Lady Silence

by Blair Bancroft

  And then one perfect spring day everything changed. With the brilliance and unexpectedness of a lightning strike out of a clear blue sky, Katy Snow’s world was turned upside down. Her first inkling that this day would be different was when she woke to unusual bustle in the house on Brock Street. “We are expecting guests for tea,” Serena Moretaine informed her. “Wear your rose muslin with the lace inserts, child. And have Clover do your hair. I wish you to look your very best.”

  Katy blinked. “Yes, my lady.” But when she questioned Damon, he would say nothing beyond the mild observation that he believed a rather large number of guests was expected. Maddening man! He and the countess were keeping something from her, she knew it. She was nineteen years old, no longer a child. They had no right to be so mysterious.

  They had every right, of course. They were her employers.

  Katy shook her head, withdrawing into herself. The arrogance of her childhood seemed to cling forever. Would she never learn that, to these people—for all their charity and condescension—she was nobody?

  “Mama, you will please sit in your usual place at the tea table,” Damon directed later that afternoon as the countess and Katy arrived in the drawing room. “And, Katy, since there is to be rather a large crowd for such a modest-sized drawing room, would you kindly sit on the tabouret by the pianoforte? There you will look quite at home and make more room for our guests.”

  She was not to have a chair, when the room was spilling over with them, with at least six chairs from the dining room brought in to augment the fine upholstered furniture that customarily graced the Brock Street drawing room? Goodness! It appeared attendance at this tea party would rival the one at Castle Moretaine, but in one-tenth the space. Katy sat tall and straight on her backless bench, carefully adjusting her rose muslin skirts around her. She might be shunted off against the wall, but she would follow the countess’s admonition to look her best. There had to be a reasonable explanation for all this.

  “Lord and Lady Oxley,” Jesse announced. “Miss Hardcastle, Miss Challenor.”

  Oh, no! The Hardcastles here? What had Damon done? For a moment, Katy swayed on her bench, then, gritting her teeth, she lifted her chin and stared into space as the four guests were seated. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the dowager pouring tea. When Damon brought her a cup, Katy’s hands betrayed her, shaking so hard the colonel was forced to place the cup on a side table. With his back to the room to hide his gesture, he put his hand over hers. “Courage,” he whispered. “All will be well.”

  She was in a room in close quarters with the Hardcastles and a female pretending to be herself. She might love the blasted man, but Katy was not reassured.

  Oddly enough, as the guests drank tea, sampled delicate pastries, and chatted, the other chairs in the room remained empty. Where were the other guests?

  Oh, yes, something was happening here that did not meet the eye. Katy sat with her hands in her lap, unable to swallow so much as a mouthful of the fragrant tea. Her throat was dry, but if she attempted to drink, she would undoubtedly commit the heinous crime of spilling tea into her saucer. So she sat and suffered. And waited.

  Colonel Farr rose to his feet, waved his hand about the room at the empty chairs. “Undoubtedly, you are wondering about our other guests,” he said in the mildest of tones. “And you are quite right. This is a very strange sort of gathering. Our other guests are currently enjoying tea in one of our rear parlors.”

  Baron Oxley set down his glass of Madeira with a decided thump.

  “We are about to attend my own version of an assize,” the colonel continued. “For this special private session I have brought together a fine collection of dei ex machina, for whose testimony I find myself organizer, moderator . . . and judge. Though I expect by the time we are finished here, no one will be in doubt about the truth.”

  He was going to expose her! Katy clutched the sides of the tabouret and hung on tight. She had never fainted in her life. She would not now.

  The colonel moved the imposing petit-pointed arm chair brought in from the head of the dining room table to a prominent position just to the left of the door from the corridor. “Wiggs,” he declared , “you may bring in the first witness.”

  The only sound to be heard as a well-dressed man of middle years entered the room was a gasp from Katy Snow. The Hardcastles were expressionless. Evidently, the so-called witness was a stranger.

  The colonel waved the gentleman to the prepared seat. “Will you please be good enough to state your name, your occupation, and why you are here,” Damon said.

  “I am Charles Farleigh, Rector of Pembridge-on-Steyne,” said the gentleman in the rounded tones of a man accustomed to delivering sermons. “But at one time I was privileged to assist the Bishop of Hulme. And there I was acquainted with the bishop’s granddaughter, Lucinda Challenor. A remarkable child, fully worthy of the information the bishop stuffed into her head. Though the purpose of Latin for a female, I admit I never could understand.”

  “Precocious, was she? Miss Challenor,” the colonel purred, “perhaps you would care to translate, ‘Veni, vidi, vici,’ for us.”

  “Do not be absurd! I do not do tricks like some circus monkey.” But the alleged Miss Challenor had turned decidedly pale.

  “Katy . . . perhaps you would care to tell us.”

  The fiend! But had she not once been the obnoxious little blue stocking who loved to demonstrate her knowledge. “I came, I saw, I conquered,” Katy stated clearly.

  “Indeed.” The colonel nodded his approval. “Mr. Farleigh, I realize it has been some years since you saw Miss Challenor, but do you happen to see her here in this room?”

  The rector turned a slow, indulgent smile toward Katy Snow. “I had thought it might be difficult after so long, but the young lady has changed only in becoming more of a beauty than she was as a child. There, sitting on the bench, that is Lucinda Challenor.”

  Not bothering to hide his smile of triumph, Damon thanked the rector and directed him to another chair.

  Katy’s eyes shone as a second acquaintance was shown in.

  “Please state your name and why you are here.”

  “Martin Trembley, solicitor,” said the man now seated in the witness chair. “During the course of an investigation requested by a client, I became aware of certain—ah—irregularities in regard to Miss Lucinda Challenor. Her long absence from the shelter of her family, her miraculous rediscovery, the seeming disappearance of the dowry left to Miss Challenor by her grandfather, the Bishop of Hulme.”

  “Was this a large sum of money, Mr. Trembley?”

  “Large enough. The bishop willed some of his fortune to charity and to the church, but a dowry of twenty-five thousand pounds was reserved for Miss Challenor.”

  “And it is gone?”

  There was a strangling sound from the upholstered chair occupied by Lord Oxley. He tore at his cravat, his face turning purple.

  “I went to London and consulted with the bishop’s primary solicitors,” Mr. Trembley continued. “Not a sign that the money was ever held in a separate trust account for Miss Challenor. It simply . . . disappeared.”

  “Thank you.” Damon waved the solicitor into one of the empty side chairs.

  “Mrs. Matthias Alburton, Mr. John Alburton,” Jesse Wiggs announced from the doorway.

  Katy stared . . . but could not see them for the tears that rushed to her eyes. Her grandmother? Her uncle? Oh, no, not possible. It could not be.

  The colonel stepped forward to draw up another chair, but Mr. Alburton waved him aside. Although a middle-aged man not much over medium height, he had the dignity and bearing of one accustomed to authority. Here in this bastion of the ton, he stood four-square beside his mother’s chair, regarding the colonel with proud attention.

  “Ma’am,” said Damon, addressing the white-haired woman seated in the witness chair, “would you please tell us your relationship to Miss Lucinda Challenor?”

  “She is my dear grandd
aughter, who was taken from me after only a few weeks in our care. I was heart-broken. First my daughter, then the baby.” Emily Alburton faltered. Her son gripped her shoulder, and after a moment she continued. “We tried so hard to keep watch over her, to know all was well with her. When the bishop died, we thought to get her back at last . . . but she went to a Challenor, of course. To Lady Oxley. In spite of our disappointment, it seemed a just decision, for there was a girl her own age, but . . .”

  This time, when Mrs. Alburton faltered, Jonathan Alburton took up the tale. “Lucinda had been gone from the Hardcastles for nearly a year before word got back to us. A child of her years, alone. I sent out an army of men, those who already worked for me, and professional investigators from London as well. Nothing. We never gave up hope, but I was forced to counsel my mother that we must expect the worst.”

  “I knew he was right . . . that we should never see the dear child again,” Emily Alburton said, “but always I hoped. And then the miracle.” She turned accusing eyes on each of the Hardcastles, finally resting them on the alleged Lucinda. “I was so beside myself with joy when we heard you had been found.” Mrs. Alburton’s face turned grim. “But when I met you, I saw nothing of my daughter in you. Nothing of my sisters, my son . . . or of his children. Once again, I was heartsick . . . and thoroughly confused.”

  “Fortunately,” Jonathan Alburton said, “I am trustee for the sixty thousand pounds and have the right to withhold it until Lucinda’s twenty-fifth birthday. Therefore, the inheritance is still intact, awaiting confirmation of my niece’s identify.”

  “I do not suppose you have a portrait of Miss Challenor?” Damon inquired with bland innocence.

  Jonathan Alburton held out an arm, and Jesse Wiggs presented him with a large painting, draped in blue velvet. “I fear not, colonel, but I have a portrait of my sister Belinda when she was eighteen.” He turned and looked directly at Katy. I fear we spied on you yesterday in the Pump Room, my dear, so I know you will find this portrait of interest.” He whipped aside the cloth.

  Lady Oxley moaned, Eleanore shrieked.

  “Knew it was too good to be true,” said the alleged Miss Challenor with disgust. “Shoulda stayed with walk-ons at Drury Lane, I should.”

  “A nearly exact image of our Katy, do you not agree, mama?” said the colonel, his eyes as full of mischievous triumph as a boy of ten.

  “Enough, enough!” Oxley boomed. “Let us make an end to this farce. “The chit’s funds are but mixed with my own investments. The money’s there. I shall make restitution, and you can scarce blame us for wishing to take advantage of old Alburton’s bequest. Thought the girl was dead and gone, don’t you know? Shame to let all that money go to waste.”

  “We are not yet done,” declared the colonel over the baron’s spate of excuses. “Our last witness, Wiggs, if you please.”

  The man of perhaps thirty years who walked through the door was of such obviously noble lineage, his clothing of the first stare, his arrogant stance second to none, that even the Hardcastle ladies, though overcome by humiliation, rose to their feet. As did Emily Alburton, shaking off her son’s hand and rising from her chair. Katy, thoroughly awed, had been the first person on her feet. Her lips twitched, however, as she noted how thoroughly the newcomer was enjoying the moment, raising his quizzing glass for a leisurely inspection of each person in turn. His amber hair gleamed above a tawny eye grotesquely magnified by his glass. After this suitably dramatic pause, he dropped the glass, allowing it to swing slowly on its ribbon above the gray and silver brocade of his waistcoat.

  Imperiously, he waved them all back into their chairs. He did not sit in the witness chair. “I am Montsale,” he declared, standing tall. “Bourne Granville Hayden Challenor. His Grace, the Duke of Carewe, regrets he is in the gout and could not attend in person, but I trust I will be an adequate substitute.”

  Oh! Katy was not so far removed from the world that she did not know that the Marquess of Montsale—her cousin, the Marquess of Montsale—was Carewe’s heir. He had come to Bath. Because of her.

  “His Grace and I were uneasy with the alleged Miss Challenor,” Montsale declared. “Quite frankly, it was not difficult for Colonel Farr to convince us we must take a look at his candidate for my cousin Lucinda.” The golden god turned and bowed to Katy. “And, yes, cousin, I was lurking in the doorway of the Pump Room yesterday as well.”

  Impossible. The Marquess of Montsale could not possibly lurk. He would stand out in any crowd. He must have been peeking through a crack!

  “I am here not only to confirm the family’s belief in my cousin’s identity, but to state that His Grace has arranged for transfer of her guardianship to himself.” The marquess turned again to Katy, his voice remarkably gentle and reassuring for such a dynamic gentleman. “There is no need to fear, cousin. You will not be troubled by the Hardcastles ever again.”

  As mute as Lady Silence, Katy could only stare at her golden cousin, who—flanked by Damon and Jonathan Alburton—crossed the room and proceeded to deal with the Hardcastles. Their words flew over her head until a soft voice said, “My dear child, you cannot know how happy this makes me. Though you do not know me from Adam, I hope you will come to us for a lengthy visit before settling at Carewe Abbey. We discussed it, you see,” Katy’s grandmother continued, her faded blue eyes alight, “and since the duke is in the gout, it seemed a good time for you to become acquainted with the Alburton side of your family. Fortunately, the marquess and his father do not seem to be so high in the instep as the late bishop. So tomorrow you are to come to us. Can you be packed by noon, child? Dear Jonathan will send our coach for you.”

  Somehow Katy took her grandmother’s delicate wrinkled hand in hers and said what she hoped were all the right things, but, truth to tell, for all the wonder of the moment—the result of a chain of events set off by herself the day she visited Mr. Trembley—mortifying chagrin was spiraling upward, threatening to destroy this precious moment when she was taken back into the bosom of her family. When she discovered that, all along, there had been relatives willing to shelter her.

  If only she had known.

  No. If she had, she never would have met Damon.

  The three warriors—Damon, her uncle, and her cousin—were still clustered in front of the Hardcastles, whose blustering voices had finally trailed into silence. The countess, without a single sign that she recalled her companion’s existence, was attending the byplay more avidly than any presentation at Drury Lane. Damon and his mother—the only family she had known since that blustery winter night when she was twelve—were sending her away. Would they even miss her?

  Katy Snow, very prettily, once again thanked her grandmother for her kind invitation, assuring her she would be ready when the Alburton coach arrived on the morrow. She was even so daring as to kiss the elderly lady’s cheek, leaving them both misty-eyed. And then she fled straight to her room, where she sat down hard on the edge of her high bed, clasped her hands beneath her chin . . . and quivered.

  Time stood still . . . along with her mind. She should be in alt. Dancing on air. Instead . . . despite her genuine gratitude for Damon’s astonishing manipulation of her life, she was devastated.

  They wished to be rid of her.

  Farr Park was her home. Yet, without so much as a “by your leave,” she was to be sent to live with strangers. Again.

  Even though she was no longer a nobody from nowhere, Lady Moretaine and her son did not want her.

  A pounding on her door pierced the skittering whirlwinds of her mind.

  Katy ignored it.

  The doorknob rattled. How fortunate she had locked it.

  “Katy, Katy! Open this door at once!”

  Damon!

  “Katy . . . please. You ran off before I could speak with you.”

  The temptation to speak her mind was more than she could bear. Katy bounced off the bed, strode to the door, and turned the key with grim decisiveness. The colonel did not wait for her to open it
, but burst through at the click of the lock. “Katy, I—”

  “How dare you? How dare you?” she hissed. “At twelve years of age I made the most important decision of my life. It might have been a most uninformed decision, but it was all mine. I ran away and did what I had to do to survive. And managed very well, I thank you! And yet now—now that I am all of nineteen and a woman grown—you sneak behind my back, allow people to spy upon me without my knowledge. You turn my life topsy-turvy without so much as a hint of warning. You pack me off to perfect strangers, as if I were nothing more than a lost parcel. For shame, colonel! I am not one of your troopers—”

  “Katy!”

  “No, no, it is my turn now. You have done quite enough.” Arms akimbo, Katy stood nearly toe to toe with the colonel. Glaring. “Allow me to tell you that I am pleased to leave this house. I am pleased to go somewhere I am wanted. I am most wonderfully happy to have a grandmother, an uncle, cousins . . . even if one of them is as arrogant as he is handsome. And allow me to point out that he will outrank you, even if you should become Moretaine!” she added for good measure before being forced to pause to draw breath.

  “May I speak now?”

  Katy, huffing, nodded.

  “I came here to ask you to marry me.”

  “Do not be absurd.”

  “Katy, I did this all for you. It was to be my special surprise.” Katy’s glare did not waver.

  “I have known for some time I could not live without you,” Damon added. Hopefully.

  “Now that,” said Katy Snow, “is truly most unfortunate. If you had shown me so much as an inkling of your affection—”

  “You would have thought my intentions dishonorable. As I am sure you did on more than one occasion.”

  “As I am sure they were on more than one occasion.”

  “Cry peace, Katy.” Damon held out his arms. “I want you for my wife.”

  Katy hugged her arms, suddenly aware of the chill of the room. “I need to find my heritage,” she said at last. “And give my anger time to fade. I also need to take the time to decide if you will always ride roughshod over my life or whether you will love me as a man should love a woman. As a person of consequence in his life. Someone whose opinion he values . . . and for whom he will not rearrange her life without consultation.”