Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  “Will there be anything else?” Tilly asked, glancing between Catherine and Mama.

  “Thank you, no.”

  Tilly offered a small curtsy and left the room.

  Mama delicately wiped her mouth. “This place makes me feel positively ill! For months now we have suffered, have we not, Catherine? She with headaches, whilst I have suffered with my wretched back.”

  Lavinia murmured something suitably sympathetic.

  “Then that man had the nerve to let that silly young creature go about in Catherine’s gig! I ask you!”

  “Really, Catherine? Is this so?” At her nod the earl’s brows furrowed. “I am surprised.”

  Surprise had filled her the day following the incident, when a short note of apology had arrived from Mr. Carlew, a note doubtless meant for conciliation, but sighted as it had been by her mother, had instead proved to be cause for yet further complaint. Catherine bit back a sigh.

  “It quite decided me,” continued Mama. “I have had a letter from my sister positively demanding my staying with her in Bath as soon as possible.”

  “Bath is quite lovely.” God bless Lavinia for her propensity to find the positive.

  The earl nodded. “My cousin seems well pleased with it. There are many things to occupy one’s time.”

  “Of course, I could not attend any functions, and Catherine could not attend any grand assemblies, but a few concerts, perhaps.”

  The misery grew within. Well might Mama have acquaintances but, except for her aunt, Catherine had none. Even Serena would be in school. How would she cope without a true friend to confide in? And without Lavinia’s comfort and perspective … Catherine swallowed the pain.

  As if sensing this, the earl said, “Miss Winthrop? How do you find the proposed removal?”

  Conscious of her mother’s scrutiny, she forced a smile to her lips. “I think it necessary for peace of mind.” Whose peace of mind she would not say.

  “Well, I hope by that comment you don’t mean to imply I’ve been anything less than satisfied with our arrangements here!” Mama snapped.

  “Of course not, Mama.” She lifted her gaze to encounter Lavinia’s, soft with sympathy. “I think perhaps it would be to everyone’s benefit if we were not here, wondering over every change, feeling …” Resentment. Constraint. Frustration.

  “I see.” The earl glanced at his wife before his attention returned to her. “So, Miss Winthrop, you are amenable to staying in Bath.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “The sooner the better,” Mama added, before sighing loudly. “Oh, if we could only leave today, I would be wondrously pleased.”

  “But that is the problem, you see,” Catherine said in a low voice. “Constrained as we are by such limited means—”

  “Catherine!”

  “It is true, Mama. We lack the traveling coach we would once have used, and must wait for the mail.”

  “The mail?” Lavinia frowned. “I would hate for you to travel by such means.”

  “Surely you could ask Lord Winthrop,” the earl countered.

  “Carlew? I’d sooner ask an adder to bite me!” Mama snapped. “When I think of how kindly we have always treated him, and this is how he repays us!”

  “But if you only asked for his help—”

  “I should not have to ask. He should be aware!”

  “Lady Winthrop, I understand him to be quite fair-minded, but that is a long way from being a mind reader. I’m sure he would not wish for you to feel this way.”

  “Did you know the first time we met him, over two years ago in London, Catherine took pity on him?” Mama carried on as if the earl had not spoken. “She condescended to speak with him. He should be grateful for such attention!”

  Catherine squirmed internally, refusing to meet the knowingness she knew would be in Lavinia’s gaze.

  “I recall now he has traveled to London for business,” the earl said.

  “The curse of the merchant class,” Mama sniffed. “So you see, I could not ask for his assistance even if I wanted to, which I don’t. Oh, I don’t think I can bear another week in such confines!”

  Catherine met Lavinia’s gaze, the sparkle eliciting a reluctant smile at Mama’s contradictions and histrionics.

  Lavinia shifted awkwardly to place her cup of tea on the small side table, before addressing Mama. “Would you perhaps like to use the Hawkesbury traveling coach?”

  “I would never dream of such presumption!”

  The earl’s brows rose. “Are you sure, madam?”

  Mama’s cheeks grew scarlet. “If by that remark you mean to accuse me of impertinence—”

  “Not at all. I merely mean to suggest that it would be my pleasure to offer the use of our traveling carriage, should you require such a thing.”

  After a great show of reluctance, Mama allowed herself to be persuaded, and a date was fixed in two days.

  “For we cannot make calls, you understand, and indeed, there are very few in the neighborhood for whom we are obligated to make farewell calls.”

  Lavinia looked faintly horrified. “But surely your cousin—”

  “Deserves no such civility. You’ll note he did not feel obliged to inform us of his departure.”

  “Because he will only be in London for a few days, as he does each month.” The earl frowned. “You will doubtless be in Bath much longer.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Lavinia exchanged glances with her husband before saying to Catherine, “So if this is to be our farewell, then I wish you to have a most pleasant time in Bath.”

  “And I hope your new arrival to be everything that is a blessing. I am exceedingly sorry I will miss seeing the little one.”

  “Yes, of course. We do wish you a safe time of it,” Mama oozed.

  “Would it help to house Ginger at the Hall?” the earl asked. “McHendricks would relish another animal to care for, especially as we are not here as often as I’d like.”

  “Th-thank you, sir. I don’t believe we would have the …” means, Catherine swallowed, “the opportunity to house Ginger appropriately in Bath.” And she could scarcely trust Frank to tend Ginger as he ought.

  “Very good. I’ll send McHendricks around tomorrow.” He stood, supported his wife to rise.

  “We will write.” Lavinia hugged her. “Take care to send your direction.”

  “And I shall write to my cousin to be sure to let her know to call upon you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I should be glad to enlarge our circle of acquaintances there. And thank you for the use of your traveling coach. It is excessively generous.”

  “Of course.” He dipped his head in farewell before assisting Lavinia inside the coach. “Doubtless you will have much to do in the coming days. I wish you well.”

  “Thank you,” Mama said most graciously.

  They waved, and Catherine pasted on a smile as they watched the coach disappear down the lane.

  Soon the news of their departure was conveyed to Mrs. Jones and Tilly, which inspired a great deal of packing, much to Catherine’s dismay. Surely Aunt Drusilla would not welcome guests with quite so many trunks. “We need not take everything, Mama. It is not like we shall be doing anything much in the way of entertaining.”

  “But we should investigate getting some new gowns for you, my dear. Bath is so popular you know. We may find a gentleman there who takes a fancy to you.”

  “Mama!”

  “Don’t Mama me! You know as well as I do that you are not getting any younger. The time to find a husband is now, before you put on even more weight and grow tired and frumpy looking.”

  Catherine’s heart stung, her eyes burned. But as she fumbled to formulate a reply, Mama’s conversation veered to other matters, allowing Catherine to keep her mouth shut.

  Yet despite the challenges of leaving, their guests’ words about Bath’s many diversions caused an ember of hope to flicker within.

  Perhaps the busyness would distract them long enough to
find peace.

  Perhaps this would be a time when the past could finally be left behind.

  Perhaps in Bath she would finally find her future.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bath

  December

  THE WIND WHISTLED sharply, rippling past Catherine’s cloak and hood as she walked along Barton Street on the way to the circulating library. She huddled into the sparse warmth offered by her gray pelisse, conscious the air’s cool bite would redden her cheeks and nose, but glad to be on her errand anyway. Thankfulness bubbled up that her aunts had agreed with Mama that Catherine could now wear half mourning. Not only did this allow her to wear the grays and soft lavenders that became her so much better than strict black, but half mourning also gave permission to circulate more publicly. She glanced up, admiring once again the squared stone buildings of symmetry and grace lining the cobblestoned street. To her left, the greenery of Queen’s Square beckoned, evoking memories of the countryside around Winthrop.

  Breath escaped in a chilly cloud. For the first time in a long time she felt almost happy. Happiness had for so long remained elusive, swelling within then slipping away, escaping like a hot air balloon she’d seen long ago in Hyde Park. But now, here, where their circle was gradually expanding, and with easily accessible interesting shops, libraries, and tea shops, there was enough of the new to see and do to distract from what had been, and to somehow remind her of who she used to be: lively, without a stammer, brimming with energy and expectancy. It was amazing how the constraints of others’ expectations no longer weighed her down; to not have her disappointments and failures constantly flaunted seemed to have set her free.

  She smiled to herself as she rounded the corner onto Wood Street. Thank God for Bath. Thank God that Aunt Drusilla lived in such a well-positioned locale on Gay Street, Catherine was able to walk to her destination—sometimes even unaccompanied by a maid! Thank God for Aunt Drusilla’s hospitality, even if she had been less than enamored of their premature arrival.

  Mama had soon dismissed such dismay—“But what did you expect me to do? The earl was begging me to use his coach, simply begging me. I could not very well refuse now, could I?”—and Aunt Drusilla had been forced to accede to her elder sister’s reasoning.

  Catherine’s smile widened. She wasn’t the only one forced to bend to Mama’s domineering ways.

  “Good day, Miss Winthrop.”

  The gravelly voice stole her attention from her musings. “General Whitby! Hello.”

  The general, an acquaintance of her aunt’s, had soon become one of the few favored by Mama to escort Catherine when she attended the occasional evening concert. Due to his age—fifty if he were a day—and gentlemanly manners, Mama saw no harm in him.

  “I had hoped to bump into you, my dear. Will you and your good aunt be attending the Mitford dinner next week?”

  “I am not sure, sir.”

  “Well then I shall put off my reply until you are sure. Heaven forbid I go and find there be nothing but old biddies.”

  “Heaven forbid, indeed!” Catherine chuckled.

  He took out his pocket watch and checked the time. “I best be off to taste some of those foul waters again. May I accompany you, Miss Winthrop?”

  “Thank you, but I am going in the opposite direction.” She showed the book she held. “Mama has asked for the next by this author.”

  “And how is your dear Mama?”

  “Quite well, thank you, sir.”

  “Good, good. Well, I must say that lilac becomes you very well. Very well, indeed. Well, good day to you.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  Catherine continued her journey, thinking over the general’s remarks. How glad she was to be able to honestly say Mama was well. For Bath agreed with her. The instant she’d walked through Aunt Drusilla’s door it was as though years had erased from her face. She seemed happier, too. Mama might not attend any public events, and would wear black for the year and a day deemed respectable, but Catherine rather suspected Mama liked her status, with all its social benefits. For here in Bath Mama’s rank, although not as high as some, was still high enough for her to be deemed one of the more important ladies, her name would be heralded by the masters of the assemblies should she ever, one day, condescend to attend.

  Catherine rounded the corner, bumped into a tall figure. “Oh! I beg your pardon.”

  “No, the fault is mine.” The dark chestnut-haired man reached to steady her, before peering more closely. “Miss Winthrop? Is that you?”

  “Last time I checked, Major Hale.” She smiled.

  Eyes the color of coffee stared at her until her cheeks heated. “Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse my poor manners. I did not expect to see you here. Especially looking …”

  She raised a hand to her hair. Was it falling out? Did she look a fright?

  “Looking so well.” He smiled, eliciting a curl in her heart. Suddenly she could see why Julia had once whispered of his reputation with the ladies. The man possessed charm. “It seems Bath agrees with you, Miss Winthrop.”

  “I believe that is supposed to be its chief recommendation.”

  He chuckled, glanced around. “I see people looking our way. Might I be so bold as to enquire your direction? I would like to pay a call, if I may.”

  “Why?” The word slipped out before she could stop it. “I … I beg your pardon.”

  He smiled, apparently unbothered by her rudeness. “I see one must keep one’s wits when talking with you, Miss Winthrop.”

  “I should prefer that to talking to the witless.”

  His grin grew. “May I speak with you again? I would here, but the wind carries a bite on these streets and I would not have you catch cold. When might I have the pleasure?”

  She thought quickly. Mama would scarcely countenance his visit to the house, and meeting unchaperoned in public was unwise. While Bath was a genteel kind of place, both Aunt Drusilla and the earl’s cousin, a Miss Pettigrew, had dropped warnings about the speculation that occurred amongst so many of the idle. But to have a handsome man wish to meet her … Perhaps she was not at her last prayers, after all.

  “Perhaps I might see you at the abbey tomorrow morning around eleven.”

  “The abbey? I will be there. Good day, Miss Winthrop.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  He doffed his hat, and she was struck with the ridiculous notion that his face carried a trace of admiration.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Catherine accompanied Mama on her now daily walk to the Pump Room to take the waters. As usual, the waters were drunk with a pinched face, and mutterings about the vile taste, but as Mama believed they had healed her lumbago she was loathe to miss an appointment and thereby risk the return of the dreaded complaint.

  Later, as Mama listened to some new acquaintances gossip, Catherine leaned close to murmur, “Mama, would you mind if I visit the abbey for a moment?”

  “Whatever for, child?”

  “I … I wish to sketch one of the images I saw on a memorial stone.” Which she would, as soon as she’d had her conversation with Major Hale.

  Mama frowned.

  Catherine’s heart sank. Perhaps this wasn’t the best excuse, after all. Mama had never really appreciated art, despite Serena’s giftedness for taking a person’s likeness. “It is only a short walk from here. I’m sure nobody could object. I would not be long.”

  One of the ladies Mama was listening to, a Mrs. Gulbrandssen, said something in a hushed voice, forcing her listeners to lean in. Mama glanced at Catherine. “Oh, very well then, go. But don’t get distracted like your sister does.” She turned to the other ladies. “My younger daughter likes to think she’s an artist. She’s at Haverstock’s, you understand.”

  “Haverstock’s!” The ladies murmured with approving nods. Only the best families could afford to send their daughters to such an auspicious seminary.

  Thankfulness curled within again that Serena’s fees had been paid upfront. “Thank you, Mama.”


  Before her mother could change her mind, Catherine hurried from the room, down the stairs, and out the main entrance, crossing the square’s thirty yards or so to the abbey’s heavily carved wooden doors. Inside was hushed, festooned with evergreens for the Christmas services next week, only a few people wandering about, gazing up at the huge glass windows rising dozens of feet to the arched ceiling. She hastened across the stone-flagged vestibule, past the baptismal font, over to the northern wing. There she found the major, ostensibly examining a memorial stone, his face easing into a smile at her approach.

  “You came.”

  “Of course.” She glanced around. It would do well to find a suitable stone for sketching, to not look like this was a clandestine meeting. “What brings you to Bath, sir?”

  “I am here to visit my old general, by name of Whitby.”

  “General Whitby?” He nodded. “How remarkable. He is good friends with my aunt.”

  “Then perhaps we will see more of each other.” He smiled, and her heart gave a silly flutter.

  She spoke sternly to herself as they wandered to the abbey’s southern transept. How shallow was she to allow a young man’s smile to muddle her emotions? Especially a young man who had not behaved in the most courteous way back at Winthrop. As memories panged, her mood sobered. She eyed a series of sneering gargoyles carved into a stone pillar.

  “I suppose you have been keeping abreast of the news from Winthrop?”

  A strange thudding began in her heart. She kept her face impassive, inclining her head as if assuming interest in the design of a memorial stone. “Julia writes regularly.”

  After their surprise evacuation from the Dower House, Catherine had penned a letter of apology to Julia, her friend’s reply somehow expressing through the polite nothings something of their hurt at not being informed as to their absence. Since then, the tone of Julia’s letters had gradually become more conciliatory.

  “Then you’ll know that cousin of yours has finally decided to be leg-shackled.”

  No. No! Her heart dropped as the silent scream protested within. She grasped the carved end of a wooden pew, her knuckles whitening in her effort to remain upright.