Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  Catherine met the blue-gray gaze, finding his eyes filled with something indiscernible. Was he embarrassed at being found in a compromising position, or had he not liked her insistence on their cousinly connection?

  “Eat, before your food grows cold.”

  She obeyed, conscious of his intense gaze, of the depth of feeling between them, filled with unspoken things. Eventually she finished and pushed her plate away. He moved closer, sat opposite. Leaned near. “I would be glad to take you home.”

  That deep look in his eyes … Her breath caught. She swallowed. Swallowed again. “I said I did not want you to be responsible for me.”

  “You can say such things, but it will not change the fact that I will always feel responsible for you.” He smiled. “How can I not, when you have always, and will always, live within my heart?”

  Oh … Her heart tugged to believe, for her dreams to run free. “You don’t mean that, surely.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But … but Miss Beauchamp?”

  “We are not betrothed.”

  Breath suspended. She stared at him, the hope for so long feeble and weak suddenly leaping into flame. “You … you are free?”

  “I believe she cared more for the match than the man. And I,” he shrugged, “I cared for nothing when I thought you betrothed to the general.”

  Her cheeks heated. “I was wrong to agree to such a plan.”

  “We were both wrong. But now I hope things can be made right.”

  The years unraveled between them as he spoke in a low voice something of his feelings in past weeks. His plea for forgiveness interspersed with something of his hopes, his desires, his dreams, his wish to fulfill all her dreams and desires.

  His love.

  His love!

  How truly wonderful.

  It took another day of arrangements—and another uncomfortable night on the pallet trying not to dream—before they could begin the journey home. Jonathan oversaw Mr. Nicholls’s transportation back to Kingswood and to his grateful wife; paid the innkeepers, who still seemed somewhat bemused by the fact a Lord, a Lady, and a Miss Winthrop had stayed; then arranged a carriage to transport the ladies back to Winthrop.

  Gulliver was forced to trot alongside while Jon claimed the carriage seat opposite Catherine, despite desiring to sit beside her. At least here he could watch her, and allow his spirits to rise and fall with every flicker of smile she gave when her mother was not watching.

  Jon studied her, the shadows as the carriage passed through a grove of trees by turns shading then revealing her features, her usually serene face seemed more light-filled, her eyes first entreating and then calm, leaving him wondering if it was his imagination or just a trick of the light. Did she forgive him all his trespasses, or only the more recent? Would her mother hinder or help his suit?

  Lady Winthrop turned from her perusal outside. “Mr. Carlew, I cannot thank you enough for taking us from that awful place.” She gave a visible shudder and then fixed him with one of her more stately expressions. “You have proved yourself most gentlemanly, and I thank you.”

  He fought a smile, catching the flash of amusement in Catherine’s eyes before gravely returning her nod. “I am always glad to be of service, ma’am.”

  “Hmm. Well, if that be the case, then I might ask you to remedy a few things upon our return. You are aware, are you not, of the gross insufficiencies of the cottage we are forc—that we dwell in now. Perhaps, when you can spare the time, you might venture across and we could discuss what needs to be done.”

  “Mama!” Catherine whispered, red staining her cheeks. “Lord Winthrop need not—”

  “I am very happy to assist as much as possible to ensure your comfort, and that of your daughters”—he smiled at Catherine—“is all what it should be.”

  “Well, that is good, then.” She settled back in her seat, and to his astonishment—and Catherine’s, evidenced by her widened eyes—proceeded to make small talk with him for the next hour.

  After the first inn stop he noticed Catherine’s eyes grow heavier, her blinks longer. Lady Winthrop seemed somewhat restive, cramped in the incommodious carriage. It was the first available means of transport and thus would return them home the most quickly, though the journey was not nearly as comfortable as he had wished.

  The carriage swerved around another bend, jolting Catherine into her mother’s shoulder. Lady Winthrop winced, but said nothing.

  “Ma’am, might I impose upon your goodness and suggest Miss Winthrop move to this side? It would allow more room for you, and she need not fear bumping your injuries.”

  “Of course.” She gave a queenly nod.

  Catherine met his gaze, her cheeks tingeing pink. He smiled, held out his hand, and helped her across, settling her beside him, then ensuring the blanket was tucked securely around her. “Are you quite comfortable?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He now was not. Now she was so near it was all he could do not to grasp her hand, to draw her tight to his side. Seated so close he was infinitely aware of her, aware of the length of her lashes, the whorl of her ear, the way her breathing slowed as the motion of the carriage eased her to sleep. Her head jerked, he shifted fractionally, and soon her head rested against his shoulder.

  Warmth ballooned within his chest. This was how he wanted it to be. He glanced down, his heart tugging a smile to his lips. If only she could always feel such ease with him.

  “Ahem.” He glanced up. Met the speculation in Lady Winthrop’s eyes. “So that’s the way of it, then.”

  “It is the way it has always been, ma’am.”

  “Then that piece of fluff?”

  “Miss Beauchamp?”

  She nodded.

  “I regret my actions concerning her. I admit I was too proud and bitter when I first returned, although it didn’t take long to once again appreciate Catherine’s inestimable qualities. But her heart seemed set against me.”

  She had the grace to look shamefaced. “Well, I, er, didn’t exactly encourage her.”

  “And I, to my shame, did not pursue her. Miss Beauchamp was only ever my second choice, one I felt I had to make when it seemed I had no other option.”

  “You refer to General Whitby?”

  “Yes.”

  “How you could believe such foolishness I don’t know, but I will give you this. You seem an honest man, and if experience teaches us anything, it’s that honesty trumps intelligence every time.” Her gaze sharpened. “You are not engaged?”

  “My sister’s elopement scandalized the Beauchamps into rejection.”

  She nodded, and he felt a wild streak of panic. Were Julia’s sins enough for Lady Winthrop to object also?

  “That only proves how ridiculously prejudiced some people can be. I’m glad I’m not so easily persuaded to overlook a gentleman’s good heart because of a relation’s folly.”

  His heart thumped with hope. “Then I, then we … ?”

  “Have my blessing? Yes.”

  He grinned, and gently wrapped an arm around Catherine’s shoulders, allowing her to rest more comfortably. Lady Winthrop smiled back, and—miracle of miracles—he found himself thinking he might get on with his future mother-in-law quite well after all.

  CHAPTER THİRTY-TWO

  CATHERINE AWOKE FROM a very pleasant dream to find it true. He was holding her, and her mother was looking on approvingly. She blinked, glanced up, met his smiling blue gaze. Upon realizing she leaned against him, she blushed, pushing away to a more upright position. “I’m so sorry.”

  “For being exhausted? That is a crime worth apologizing for.”

  She chuckled; he echoed it softly, the sound filling her heart with warmth.

  “Ladies, as we are almost there, I had best confess that in your absence, I engaged some men to complete a small amount of work around the Dower House. I hope you will not find it too presumptuous but will take it in the spirit in which it was given, as it is something I should have attend
ed to before I allowed you to remove there.”

  As her mother murmured—surprisingly—something of an admittance that the previous Lord Winthrop should have attended to things better, he slanted Catherine an inscrutable look.

  No … She tamped down her irrepressible imaginings. No, she dared not hope for more.

  The carriage turned into the laneway leading to the cottage, the wooden fence now standing more upright than a line of militia. The fields beyond were freshly cut, so fresh, the pleasant tang of grass still hung in the air. The drive held none of the bumps of their exiting journey; the holes having been filled. But it was only when the carriage came to a standstill and they were handed outside that Lord Winthrop’s forewarning drew gasps.

  The cottage was transformed. Gone was the broken shutter, now fixed and freshly painted, to match the repainted windowsills and door likewise refurbished.

  “The roof!”

  “There were a great many tiles that needed replacing. I trust you will be not bothered in the next rain shower.”

  “How did you know?” Catherine asked. “It wasn’t obvious from outside.”

  “Your servant was, ahem, somewhat informative on particular deficiencies, shall we say?”

  She dragged her gaze away. Oh, why had she and Mama been quite so vocal in their faultfinding? She studied the front garden, as remorse continued to churn. “I see you managed to persuade the flowers to bloom, too.”

  He chuckled again, a low, warm sound that wrapped gladness round her heart. “I’m afraid I cannot take the credit, as they managed to flower all by themselves.”

  She smiled, and picked a pale pink lilac blossom, before following Mama inside, only to be forced to halt by Mama’s exclamation.

  “You painted inside!”

  “I didn’t personally, and please forgive me if these are not the colors you would have chosen. But it seemed an opportune time to do so, without occupants who might be bothered by the odor and chaos that generally results from such actions.”

  “It will do very well,” her mother pronounced with a nod.

  Catherine smiled, glancing over her shoulder to see a similar expression on their benefactor’s face, which melded to something sweeter when he caught her eye.

  All of a sudden she was conscious of how near he was, that he could easily take her hand, that the hall, though freshly painted, still retained something of its former dimness. She glanced away, forced herself to breathe.

  “Ah, Tilly, Mrs. Jones. How are you?”

  As her mother spoke with the servants, Catherine tilted up a glance and said in a low voice, “Thank you, sir, for all this. You are very good.”

  His lips pushed to one side. “If only that were true.”

  “You are!” She placed her hand on his arm. “You have been exceedingly kind, when … when we have often been anything but. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for my kindness?” His smile flashed. “If you prefer, I’ll ask the men to retrieve those cracked tiles—”

  “No!” She smothered her laughter. “You know exactly what I mean, sir.”

  His smile grew wistful. “If only that were true.”

  She experienced another jolt of wonder, peering at him more closely to determine his meaning when Mama’s throat-clearing drew her attention to the speculative looks of the servants. Catherine stepped away, found a smile, and said, “Well, this is all wonderful, is it not, Mama?” She grasped her mother’s arm. “Shall we see what more awaits us?”

  Mrs. Jones guided them to the kitchen, and then Tilly showed them upstairs. Everywhere was improved, mended, and freshly painted. While Mama supervised the unpacking of luggage, Catherine wandered outside, finding their benefactor beside the stables.

  She hurried toward him. “Oh, Mr. Carlew,” she breathed, the name falling unconsciously from her lips. “I cannot thank you enough.”

  His look was almost apologetic. “So you approve?”

  “I don’t know why you wish for my approval, sir.”

  “I don’t know why you do not.” He picked up her hand. “Miss Winthrop—”

  “Hello, Miss Cathy,” Jack burst forward, tailed by Frank who also offered a greeting, before touching his forehead. “Oh, my lord, I didnae see you.”

  “I am usually not so easy to miss,” he murmured, releasing a sigh as the groom insisted on showing her the recent refurbishments, all the while exclaiming about his new assistant’s way with animals.

  When Frank finally paused for a breath she glanced up at the tall man beside her. “Is this more of your doing, sir?”

  “Jack spends much of his time working with Wilson up at the Manor, with a regular day a week working here. Wilson is extremely pleased with Jack’s skills, and Jack’s wage is, of course, being covered by myself.” Lord Winthrop’s brow furrowed. “I hope you do not mind.”

  “How could I mind?” She smiled up at him, warmth filling her at the look of pleasure in his gaze. She tugged her gaze away, happy to be led on a short tour of the stables, which could now accommodate several horses as well as her gig. She was happier still to be reunited with her pet. “Ginger!”

  Lord Winthrop nodded. “You never did explain why she was being housed at the Hall.” His eyes twinkled. “But I gather it had something to do with not wanting to have a sense of obligation?”

  She ducked her head, thankful Frank and Jack had moved away. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You could have asked me. I would have helped.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. Just tell me if you approve.”

  “Oh, I do! But why?”

  He tugged at his neckcloth, not meeting her eyes. “I … I was unaware just how things were situated, until I came to visit.”

  “When was that, sir?”

  “After Christmas. Mrs. Jones was so good as to list a variety of shortcomings regarding the cottage, including the poor stables, and the kitchen stove she mentioned several times.”

  Well she remembered the early days as Mama and she bemoaned the cottage’s cramped conditions. “I’m afraid things were a little difficult for us to adjust to.”

  “Naturally they were. I’m only sorry that you did not see fit to mention such things before such a drastic move away became necessary.”

  She could not look at him. How many times had Mama declared she would not ask that man for anything? “You could have visited and learned this for yourself.”

  “I did attempt to visit, at the beginning, but received such a cold welcome that I realized my company was neither sought nor welcome.”

  She studied her feet, remembering Mama’s crowing at having sent away the imposter in no uncertain terms. “I am sorry, sir.”

  “I also regret things were not as they ought to have been, especially for such a lady as your mother.”

  “I suppose it is good to attend to matters now, so your Mama …” Her voice trailed away. How ridiculous to think his mother would be forced to live in the cottage. How many houses did she own?

  “I think we may safely assume your mother’s concerns and wishes concerning the Dower House will be the only ones to be considered,” he said drily.

  “Oh.” Her brow furrowed. But what about her wishes? Did he have no thought for her?

  He smiled. “Miss Winthrop, I hope you and your mother will come to dinner tomorrow night. We should like to celebrate your return.”

  “Of course. We would be delighted.”

  He bowed, picked up her hand, and gently pressed it with a kiss. “Until tomorrow?”

  “Until tomorrow.” And her heart fluttered with anticipation.

  Next day

  “AH, DEAR LADY Winthrop, and dearest Catherine. How wonderful to see you again.”

  “And to see you, Lady Harkness,” Mama said, offering a nod. “I felicitate you on your daughter’s marriage. I trust she is well?”

  A shadow crossed her face before Lady Harkness replied, “Yes, thank you. Julia writes that she is extre
mely happy, and apologizes for their haste. I, of course, have no wish to see that man again, but should my dear daughter wish to visit from the wilds of Scotland I would have no hesitation in welcoming her here.”

  Something tight in Catherine’s chest eased. Thank God Julia was safe, was even happy. Did this mean Jonathan would not need to chase his sister beyond the border?

  A quick glance at him revealed his pensive look. He met Catherine’s gaze. “She has made her choice. We will pray and hope that God will guide their way.”

  She nodded. How important to remember God’s promises in times of hardship, that hope could be found in trusting Him.

  Lady Harkness smiled. “Perhaps Jonathan, you might wish to show Catherine the gardens? They are very pretty at this time of evening, with the birds and such.”

  “Of course. Miss Winthrop?” He offered his arm, which she accepted, and led her outside to the terraced garden where the fountain now tinkled water.

  It was a beautiful evening: mild, no breeze, the day’s sun tinting everything with a golden glow. As promised, the sparrows danced and flitted in the water, sprinkling tiny diamond droplets.

  She smiled up at him. “I am so glad you fixed the fountain. It was always one of my favorite things about this garden when I was a child.”

  “So Geoffreys said.”

  “You asked him?”

  “I did not want anything spoiled that you held dear. When Mother called in the redecorators, I did not let them touch your room, nor that of your mother and father.”

  “But why?”

  He smiled gently. “Surely you can guess.”

  Breath caught. She tried to tamp down the throbbing of her heart. Her guesses had proved erroneous in the past.

  “I hope you approve?”

  “How can I not? Everything is as it was, only better now, as it should be.” Had Papa had the money to fix things. The old pang hit her, but not like before. Instead of intense pain it held something more bittersweet. Poor Papa.

  “I am glad, for …” He glanced away.

  The moment suddenly took on a weight, a significance, an importance. It felt like her moment to ask, to push the conversation into honesty demanded by things of eternal consequence.