Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  “I do not like this, Catherine.”

  “Come, Mama. We do not need to be afraid.”

  “But it feels like a place where highwaymen might lurk.”

  Catherine pushed a smile past the shiver of fear. “I think you have read too much Gothic nonsense. I’m sure Mr. Nicholls is a careful driver.”

  “But he could scarcely outrun a highwayman. I’ve heard they like to dwell in such places.”

  “And what if they do? We have so little it would not be worth their while. Besides, the coach is scarcely one they would pay attention to, seeing as it’s so little and old.”

  “I suppose that is some comfort.”

  But her mother’s words wormed inside, and Catherine could not help but taste the fear. The next hour was spent offering encouragement and distraction, while her faith struggled against growing unease. Lord God, she prayed, thank You for being with us. Help us to return home safely—

  A sharp crack sizzling with light was immediately followed by a thundering boom.

  Mama shrieked. At the same moment the horses bolted, jolting them from side to side. “Catherine!”

  “Mama, do not worry!”

  Another lightning bolt pierced the darkness. Another ominous rumble. The horses’ whinnying became frantic. She could hear the coachman’s shouts, somewhat muffled by the storm raging outside.

  She clasped her mother’s hand. “We will be all right. We’ll soon be home—”

  A great splintering sound crackled above them and the carriage veered up, first on one wheel, then the other. Mama’s moans became cries as she was flung against the corner. Catherine gripped the leather strap, but she too hit the side as the carriage turned sharply once again.

  Then they were tipping, toppling, the carriage bending, buckling, her last conscious thought how the horses’ screaming sounded so much like theirs.

  Bath Road

  Jonathan prodded Gulliver onwards through the mud, his hopes dropping with every squelching step. Where was she? The hopelessness within doubled each night she remained lost. How could she disappear? Did she have no care for her family? Did she have no compunction, no shame?

  His time in London had proved a complete failure. Nobody had seen either of them, his discreet enquiries probably doing more harm than good as speculation mounted as to why he should be seeking his sister’s whereabouts. He’d begged Carmichael to remain vigilant in London for any word, whilst he followed the second option: seeking news in Bristol.

  He’d arrived in Bristol two days ago. Enquiries at the coaching inns had similarly proved useless, until a chance conversation with a hostler had mentioned a young lady fitting that description who, just over a week ago, had boarded a ship to Liverpool. The young lady had seemed a little anxious, but as the soldierly gentleman had paid handsomely, nobody had liked to enquire too closely.

  Liverpool. His stomach tensed. They could only be seeking the Scottish border. An unusual route, to be sure, but by now they would have arrived, or would soon. Regardless, Julia’s reputation was irretrievably lost. And now he needed to return to face his mother with his failure.

  He nudged Gulliver towards Bath. Thank God he only had a few miles to go. He was already behind time, his journey interrupted just after midday when he was forced to seek shelter at an inn as the worst storm in a decade had thundered overhead, and played havoc on the roads, before massing to attack the hills to the north and east. He glanced to his left. Even now they remained shrouded in darkness, hidden by heavy rain. He could scarcely wait until this filthy mud was removed from both his person and poor Gulliver, caked in it up to his hocks. God pity any other poor travelers caught up in the storm.

  Ahead, the leaden clouds parted, shafting thin rays of late afternoon sunlight on the golden-stoned buildings edging the hillside. He crossed the Avon, hurrying Gulliver homewards, conscious of the pointed fingers, the barely concealed guffaws. His jaw clenched. Yes, he was a pitiful sight. And doubtless the good folk of Bath would have heard his distressing news …

  He arrived in Camden Place, beyond ready to be clean. He issued orders to the footman for his horse to be cared for, adding, “And tell my mother I have returned and will speak to her momentarily.”

  “Of course, but sir—”

  “Don’t. I cannot take another excuse today. Just do what I ask.”

  And without waiting to hear anything more, he raced up the stairs, washed, and was soon changed.

  He returned to find his servants glancing at each other in the hallway. “Well, what is it?”

  “It is your mother, sir. Lady Harkness has returned to Winthrop.”

  “What?”

  “She, er, felt it better than remaining here. Her departure being so sudden she insisted some of us remain to close up the house,” the footman added in an apologetic tone.

  Jon bit back a word, pushed a hand through his hair. “So I need to return to Winthrop.”

  “Sir, I would suggest something to eat might be in order.”

  He turned, closed his eyes, drew in a breath. Forced out, “Very well.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  He exhaled, opened his eyes, moved to the study. Perhaps Mother had left a note?

  He read it. Nearly cursed. Sank into a seat, and remained there even when the footman informed him that a nourishing repast had been prepared.

  What should he do? Where could he go? He should return to Winthrop, but leaving Bath like this felt so unfinished, merely compounding his failure. What if, however unlikely, Julia were to return?

  He eventually pushed to his feet, moved to the dining room to eat his food, the brain so quick at unraveling the mysteries of finance now dulled to such a slowness he could barely discern what he ate. What should he do? Lord, what should I do?

  Nothing settled, his spirit remained restless, thoughts churning ever ceaseless.

  Weariness begged him to find his bed, to try to sleep. But rest? He shook his head, pushed back his chair. He couldn’t rest. He needed to find out, now. And he suddenly remembered just who might know some of those answers.

  He hurried out into the damp evening, walking with quick steps the path to Gay Street he had trodden so many times before. The walk through sodden streets would do him good, neither did he wish to inflict further suffering on poor Gulliver. Besides, it might even help curb the worst of his temper by the time he saw her.

  A turn here, a corner there, and he arrived. Knocked on the door. Waited. Spoke to a footman. “Oh, but sir—”

  “Who is it at this time of night?” a male voice grumbled.

  Jon frowned. The general was here? At this late hour? He pushed past the open-mouthed footman and moved to the drawing room.

  “Mr. Carlew!”

  “Mrs. Villiers, General Whitby.” He glanced between them. “This is a surprise.”

  “As is your visit, sir.”

  Embarrassment heated his cheeks. “I apologize for my unexpected appearance, but I won’t keep you long. May I please speak with Miss Winthrop?”

  They glanced at each other. “I’m afraid that is impossible.”

  “I understand she might not wish to speak with me, but it is imperative—”

  “She is not here, sir.”

  “Oh. Is she out?” One head nodded, the other shook from side to side. He frowned.

  “Does this concern your sister?”

  “I suppose the news is all over Bath.”

  “I’m afraid so.” Catherine’s aunt gestured to a seat.

  He sank into the opposite sofa heavily. “I am sorry for interrupting like this. I have just returned from Bristol, after London proved devoid of any information. It seems likely they are on their way to Scotland.”

  “You will not chase them?”

  “I will, after I see my mother. I just learned that she left for Winthrop a few days ago.” He kneaded his forehead. What a disaster his actions had led to. He’d need to travel to Scotland, force Julia to return. Dear God! Would he have to duel Hal
e?

  “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Winthrop,” Catherine’s aunt said, her dark eyes so like those of her niece.

  His eyes burned. He swallowed, willed his voice to be steady. “I … I had hoped Miss Winthrop might know something.”

  “My sister and niece have returned to the Dower House.”

  “What? Why?”

  “There was nothing keeping them here.”

  He frowned. His gaze sharpened. A mantelpiece clock ticked off the seconds. He studied the general. Glanced at Catherine’s aunt. Returned his attention to the older man. Long ago suspicions resurfaced, swirled, solidified. “You were not engaged.”

  “No.”

  “Then … why?”

  “I was a friend when she had few.”

  Unlike him. Gnawing hopelessness pushed his head into his hands. He should have been the one protecting her, helping her. Instead, he’d been so blinded by bitterness he’d virtually ignored her, then become even more resentful when her independence led her further away.

  “My lord?”

  He lifted his head to encounter her aunt’s relentless gaze. “I have always loved her.”

  She nodded. “I had wondered.”

  “What?” The hollowness within threatened to overwhelm. “How? Why?”

  She told of Catherine’s tears and anguish, both those from three years ago and those more recent.

  His soul twisted more deeply. “I … I cannot believe she would think that of me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Catherine said she wrote you a letter.”

  “I never received a letter.” His heart wrenched afresh. Poor Catherine. No wonder she’d held him in aversion. For if she thought that …

  “Perhaps her father somehow learned of her attachment and suppressed it.”

  Guilt writhed within. Of course he knew. “She did not wish me to, but I spoke to her father. He said he would never countenance such a union between his daughter and a “cit,” that she was destined for someone far more titled. He said I’d been a fool to imagine Catherine cared for me, that she was merely leading me on. I could not bring myself to disclose her actions, yet his words made me doubt. He … he demanded I write to break off any attachment. Foolishly I obeyed.”

  A groan escaped. If only he hadn’t! “When I saw her next she seemed so cold and distant, I could never bring myself to speak to her again. So I left for India.” And in leaving, had left not only a wounded sweetheart but a broken mother, while his own soul pulsed with bitterness.

  “I am such a fool.” An axe to the heart could not wound so deep. “Her father lied. Both to her and to me.”

  “He was always an unscrupulous man.” She told him of Lord Winthrop’s debts.

  “I sought to pay all those of which I knew.”

  “On my sister’s behalf, I thank you.”

  Her words and the approval lining her eyes were small concession to the swirling recriminations. How had he, honest, industrious he, been brought this low? He’d failed his sister, failed his mother, failed his Catherine, failed his intended—

  “Dear God! And to think I almost married another!”

  “Nobody forced your hand, sir.”

  He swallowed. Nodded. “I cannot blame anyone but myself.”

  “Wait, you said almost?”

  He offered a ghost of a grin. “My sister’s cursed attachment seems to have saved me from mine.”

  “Well, that is one thing for which to be thankful.”

  Not that it could help him now. Catherine would never want to see him again. Not after his last words to her. Lord, help her forgive me.

  He rose, offered his hand. “I wish you well, General. My felicitations to you both.”

  “Thank you, my boy.”

  They accompanied him to the door. “We shall continue to hold your sister in our prayers.”

  Jon thanked them, the weight burdening his heart seeming only to increase.

  Mrs. Villiers wished him safe travels, before adding, “Elvira and Catherine left earlier today. You might see them tomorrow.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I fear it is too late.”

  “May I offer you a word of advice?”

  “Of course.” He braced for another sharp-tongued reprimand.

  “You are a good man. Do not lose hope. Remember, trials are merely opportunities for faith to grow.”

  His eyes burned. He nodded stiffly, walked home slowly, fears nipping at his heels like a pack of dogs, swarming from every side. God forgive me. Help Catherine to forgive me. Somehow save us from this mire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NİNE

  A STEADY PULSING sound filled her ears. A burning sensation streaked along her elbow.

  Catherine cracked open an eye. Darkness. How long had she been unconscious? A smudge of white drew her attention, focused her vision. “Mama?”

  Her voice sounded cracked. She swallowed. Tasted rawness, blood. She slid her tongue around her teeth; they all seemed there. “Mama?”

  A groan. Another, louder now. “My shoulder. Oh, Catherine …”

  She pushed to a sitting position, rocking the carriage.

  “Stop moving!”

  “But I must.” She winced as her hip protested the sudden shift.

  Now she was semi-upright, and she could hear above the rain a desperate whinnying and snorts from outside. The horses sounded pained … Oh no! Poor Mr. Nicholls!

  She crawled over scattered boxes and belongings to reach her mother’s side. “Mama, are you hurt anywhere else apart from your shoulder?”

  He mother gingerly moved. “I don’t believe so.”

  Thank you, Lord. “Mama, I need to check on Mr. Nicholls. I cannot hear him at all.”

  “This wretched rain.”

  “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Hurry.”

  Her mother’s groans accompanied her as she shoved open the door. Water pelted her from the dark sky. The carriage lay on its side, and she scrambled out, catching her gown and scraping her legs as she scrambled down. A hysteria-laden giggle pushed out. Good thing Mama couldn’t see her now. The impropriety of a daughter with a gown hitched up to her ears as she clambered around in her stockings would be enough to injure her sensibilities far worse than any shoulder.

  She pulled her dress into order and stumbled to the front. Sputtering light from the carriage lamp showed the driver’s seat lay crushed as one horse lay still, the other twitching, snorting, moving desperately as if to free itself. “Mr. Nicholls!”

  Catherine wrenched the damaged lantern free and hurried to the prone form. In the evening dimness and the rain she could just make out his face. She sank to her knees, leaned over him. “Lord God, please let him be alive.”

  Fingers beneath his nostrils felt slight huffs of warmth. He was breathing. She peered over his face. “Mr. Nicholls!”

  No stirring.

  She leaned back on her heels, eyeing his twisted leg. She grimaced. It seemed worse than the leg she’d seen Jem Foley break several years back whilst escaping a bull. That had taken months to mend, and even today, years after the incident, he still walked with a small limp. This seemed much worse.

  “Mr. Nicholls, we need to get you help.”

  But where was that to come from? She glanced around as desperation edged up her throat. “Lord God, please help!”

  The words comforted somewhat, her voice seeming to soothe the horse’s cries. She moved to it. Its partner was dead, and she suspected this one would be also before too much longer. Her eyes blurred. She smoothed a hand over its nose. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tears trickled from her eyes, joining the moisture on her face from the rain.

  “Catherine!” her mother’s voice called weakly.

  She inhaled deeply, limped back to the carriage. “Mama, we need help. Mr. Nicholls is not responding, and the horses are either dead or dying. I”—she braced herself—“I shall have to get someone to come.”

  “But how? It is nighttime. You cannot leave me here.�
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  “I will walk, and you will need to stay here. You will be warm and protected inside.”

  “But what about Mr. Nicholls?”

  Catherine sighed. “I would prefer him to be inside also but I don’t have the strength to move him.”

  “I don’t mean that! What if he wakes and I am all alone with only him—”

  “Mama, he is in no position to attack you, if that is what concerns you.”

  “You don’t need to take that tone with me. I am frightened! What if a wild animal should come?”

  “Like what? A tiger?” Catherine bit down her frustration. “Mama, I am scared too, but if I don’t leave soon I’m worried that Mr. Nicholls will die. What would you prefer? Me to stay, in the hopes someone will come along this track, or for me to”—try to, she added silently—“get some help?”

  “I …”

  She climbed up, in, found blankets, spread one over her mother, collected and placed within reach the basket of food Aunt Drusilla had given them earlier. “Now see if you can sleep. I am sure it will be some hours before I can return.”

  “You will leave me the lamp, at least?”

  “No, Mama. I will need it.”

  “But—”

  “Mama, I need you to be brave. And pray. For Mr. Nicholls as well as me. Now I will see you soon.”

  Catherine climbed back out, jumping down into squelching mud, her feet sinking up to her ankles. She tugged down the second blanket, caught on the door, and moved to cover Mr. Nicholls. His driving coat would protect him from the elements, but the blanket would help also. “Mr. Nicholls?”

  Still no response. “God, protect him.”

  Staggering to her feet, she peered through the rain. They appeared to have slid down an embankment, the carriage lodged against a tree. She would have to scramble up the slope to find a track. The rain continued to pelt down, soaking her. She should retrieve her heavy woolen cloak, but it was in their luggage strapped to the back of the carriage—which, judging from its current position, meant she could probably retrieve it now.

  She hurried to the back and found the trunk, forced open the lock with the mud-encrusted heel of her boot, and hunted through its contents until she found what she needed and wrapped it securely around her.