“Took him long enough. I don’t know why he dithered so long. He’s like a smitten schoolboy. They’ll do well, I imagine.”
“M-Miss Beauchamp, I suppose?” Her voice sounded hollow in her ears.
“Who else? She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll give her that, but not quite in the style I imagined should suit the running of such a grand place.”
This homage to her former home she imagined to be his way of recommending himself to her. He was wrong. She cared not for his opinion anymore, wanting only to be away, so she could hide the inner rawness threatening to spill from her eyes.
“Miss Winthrop? I thought you’d be better pleased. It must be good news surely to know the estate will be looked after for future generations.”
Future generations? Nausea slid through her middle. Mr. Carlew’s children—with Miss Beauchamp?
She sank into the pew, pretending interest in the stone vaulting high above. “I wish them every happiness.” Had felicitations ever sounded so empty? “She will make”—she swallowed—“a good wife.”
“I hope so, though she seems a little young. But I suppose time will change that, eh?”
“It has a tendency to do so,” she murmured. Look how much time had changed her.
She blinked away the burn. Forced herself to rise, to assume interest in yet another memorial stone.
Anne Lambert
Beloved wife and mother
Died 1728
She studied the intricately carved angels, forever guarding poor Anne’s memory. Wistfulness stole across her heart. Anne might be long dead, but she’d once been loved, she’d once experienced life, and birth, and dreams. Oh, Anne might be long gone, but she had lived!
Catherine swallowed. Time certainly changed things. And perhaps it would even change this ache. Even if two and a half years had not managed to eradicate it.
She drew in a deep breath, conscious of the major’s perusal. She fixed a smile to her face. “So, Major, how long will you be in Bath?”
“Just another two days, then I must return to London. I am stopping at Winthrop on the way, if you would like me to carry any messages.”
“Thank you, but apart from carrying our good wishes I have no other message to give.”
“Very well, then.” He bowed, turned, then pivoted back. “Will you attend the concert this evening?”
Her smile was growing brittle, fading fast. “I do not think so.” Not anymore. She had an important engagement with her pillow, which would probably result in red eyes.
“Tomorrow?”
“I cannot be certain what plans my mother and aunt have made.”
“I see. May I escort you somewhere now?”
And possibly be seen with him by Mama? “Thank you, sir, but I shall remain a little longer.”
He looked disappointed. “Then may I wish you the joy of the season and the hope that you will accept my best wishes for your good health and happiness.”
“Thank you. And for you, sir.”
He nodded and after ensuring once more she did not require his escort home, departed.
Leaving her slumped in a pew, wondering if she could don her mourning clothes again, and why, in the midst of such a beautiful cathedral, God felt so very far away.
Winthrop
The click of the white ball against the eight was followed by a thunk as the ball dropped into the corner netting. Jonathan moved to the opposite side of the green baize table, steadied the cue, and hit again. Smiled at his success.
A gentle tapping at the door was followed by Geoffreys’s murmured, “Excuse me, sir, but Major Hale has arrived.”
“At this time of night?”
He’d become used to quiet days and quieter nights. With Mother and Julia in London these past weeks, he’d become accustomed to filling his evenings with account work and, on odd occasions, improving his billiards game. Jon balanced his cue on the table. Hale was sure to welcome a game or three. He hurried into the hall.
“Hale! Good to see you.” They shook hands. “Have you eaten?”
“I ate at the White Hart, on the way. But I won’t say no if you still have some of that delicious Scottish brew you had last time.”
“Of course.” Jon led the way to the smoking room and the whiskey Hale had taken a liking to. After pouring his guest a drink, he settled into the overstuffed chair across from him.
After a general exchange of information about the past weeks, Hale leaned back in his chair. “The place seems rather quiet. I don’t suppose Miss Beauchamp is here?”
“Of course not.” At his friend’s upraised brow Jon hurried on. “My mother and Julia are in London. I could scarcely have houseguests without them.”
“Of course not,” Hale agreed, taking another sip. “I just wondered …”
“Wondered what?”
“Nothing. Please accept my felicitations.”
Jon frowned. “I have no news.”
“What? I thought you had decided.”
“I have neared a decision.”
Hale blinked, as though startled. Jon hurried on. “There is still much to consider to ensure such an undertaking be mutually beneficial.”
“You speak as though this is another of your business ventures.”
“And as far as her father is concerned, it would be,” he said. Fifty thousand in shares in Carlew investments would not be glossed over by any parent seeking their daughter’s material happiness. He need not guess what Mr. Beauchamp would encourage his daughter’s answer to be when Jon finally proposed.
“Yes, well, perhaps for him it is, but for you, Carlew, is it nothing more? Surely you love the girl.”
“I—of course.” His conscience panged. He ignored it.
“Then what is the delay? For goodness’ sake, man, how long will you keep that girl waiting?”
The very question Mother had asked on his most recent visit to London. Doubtless the very first question she would ask when they arrived tomorrow for Christmas.
“I—oh, well.”
“Oh well what?”
“I may have been a little presumptuous.” Hale’s cheeks reddened.
“What do you mean?”
“I, er, may have told someone that you were betrothed.”
“You may?” Jon lifted a brow, his stomach filling with unease. “And who might this person be?”
“Well, you’ll never guess whom I saw in Bath. Quite took me aback, she did. I declare she seemed almost pretty.”
No … His heart stuttered. “Not—?”
“Miss Winthrop, that’s right! She was quite different, smiling and witty, well, she was at first, anyway. Until I, er, told her about you and the Beauchamp girl.” He glanced guiltily at Jonathan. “Sorry, Carlew.”
“No matter,” he said shortly. How could it matter? She’d long ago made her feelings plain. And hadn’t he long ago forsaken any hope of reconciliation?
“Truly, Carlew, I didn’t know you had an interest there.”
He unclenched his fingers. Breathed out. Breathed out some more. “I don’t.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, that is good news.” Hale glanced up, an almost shy expression on his face. “Fact is, I rather wondered at having a crack myself.”
“What?” Jon blinked. Was the world going zany or was it just him?
“I suppose I should talk to you, seeing as she doesn’t have a father. And now you’re the new Lord Winthrop and all, I suppose you would stand in his place.”
Jon shoved a hand through his hair, wishing he could order his thoughts. “I did not think you believed her pretty enough.”
“Perhaps I am learning to appreciate that a woman’s face can’t hold attention as long as her words can, and”—he smiled—“she’s got a surprising tongue on her.”
Something hard and cold clenched his chest. “I’m surprised you stopped long enough to find out. I remember you once described her as a perfect fright.”
“Yes, but
that was when she was here. In Bath she seems, I don’t know, to have bloomed. But perhaps that’s the effect of being away from her wasp-tongued mother.”
“Lady Winthrop is not there?”
“Oh, she’s there all right, but”—his smile grew sly—“not when I was speaking to Miss Winthrop.”
Nausea rumbled through his stomach. He’d be hanged to see Hale interfere with her. “You are aware she has little dowry.”
“What does that matter? I have enough. Just think”—and now Hale had the audacity to grin—“we could be cousins-in-law.”
“Third cousins once removed-in-law,” he growled.
“Carlew, you don’t seem a bit pleased for me. Here I am for the first time in my life possibly willing to consider settling down, and well, I call it ungentlemanly not to encourage me in such an endeavor.”
“Ungentlemanly? You?” Jonathan fought to keep the sneer from his voice. “I cannot conceive why you’d wonder at a man’s hesitation in wanting to recommend someone in his care to your protection.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Come,” Jon uttered with a grating laugh. “We both know you can have no honorable interest in Miss Winthrop.”
Hale stared at him, two white spots high on his cheeks. “I’m going to pretend I did not hear you say that,” he said softly.
“You can pretend all you like, but denial won’t change your past.”
Hale’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps it won’t. But I’m not the only one hoping my past won’t dictate my future.”
Jon sucked in air. “What do you mean by that?”
“Precisely that. Do you not believe a person can change? Or are you so utterly straitlaced you judge a man forever on his history? Yes, perhaps I’m not worthy of a lady like Miss Winthrop, but I’m beginning to suspect you would not approve of anyone. And that, along with your reluctance to offer for Miss Beauchamp, only makes me wonder why!” He pushed to his feet. “No, don’t get up, I’ll see myself out. You might have the Midas touch when it comes to business, but you treat your friends worse than any poor beggar I ever saw on a Calcutta street.”
“Hale, I apolo—”
The door slammed.
When Jon finally followed him outside, it was in time to see a gig being driven smartly away. Leaving him wondering if he’d fractured a friendship forever.
And wondering just how much of Hale’s words were true.
CHAPTER FİFTEEN
Bath
January 1817
BATH SEEMED VERY gray in winter. Perhaps that was the effect of leaden clouds and spitting skies; perhaps it was simply the state of her heart. Catherine trudged up the street, clasping her hood at the throat to protect from the icy wind. She was a ghost, walking, talking, even occasionally smiling, drifting through her days. Inside she was dead. All hope snuffed out. Nothing touched her; nothing could touch her. The tiny flame of hope she’d foolishly, so foolishly nurtured had died with Major Hale’s words three weeks ago. Somehow she maintained a calm demeanor; somehow she went through the motions demanded by society, but the joy of Bath, the freedom she’d drunk so thirstily, all that seemed wasted now.
Her mother’s grumbles and complaints beside her seemed a distant drone. Catherine paid little heed, forcing herself to adopt the semblance of polite interest propriety deemed acceptable. Christmas had passed, the pain of her father’s absence adding greater sorrow, which was only slightly alleviated by a church service reminder as to its true meaning, a small exchange of gifts, and a special meal. New Year passed. Epiphany.
Aunt Drusilla had looked askance at her several times, but Mama remained oblivious. Despite the cold, Catherine maintained her church and library visits, the occasional concert engagement. People of shallow acquaintance might see nothing wrong, but Serena had been able to tell, sharing her concern at Christmas, which Catherine had managed to fob off with a forced smile. Lavinia, too, would know, but she was far away, her delight in new motherhood all she should be focused on. So Catherine kept her letters bright and cheery; nothing of her making would cause shadows in Lavinia’s happiness.
The drizzling conditions had intensified by the time they finally reached the front steps of the residence on Gay Street, Mother’s complaints about the taste of the waters from their daily walk from the Pump Room unabated. “And I do wish Bath was not so steep. Nor so rainy!”
“Perhaps you might find a nap beneficial, Mama.”
Her mother sighed, murmured accord, and moved upstairs, groans accompanying every step. Catherine went to the drawing room, tried to read her Bible, but as seemed usual these days, the words were simply black marks on the page.
“Excuse me, Catherine?”
She looked up.
Aunt Drusilla motioned to the Bible. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“No, not at all.” She closed the heavy covers.
Her aunt perched on the settee opposite, brow wrinkled. “I was hoping to have a word with you.”
Oh. Dread lined her stomach.
“How are you?”
Catherine hitched her lips into a smile she hoped looked believable. “I am well.”
“Hmm. May I make an observation?” At Catherine’s nod her aunt continued. “When you and your mother first came to Bath, I knew you both to be ill. You were so dispirited, and your mother has always been inclined to be sickly. Such things are hardly surprising, if the descriptions of your house are to be believed.” She smoothed her skirts. “I had high hopes to see you recover, and for a time you seemed to improve, but lately …”
Catherine stilled. What had Aunt Drusilla seen?
“There’s no need to look like that. I may never have been blessed with a child of my own, but I like to think of you as the daughter I never had. And it seems to me that of late you have felt burdened. Of course, a girl should go to her mother, but your mama, shall we say, has never been able to show much interest in things that do not directly affect her own happiness.”
“Aunt Drusilla—”
“Come now. We both know it is true. She’s been that way since a child, always carrying on with her imagined tragedies, and at her age is unlikely to change. But I am not concerned about my sister. I am concerned about you.”
She could not move. Her aunt’s keen-eyed gaze pinned her to her seat like a moth to specimen paper.
“What has happened? You are not the young lady I knew as always laughing, riding about like a madcap.”
Catherine cleared her throat. “I’ve grown up.”
“Well, yes, you have, but this burden isn’t a maturity I would wish on anyone.”
What could she say? She wouldn’t wish these feelings on her worst enemy.
“What has happened?”
Her eyes pricked. Emotion swelled, refusing speech. She swallowed. Eventually managed to croak, “Papa.”
Her aunt’s gaze softened. “Of course. But that does not account for why you grew morose again. Has something else happened? Have you received disappointing news?”
“Please, Aunt, I would rather not—”
“Not tell me, I know. But it does not please me to see you so lifeless.” Aunt Drusilla sighed. “My dear, I am known for my blunt ways, so you’ll have to excuse me when I ask, is it a man?”
Catherine’s heart thumped.
“I gather from that look the answer is yes. So what is the problem? He has disappointed your hopes?”
She dragged her gaze away to look out the library windows. It was raining more heavily now. Of course it was. Wintry bitterness outside to match the bleakness within.
“Who is this man?”
Her eyes narrowed as she returned her attention to her aunt, fighting to control her breathing. Did Aunt Drusilla possess no scruples?
“Do not look at me like I’m about to snap off your head. I am not your mother, and you are not a simpleton, so I gather he is worthy enough to secure your affection.”
Well, if she insisted on knowing …
Catherine l
ifted her chin. Swallowed. Then told her.
“Well!” Aunt Drusilla blinked. “Good heavens! Well.”
Hollow amusement clanged within. Rarely had she seen her aunt so flabbergasted.
“I suppose it could be worse. Elizabeth writes to say Carlew has been most circumspect in his dealings with Avebury. She seems to think him a sensible man, especially in dealing with that fool Clothilde and her ridiculous son. I cannot help but appreciate Elizabeth’s good sense, though she’s always been too meek for my liking.” She nodded. “And it speaks well of his character that he did not insist on your immediate removal from the Manor. If only it wasn’t for his unfortunate mother!” Aunt Drusilla peered at her sharply. “So, when did this happen?”
“In London, at Grandfather’s birthday.”
“Nearly three years ago?”
She nodded.
“All this time! Well, I’ll say this for you, my girl, you owe nothing of your reticence to my side of the family.”
That was certainly true.
“And Mr. Carlew wrote to you?”
Her eyes blurred. “Only to say h-his affections had changed.”
“And your parents did not know?”
“Oh, please, Aunt Drusilla, I could not bear it if Mama were to know.”
“Of course.” Her aunt sighed, her sympathetic gaze sharpening again. “You’re sure your father did not? I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but your father was not the most scrupulous of men.”
But everything about Mr. Carlew’s behavior had changed afterward. It had to be true. “It does not matter now.”
“But it must, otherwise you would not be carrying on like this.”
She said stiffly, “I do not believe I have carried on—”
“Oh, don’t get all missish with me! Tell me. What has happened to cast you into despondency now?”
“H-he is engaged.”
“Well!”
“To a Miss Beauchamp. She is quite kind—”
“I do not care if she is a saint!” Her aunt’s eyes flashed. Was it disappointment to be behind on the news, or something else? “Well, that’s done then, isn’t it? Move on.”
Catherine gasped. Her aunt’s words felt like she’d been dunked in the River Avon. Fresh moisture gathered behind her eyes.
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 15
