“I suspect that frown tells me it is more than heat you miss.” The earl leaned back in his seat, hazel eyes glinting.
“I admit the reception of some has been a little lukewarm.”
“It takes time to be accepted in a new place. Trust must be earned, respect given, not assumed.” His smile grew wry. “Especially in certain parts of the West Country.”
“I have always been a Londoner, so country ways are not my forte.”
“Country ways are much the same as any, based on truth and honest dealings with one’s neighbor. I understand some may appear a little more forthright than certain elements of society might deem acceptable.”
“Forthright is one word for it,” Jon muttered.
“Keep on doing what you’re doing. I have only heard good things, although there is one thing I find greatly concerning.”
At his frown, Jonathan’s stomach filled with unease and he searched his conscience. What had he done?
“I do not understand how somebody so new could have gained my wife’s approval so quickly. You seemed very friendly after services last week.”
“The countess is very charming.”
“And more than a little discerning. I was not so quick to gain her approval, I assure you.”
“Perhaps it was simply the subject matter she approved.”
“She has always been keen to see the establishment of a proper school.” The earl smiled. “Education in the village is something I wholeheartedly endorse.”
“Due to my hearty funding?” Jonathan asked, cocking a brow.
“Seeing as God has blessed you to bless others in this way, you have my full support.”
The earl soon made his exit, and Jonathan was left warmed with the impression that the earl not only approved of the project but also, it seemed, approved of him.
He sipped his water, his mood slipping. If only others agreed.
CHAPTER SİX
July
“CAN YOU BELIEVE it? Now he wants to hold a harvest dinner for all the tenants. I declare I am growing heartily sick of hearing of all the wonders of this imposter.”
Catherine looked up from her needlepoint. Her mother’s constant slander scraped against the peace she strove to find each morning as she read the devotional Lavinia had recently given her. “Surely it is a good thing he is so assiduous in his duties to the tenants.”
“Well your poor father never felt it necessary!” Mama placed the letter down. “I do not know what he is about filling their heads with stuff and nonsense. What was good enough when Walter was in charge should be good enough now.”
Except it had become increasingly apparent just how far short of good enough Papa’s care for the estate had been. In the two months since his arrival Mr. Carlew had funded the fixing of all fencing, mediated a successful truce in a long-standing feud between the menfolk of the Snaiths and Gillespies, and introduced a scheme to employ some of the older men to repair farming equipment, thus reducing costs for the tenant farmers.
The accusatory stares and murmurs of the villagers Catherine had experienced had changed to praise of Mr. Carlew’s latest good deeds. This, despite the continued unseasonal cooler temperatures and increased rainfall that likely meant diminished yields this harvest. Her lips twisted. Truly, Mr. Carlew must be something of a miracle worker for the locals to speak so well of him amidst the uncertainties of the harvest.
“Why Clarinda feels it necessary to tell of every little thing he does I do not know. I feel sure she wants to rub my face in it!”
“In what, Mama? I’m sure she is not so mean-spirited.”
“No?” Her mother eyed her narrowly. “If you knew what that woman was capable of—” Her lips clamped.
Catherine fought a flicker of curiosity. She would not give in to idle speculation. “Mama, perhaps we could go for a walk today. The sun is brighter—”
“The wind is too chilly.”
“Then perhaps we could read outside in the garden, where it is more protected.”
Her mother sighed heavily. “You can, my dear. I cannot look at that sad excuse for a garden without remembering what we had before.”
She inhaled deeply. Exhaled. How long would Mama cling to what she could never have again? “Mama, I’m sorry you still feel so—”
“I don’t want your pity, child!”
Catherine flinched. Heat filled her eyes.
“There, there. Don’t look like that. I don’t mean to snap.” Mama sighed again. “It is hard, that is all.”
“It is hard for me also,” she said in a small voice.
Mama placed a hand to her head and groaned. “I think I need a rest.”
“Then may I go visit Lavinia?”
“Oh, if you must.”
Catherine nodded and rushed to change into riding clothes before Mama changed her mind. If she must? She certainly must get out of this poky house, otherwise she might burst!
TEA WITH THE Countess of Hawkesbury was never anything short of enjoyable. Unlike Mama, Lavinia took pleasure in unexpected visitors, and never produced a less than lavish spread, which often seemed more hearty meal than mere nuncheon. Perhaps this extravagance was because she’d spent much time of late confined to home, only engaging in short excursions in the neighboring village.
“Oh, it is good of you to take pity on me,” Lavinia said with a smile. “I have had visits from Lady Milton, but it is not the same as a visit from someone who truly cares for me, and for whom I truly care!”
Catherine laughed, the sound pushing past the weight of emotion clogging her chest, making her feel lighter, somehow.
“So, you have heard enough about me. Tell me, Catherine, how are you?”
The words so kindly meant welled emotion in her eyes, and it was a moment before she could clear her throat to speak. “I am coping.”
Lavinia reached across the sofa to clasp her hand. “I can imagine with so many changes there would be moments of pain.”
“Mama has not been … easy,” she said carefully.
“Of course not.” Lavinia opened her mouth then seemed to think better of it, and closed her lips again.
“I do not know what to do. It seems anywhere we go we hear of what Lady Harkness is doing, or how Mr. Carlew is improving this thing or that.” Catherine picked up her teacup and sipped her tea. “I am glad the estate is doing better, but at the same time I find such things so difficult to listen to.”
“You do not want to be disloyal to your father.”
“That’s right! And yet, I cannot but be aware that Papa is not—was not—the man I thought him to be.”
“He was not infallible.”
“Exactly. I … I just wish he made better choices that did not so adversely affect so many people we have known for so long. Does this make me a disloyal daughter?”
“It makes you an honest one.”
Catherine sighed. “I wish we could be elsewhere. I feel such guilt whenever I see the tenants and know Papa left so much undone. And though it pains me to say this, I am growing increasingly tired of having to listen to Mama’s complaints about the cottage and its deprivations. Why, to listen to her, anyone would think we lived in a poor London slum rather than be fortunate enough to have as much as we do. But she does not see things that way. And I confess I share her apprehension about what will happen to the Manor, especially under such a woman.”
Lavinia settled back in her seat, hands clasped over her midsection. “I did not think Lady Harkness’s visit would be quite so long.”
“I suppose she wants to be with her family.”
“Yes.”
Catherine took another sip of tea.
“You know we invited them for dinner last week?”
She nodded, working again to overcome the stab of bitterness news of the invitation had wrought.
“Nicholas said our social obligations warranted it. And once you get past her abrasiveness, Lady Harkness is quite a stimulating dinner companion.” Lavinia shook her head
. “But I could not help but feel a sense of curiosity about how she fits into the whole Winthrop saga.”
Catherine shared what she knew, sticking as closely to the facts as she knew them to be.
“So really it is nothing more than speculation regarding Mr. Carlew’s birth?”
Catherine nodded stiffly.
“Well, I don’t mind admitting that I do like him. I suppose he cannot be blamed for having an unfortunate mother—he’s certainly not the first.” Her brow wrinkled. “So let me think this through. As your great-great grandfather’s younger brother’s great grandson, that would make Mr. Carlew your … your third cousin, once removed, correct?”
“I believe so.”
“Hmm.” Lavinia sipped her tea. “There was something about him—a gravity, a sense of purpose—that I found quite refreshing. He seems determined to make a mark, and from all accounts, has enough money from his father’s estate to do so.”
“His father’s estate?”
“Mr. Harold Carlew’s, I mean. Not that he said anything, you understand. Nicholas told me. Mr. Carlew seems quite modest.”
“He is,” she agreed unthinkingly.
Lavinia’s gray eyes lit. “You know him.”
Her cheeks grew hot. “Of course. A little, perhaps, anyway. H-he is my cousin after all.”
“Your third cousin, whom until recently you’ve seen once in your life, or so I was informed by Lady Harkness the other evening.”
Rather more than once, if truth be told. Catherine kept her lips clamped.
“She does seem to take something of an interest in you.” Lavinia’s head tilted. “Why is that, I wonder?”
Catherine shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. This conversation was making her feel hot and itchy. “I’m sure I do not know. Now, how is the dowager countess?”
Lavinia laughed. “That is unkind, asking me something like that when I’m finally learning something interesting. Because I cannot but feel that it is more a matter of you choosing not to tell me about Mr. Carlew’s mother’s interest in you, rather than being unable to.”
“I’ve heard pregnancy affects ladies in different ways, so perhaps this feeling is just another symptom,” Catherine said with a smile.
“Oh, you are cruel! Well, if there be something I need to know about Mr. Carlew, I do hope you will tell me, your friend. Because I really think him a most interesting man. Handsome, too.”
“Miss Winthrop,” a deep voice drawled, “perhaps you would enlighten me as to whom my wife is referring to as being handsome?”
Catherine blushed more deeply as the earl entered the room. His sardonic gaze and comments always left her feeling several seconds too slow in comprehending his meaning, trying to ascertain whether he was serious, or jesting, as he appeared now.
“I … we, ah—”
“We were talking of Mr. Carlew, dearest,” Lavinia said, with a cheeky expression. “He is quite a handsome man, don’t you think?”
A glimmer of a smile appeared in the earl’s eyes. “I make it my policy never to discuss a gentleman’s appearance. Appearances can be deceptive, can they not, Miss Winthrop?”
“Y-yes, my lord.”
“More important is a man’s character, and from my observations and what I’ve heard from London, Mr. Carlew seems a fair, kindhearted man.” He sat on the seat next to Lavinia, stretching long legs before him. “I recently met him at my London club, and gather he had quite a time of it in India. He served in the office of Lord Nepean, the governor of Bombay. I was particularly impressed to hear of his help for the Company’s widows, both English and native.”
Catherine swallowed the bubble of pain-tinged gladness at such news. Now this fit with the man she’d once known; of course Jonathan would do something like that.
The earl glanced across at his wife. “It took me a number of years to finally be able to afford to assist all the families left behind in my regiment.”
“I imagine it helps when one has interests in several flourishing corporations,” Lavinia said.
“It seems the Carlew business enterprises are being blessed to be a blessing,” the earl continued, glancing at Catherine with a half smile. “And isn’t that what our Lord has called us all to do?”
Catherine nodded, but inside her heart demurred. How could she bless others when God had removed all blessings from her?
Avebury, Wiltshire
“And this, Mr. Car—I mean, Lord Winthrop, is the baronial hall. See the wooden trusses? It is said they date from the fourteen hundreds.”
Jonathan nodded. “Very nice.”
The invitation to tea at Avebury had been forwarded by mail coach from Winthrop; unexpected, but he welcomed the change. There remained much to do, but stopping here on his return from London was a good way to break his journey, whilst also getting to know these distant relatives—without the disconcerting distraction of his mother lending further weight to their antipathy towards him.
Clothilde, technically of his generation, though he was younger by nearly two decades, kept casting him glances varying between dislike and hope. He forced his own resentment down and turned his focus to their yet-unspoken plea.
If Winthrop Manor did not exactly live down to its name, then Avebury was more palace than mere house, complete with Elizabethan red brick, a multitude of gables, baronial dining hall, and several turret-topped wings. Avebury possessed a myriad of treasures, such as a Rococo-inspired ballroom finished with Chinese silk-lined walls and several crystal-dropped chandeliers. He rather doubted it received as much recent use as in its glory days half a century ago.
This guided tour, led by Peter, Peter’s mother, and Elizabeth, who together with Elizabeth’s daughters had lived there for years under the former baron’s largesse, was no doubt designed to show off the ancient pile to best advantage, but while he could appreciate the building’s historic elements, it was apparent the amount needed to fund necessary repairs would be sizeable, far exceeding what he estimated Winthrop required. He was also keenly aware he was being tolerated simply because of his fortune; indeed had heard the words “but a merchant’s son” before he’d first been admitted to the drawing room earlier.
“And this is the priest’s hole.” Peter motioned to a stairway before bending to remove a timber from one of the steps.
“For the tiny priests?”
“Well, not everyone was as big as you.” Clothilde eyed him with a frown.
“Something to be thankful for, if one were a priest,” he suggested.
Elizabeth offered a slight chuckle, and he found his heart warming to her.
A quiet woman, both in manner and appearance, she nevertheless had a shrewd look in her eyes, her lips pursing whenever her sister or nephew made one of their slightly witless comments. Which was fairly often.
“Perhaps you might be so good as to show me any plans of the estate.”
“Of course! We must return to the study for that. We might have tea there, too.”
“I would not wish to discommode you.”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth said. “I will see to it at once.”
She hurried off, leaving the mother and son to lead him back to the study whilst conducting a whispered conversation he pretended not to overhear.
“Ask him now,” hissed the older woman.
“C-cousin Jonathan?”
Jon smothered a smile. So it was cousin now? “Yes, Cousin Peter?”
“I … that is, we—” he shot a terrified look at his mother.
“Oh, go on! He will not eat you.”
“Rest assured,” Jon said, “I find the eating of cousins beneath even my admittedly low standards.”
Clothilde gave a nervous titter, but looked at him askance. Peter just looked confused.
“Never mind, Peter. I think we both can admit to finding one’s cousins unpalatable at times, would you not agree?”
“Sir, I … I do not …” Peter stuttered to a halt.
“What he means to say—”<
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“Thank you, Clothilde. I’m sure Peter can say whatever he means to say.”
She shot him a scathing look but kept her lips tightly compressed as Peter’s scarlet face turned to him.
“Sir, I do not want you thinking, that is, we do not think you …”
Jon’s heart twisted. Poor lad. Was it any wonder he’d turned out so awkward with such a termagant as a mother?
“Clothilde, would you excuse us? Peter and I need to have a talk.”
“But—”
“A gentleman’s conversation, you understand.” He guided her to the study door then closed it firmly.
“How did you do that?” Peter breathed wide-eyed.
“Practice,” Jon said wryly. “Now spit it out, lad. I haven’t got all day.”
“I …” Peter swallowed.
“Yes?”
“I want to apologize for … for remarks my mo—that is, that we might have made that do you disservice.”
“Manfully shouldered, lad.”
Peter blushed. “You do not seem—”
“Completely beneath you? Oh, I probably am. But I’ve been around some people who know how to get on and perhaps some of their polish has rubbed off on me.” He motioned to the decanter of cut glass. “Shall we?”
Peter’s eyes rounded. “Mother does not let me.”
“Let you?” Jonathan’s brow rose. “How old are you?”
“One-and-twenty.”
“So you have reached your majority.”
The chin rose proudly. “Of course.”
“Then why are you letting your mother dictate what you can and cannot do?”
Peter looked at him as if he’d spoken Hindustani.
Jon bit back a sigh and poured a finger of whiskey in two glasses. He handed one to the boy and resumed his seat, noting Peter’s swallow and wince. Perhaps such a commonplace ritual of manhood was still a step too far for this young man.
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 6
