wanting. Probably naught compared with what we’ve been conjuring. Put on your brave face now and be off. We’ll do, you and me. Like the colonel himself, we’re survivors.”
Damon was waiting for her, warming himself before a roaring fire which occasionally hissed as snowflakes found their way down the chimney, only to be vaporized into oblivion. Like her own, his dark hair was wet, glistening in the leaping firelight. Harsh-faced he might be, but Damon Farr took her breath away. To Katy he was still the hero, the most handsome and desirable man on earth. And she was confined with him in a room about the size of his mahogany desk at Farr Park. The warmth that surged through her was not from the fireplace.
He waved her to a chair comfortably upholstered in floral tapestry and seated himself opposite her. As much as she wanted to look him straight in the eye, Katy feared what he might see in her own. At the moment her emotions were far too raw for scrutiny.
Katy accepted an etched glass mug cup of hot spiced wine. She sipped, feeling the hot brew all the way down. Damon could not be going to ring a peel over her head—she would not believe it. The moment hovered—intimate, perfect, and infinitely precious. Dazzled by his presence, Katy fought her sluggish mind. There was something essential she had forgotten . . .
“I must thank you for the pianoforte and for Mehitabel. Especially when I know you cannot think me deserving of such generosity.”
“You are mistaken,” the colonel responded cooly. “Your misguided actions do not preclude my being aware of your service to my mother . . . and to me. A musical instrument and access to a horse are small recompense for your many years of service.”
So that was it! She was being paid off. Like a mistress receiving a gift of jewels when her usefulness had come to an end. “I see,” Katy murmured. “Your mama has already warned me that I am not expected to return to Farr Park.”
“Indeed.” It was the colonel’s turn to look away. From what she could see, the frown he turned on the fire was inexplicably fierce.
“I am to find another position . . . or to marry.”
The colonel drained his wine, poured another glass. He seemed to have forgotten her presence.
“Cat got your tongue?” Katy teased, taking shocking advantage of the intimacy established by the many hours they had spent alone in the bookroom at Farr Park.
The colonel’s head came up. His wine mug clinked as it hit the brass inlay of one of the room’s quartetto tables. “What are the Hardcastles to you?” he hurled at her like a shot. “No more pretenses, I beg you. I fear you may need my help, and I cannot give it if I remain in ignorance. Now is the time to tell all.” Damon leaned forward, capturing her gaze with his. “You will note I do not call you by name,” he enunciated not more than eighteen inches from her face, “as we all know it is not your own. Now, girl. No more roundaboutation. I will have the whole story.”
Katy’s mug tilted, ruby red drops splashing onto the silver of her skirt. Damon took the glass from her and set it beside his own. Wordlessly, he offered his handkerchief. When she had mopped up the spill as best she could, Katy kept the handkerchief, clutching it in both hands in her lap. “I cannot,” she whispered. “You would have to send me back.”
“And if I swear to you I would never send you back . . . ?”
“Legally, you would have no choice.”
“I would have the choice of whether or not I ever revealed what you say to me now.”
Of course he had that choice. She had always known it, but she had never been able to trust anyone, not even Damon, with such an all-encompassing decision for her life.
The smell of roasting meat drifted in to mix with the smell of woodsmoke and the damp chill of a snowy night. “Come, child,” Damon urged softly. “If you do not speak up now, I shall have to order dinner put back.”
The implied threat was clear. He would know before they left his room.
“There was once a child,” Katy said at last, “born of good family, but her parents died when she was a baby. She was raised by her grandfather, younger son of a noble house. He was unusually well educated, a true scholar, and the girl was given the education of a boy. She was even encouraged to think for herself, to express her opinions. In many ways it was an idyllic life—and, like most idylls—over far too soon. Shortly before her twelfth birthday, the grandfather died, and she was sent to live with her father’s cousin, a woman who was considered to have married well and who had a daughter of nearly the same age. The grandfather’s grand family was pleased. The solicitors were pleased, the trustees were pleased. All agreed the solution was ideal.” Katy’s voice trailed off. She looked pointedly at her wine, sitting at the colonel’s elbow.
Grimly, he handed it to her. “But the situation was not ideal,” he said.
Katy shook her head, took a gulp of her wine, still warm, thank goodness, for she had turned to ice. “No . . . it was not.”
“Tell me.”
“I—the girl was everything the lady of the house did not want in a child. She was shockingly well educated,
a full-blown blue stocking. She expressed her opinions freely. She even dared object when told not to speak unless spoken to. She was told in no uncertain terms not to correct her governess, even if she said Timbuktu was in China. She was not to spend her days reading nor was she to ride her horse above a ladylike trot. She was not to hobnob with the servants. She was, in short, a trial. She betrayed the vulgar traits of her maternal grandfather, the tradesman, as well as the bookish and misguided traits of her other grandfather . . .”
“And?” Damon inquired softly.
“The girl’s relatives, a lord and his lady, were . . . tall. They towered over her. They boomed at her. They punished her.”
“How did they punish her?”
Katy held her glass mug in both hands, searching for warmth. “At first . . . they simply shouted. To a child who had never heard a harsh word, they were very . . . intimidating. Then they began to shake me. They were both so large. After that, it was a willow branch or a riding crop. My hands, my arms, my . . . derrière”—Katy was too lost in her story to blush or notice she was no longer speaking theoretically. “And, finally, my bare back. There was no one to care. My cousin Eleanore, in fact, seemed to gloat each time. Perhaps because my beatings spared her what she herself may have endured. I never knew. The servants, of course, had no choice but to look the other way.” Katy trailed to a halt, her gaze fixed on the draperies shutting out the snowy night.
“There is more, is there not?”
Katy proffered an infinitesimal nod. “I did not recognize the look then, but I know it now. I only knew that when he looked at me, I was frightened.” Grim-faced, Damon nodded. “I went to the vicar, and he called me a spoiled ungrateful wretch to make up such lies about family connections who had been kind enough to provide me with a home. So I made my plans carefully. Fortunately, my grandfather had been a man of the world as well as a man of the cloth, and he’d taught me well. I’d been wise enough to hide my hoard of coins, and one day I simply walked to the village, boarded a stagecoach, and kept on going.”
Lady Silence Page 19
