Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  “Don’t look at me as though I am heartless. I have enough heart to wish to see you not adopt your mother’s ways. If our mother had spoken thus to us more instead of leaving all the work to servants and nannies, perhaps Elvira might have been cured of her propensity to offense—and I might have been cured of my irascible tongue.”

  A broken chuckle escaped.

  Her aunt gave a thin smile. “Catherine, you have but one life. I do not wish for you to have to live here or with Elvira all your days. The time to change is now, the start of a new year. Here you are, in Bath, surrounded by opportunities. Make the most of them. You might not have the man who captured your heart, but another man might well bring you happiness. Look at me. Your Uncle Herbert, God rest his soul, made me happy, even if he wasn’t a young girl’s dream.”

  Catherine forced a nod. The Uncle Herbert she remembered might have spent time as a diplomat in Spain but had possessed bushy eyebrows, a white beard, and a slight cast to one eye.

  “If you lock yourself in the past you will never know your future. So choose to live, my dear. A woman does not have many choices in this world, but she can still be the heroine in her own life, and not just idle in the wings. You need to make up your mind what part you wish to play.”

  She rose, glanced at the book beside Catherine. “And if you believe what that Bible says then you’ll start acting like it.” And with a swish of skirts she exited.

  Catherine stared at the vacant seat, mind whirling, emotion swelling, swirling, settling. She had spent long enough living in the shadows. It was time to live in the sun.

  She breathed in. Exhaled. Picked up the Bible once more. Opened to a page where a stitched cotton cross marked verses in the Gospel of John.

  Jesus’s words. “I have come to give life to the full.”

  Catherine wasn’t living life to the full. Her aunt was right. She wasn’t even living.

  She bent her head. “Lord.” The word echoed in the large room. “Lord, please help me.”

  Winthrop

  Snow blanketed the fields. His daily visits to the tenants had reduced to weekly. He felt as though he was slowly earning their trust, like that of the Hassops, whose farm he had visited before this stop at the Foleys’.

  He nodded to Mrs. Foley. “I am glad to see you looking better.”

  “It helps to be getting more sleep, sir.”

  “I have heard that.”

  Hawkesbury had mentioned something similar during a brief conversation at White’s, when Jon had enquired after the countess and their new daughter. The earl’s joy at becoming a father in early November did not seem diminished either by the fact he remained heirless or that his sleep was now much disrupted. Jon had fought envy, fought the what-ifs. And he fought envy again now in the cozy farmhouse kitchen.

  “I will leave you to it then.” He gathered his overcoat and beaver, shook hands with the farmer, and nodded to his wife.

  “Oh, sir, I be wondering if you’ve heard anything from Miss Winthrop?”

  He stilled, chest banding tight. “No.”

  Mrs. Foley sighed. “I would be liking her to know how well the babe be doing now, seeing as she took such an interest early on, and all.”

  “I believe my sister has written to her. I shall endeavor to see the message passed on.”

  “Oh, that be right kind of you, sir.”

  “Not at all.”

  He bowed, exited, and hurried through the frosty air to the barn, where Gulliver kept warm under blankets. Minutes later he was riding up the lane.

  Memories rose, shifting between those from years ago and those more recent. Her antagonism. Her insistence on being away from him. Her shock. Her disappointment.

  If only …

  He shook his head—the cold must be affecting his brain!—and rode up the snowy lane.

  Jon nudged Gulliver closer to the Dower House. His mother’s return from London over Christmas had prompted this visit. The day after their meal of celebration, a wretched day like this, as they relaxed before the crackling fire she’d said, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask what you intend to do about the cottage.”

  “The cottage?”

  “Yes. I would certainly not like to stay there.”

  He’d smiled. “I think we can both rest assured you need never live in a cottage, Mother.”

  She laughed, but then grew serious. “I might not, thank God. However, the same cannot be said for others. And since it’s vacant at present, I think it timely for you to spend money on something closer to home.”

  Only then had he realized that she referred to the Dower House.

  “It won’t require anything of the expense required by Avebury.”

  “Thank goodness,” he muttered.

  “Thank your goodness, rather. I still do not believe that woman has any idea what you have done for her. And her son.”

  He shrugged. “It does not matter.”

  “Does not matter? If only we could all be so cavalier when it comes to spending thousands on a derelict old ruin.”

  “It is not quite that bad.”

  “Not anymore, thanks to you. Regardless, I do think it important to treat family members with respect, even when they refuse to show us proper consideration. I still cannot understand how they could be so discourteous as to not inform us of their departure.”

  “Mother, that was months ago.”

  “And still no word!”

  “I’ve had word,” Julia piped up from the corner settee, curled up in front of the fire, reading a book. “Catherine and I have exchanged several letters.”

  Several letters? Jon eyed his sister. What else did he not know?

  “Yes, well, that is hardly the same,” Mother said, studying her beringed fingers with a frown. “It is simply courtesy to inform one’s neighbors of one’s proposed movements.”

  “Mother, they hardly require my permission to leave,” Jon said.

  “You were away in London, anyway.”

  “Thank you, Julia. This conversation need not involve you,” said their mother.

  “But if it involves fixing up the cottage, then I think it should,” she said, sitting upright with lifted chin. “I’ve been inside and it’s simply horrid.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She coughed, then shivered, as if remembering. “It’s terribly nasty, and dark, and cold. I’m glad they’re not there now. It must be unbearable in winter.”

  “Why did you not say something before, poppet?”

  “I did not think of it.” Julia shrugged. “And besides, sometimes it doesn’t seem to matter what I say, you both don’t seem to want to listen.”

  “Now, Julia …”

  Their protestations had met with another shrug. “Anyway, I always had the impression they were too proud to ask for your help.”

  “But I am responsible for such things.” Shame slithered through his soul. “I wish I had known.”

  His mother sniffed. “It was your predecessor’s role to ensure the Dower House remained fit for his family’s habitation. You cannot hold yourself accountable for another man’s failings.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You could not very well barge in without their leave, but as they are no longer there and by all accounts have no fixed return, now is the perfect time for you to see just what needs to be done.” Her eyes had grown sober. “And if what Julia says is correct, there is a great deal to be done.”

  His stomach clenched anew in uneasy expectation. Just how much needed to be done he was about to find out.

  Gulliver slowed, the thick snowdrifts near impassable. Jon slid off, walked the final yards to the dense hedge behind which the cottage huddled. Smoke curling from the chimney suggested someone resided within. He opened the gate, and tugged Gulliver through to the empty stable. After covering the stallion with a blanket, he moved to the back door and knocked.

  “Hello?”

  The door opened before he could knock again. A woman, plump-chee
ked, brown haired, and flour-dusted stood there, eyes rounding. “Good heavens! It’s his lordship!”

  “Good day, Mrs.—?”

  “Mrs. Jones, sir.” She dropped a curtsy.

  “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, but I have come to inspect the cottage.”

  “The mistress still be away.”

  “I know. It shan’t take a moment.”

  After a brief hesitation, she stepped back. He entered, and quickly acknowledged the concerns of his mother and sister. Darkness permeated the building that not even the hastily opened curtains could help. And it was cold. Bitterly cold. Wind whistled round the windows, drafts of icy air stealing through cracks as long as a man’s arm. Why, why, why hadn’t anyone told him conditions were so miserable?

  “Sir, I ’pologize for the state of things. We weren’t expectin’ any company.”

  He traced a finger through the dust lining a shelf of books. “I hope you keep house better when your mistress is in.”

  “Oh yes, of course, sir.”

  “I would not keep someone in my employ if they only worked when I was watching.”

  “Oh, but sir—”

  “Tell me, do you wish to keep your job?”

  “Of course, sir!”

  “Then there are a few things I wish to know.”

  Half an hour later, he retrieved a snorting Gulliver, gave him a quick rubdown before heading for home. Icy wind chattered, stealing underneath his turned-up collar, biting his ears and cheeks.

  How could he have not noticed the dire state of affairs? What kind of kinsman was he?

  Fresh weight settled on his shoulders, his mind churning apace with Gulliver’s hooves.

  No wonder they hated him. No wonder she hated him. Right now, he hated himself.

  He groaned aloud.

  Mistake upon mistake upon mistake.

  CHAPTER SİXTEEN

  Upper Assembly Rooms, Bath

  THE ROOM FILLED with the hubbub of tonight’s audience, the excitement almost palpable as the crowd escaped the confines of hearth and home to gather for an evening’s entertainment. Catherine reveled in the chance to be out in society once again, to be free from Mama’s overbearing presence and manner, to wear the pretty mauve dress Aunt Drusilla had made a present for her.

  “Miss Winthrop!” General Whitby smiled at her. “May I say how lovely you look tonight?”

  Catherine smiled over her fan as though she was as much of an accomplished flirt as Sophia Milton had been before her marriage. “You may.”

  He chortled, a sound not dissimilar to a braying horse. “You will outshine the other ladies tonight.”

  “I hope so,” she replied, “especially as they tend to be my elder by at least two dozen years.”

  Another throaty chuckle made her smile all the more real. The banter was like donning a once-favorite gown she’d long ago discarded; it felt so familiar, so comfortable, she could wear it all the time.

  “Not everyone has the constitution for cold evenings such as these,” the general continued, looking around.

  “I believe I’ve grown somewhat immune to the cold. I’ve become acclimatized, you see.”

  “Well, you are from a chillier part of the world, I suppose.”

  Well he might suppose, but that wasn’t her true meaning. The coldness encasing her heart for so long had eased of late, partly due to her aunt’s stern intervention, partly due to the challenge she found in the Bible.

  The strains of the musicians tuning, their notes clashing until harmony prevailed, seemed almost to mirror her own heart’s recent tension. For too long she had lived with discord between heart and head, feeling and faith. God’s abundant life awaited. No more would she allow her peace and hope to be stolen away. She was loved by God; His presence empowered her in her weakness; His promises stirred hope for the future.

  So the cloak of timidity was one she cast aside each day. Sometimes she struggled, the fears fueling her uncertainty needing to be combated with God’s assurances. But regret was tasteless, a dry bone she had gnawed for way too long. She was putting her past behind her, and if people thought her behavior improper, such as spending time with dear, genial General Whitby, she at least had Aunt Drusilla’s encouragement propelling her on. Which was why she was here, at the Upper Assembly Rooms, sitting next to the general, waiting for the famous soprano from the Continent, Madame Lavallier, to begin.

  A gorgeously arrayed large-bosomed lady appeared, bowed, and soon began to sing. Her voice swelled, filling the room adorned with laurels, garlands, and wreaths of flowers. The string music lifted then fell, its rich tones the perfect accompaniment to the soprano’s dulcet rendering, tugging listeners on an emotional journey, one Catherine was happy to get lost in. She smiled. Released breath. Now this, this was what made Bath enjoyable.

  The Italian song soon gave way to an Irish air, then a performance of Robin Adair. Catherine joined in the applause at the commencement of the interval.

  “Quite magnificent, do you not agree?” the general murmured.

  “Quite.” Although she felt sure Lavinia’s talent could surpass the professional’s.

  He tucked her hand under his arm, leading her to where the refreshments were served. “I hope you’ll think of attending the ball next week.”

  “I’m afraid all I can do is think of attending.” She smiled, gesturing to her clothes. “I do not think even my aunt would agree to my putting off all semblance of mourning just to attend a ball.”

  “I suppose you are right.” He sighed. “You break my heart, child.”

  She laughed.

  His eyes twinkled. “Now, I have a little matter to discuss with you. My friend Major Hale, have you seen anything of him of late?”

  Major Hale. Her heart chilled. “No, I have not seen him since before Christmas.”

  “Hmm. He’d mentioned plans to be here in the new year and I rather thought I’d see him by now, but have heard nothing.”

  Her smile drooped. He was probably too busy with Mr. Carlew before his wedding, seeing as they were such friends.

  “Well, I suppose there is nothing that can be done. Only I do wish for someone closer to your own age to accompany you to these things.”

  “I hope you are not feeling too tired, sir?”

  “Too tired? No, although I rather suspect several of my acquaintances think me too old to be escorting such a pretty thing around town.”

  Catherine smiled, and squeezed his arm. “You do yourself a great disservice, sir.”

  “Whilst you do my old heart a world of good, my dear.”

  So despite her mother’s pleas to not be quite so chummy with the general, Catherine reveled in the fact that strangely, against all odds, she had made a friend.

  The general, contrary to her mother’s fears, seemed to have no designs for matrimony, being instead happy to advise and criticize all prospects as they moved around the room. His eyeglass would lift, then be allowed to fall, as various candidates were dismissed as too plump, too tall, too thin, or too small.

  “A man should be but the husband of one wife, so the Good Book tells us. Have you ever wondered why that might be?”

  “Too many wives might spoil the man?”

  He laughed. “Back when I was on the Indian subcontinent, we often dealt with rajahs who believed in polygamy. I cannot imagine anything worse. Imagine the constant screeching!”

  She smiled wryly. She did not need to imagine. Growing up, she’d heard enough screeching from a man’s only wife.

  “I like that about you, my dear—you only speak when you have something to say. And usually what you’ve got to say is worth listening to.”

  “Why, thank you,” she replied in her driest tone.

  “And not quick to take offense—I admire that, too.”

  She laughed.

  “There, that’s more like it. Now, tell me, why should that foppish fellow be staring our direction? Do you think the color of my waistcoat too bland compared to his?”r />
  She glanced over. Almost stumbled. “Perry?”

  “Perry, is it? He looks more like a plumpish peacock to me.” He gave a dismissive snort. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with him, my dear, except it seems you already know him, and yes, he seems to be coming our way. How unfortunate.”

  “Hello, Mr. Milton,” said Catherine, extending her hand.

  He took it, bowed. “Miss Winthrop, how are you?”

  “Very well, thank you.” Noting his look at her companion, she performed the introductions. “General, allow me to introduce Peregrine Milton, an old friend of the family’s. Perry, this is General Whitby, a new friend of ours.”

  As the men bowed to each other, Catherine continued, “The general has been most anxious to make your acquaintance. He wondered whether the, er, handsomely dressed young man gazing in our direction was casting aspersions on his choice of waistcoat.”

  “You are a naughty puss,” murmured the general.

  “Not at all,” Perry responded grandly. “It was simply I did not recognize you, Catherine. You look quite handsome.”

  As Catherine digested this, the general snorted. “Young man, a compliment presented in such a cack-handed way can scarce be considered complimentary. But if you meant to tell my young friend here that she is in very fine looks then I congratulate you on your powers of observation.”

  Perry’s mouth dropped open. “I, er …”

  “Mr. Milton”—Catherine shot the general a reproving look—“tell me what brings you to Bath.”

  “My new coach. It’s slap up to the echo.”

  “I meant—”

  “I think even ol’ Hawkesbury would envy me.”

  As he continued espousing his new vehicle’s virtues, she tried to ignore the general’s chortle of “Peacock and peagoose.”

  “Is your father here in town with you?”

  “No, just the mater.”

  Her heart sunk. “Wonderful.”

  “She won’t believe how well you’re looking either.”

  “Now, lad,” growled the general.

  “I … er, I hope to see you soon again, Miss Winthrop.” He bowed. “General Whitby.”