Winning Miss Winthrop
Page 33
“For … ?”
His attention returned to her, resolve written on his face. “For I wish my wife to enjoy living here as much as I do.”
“Y-your wife?” She stepped back. No, surely she had not misread the situation. Surely he harbored feelings no longer for Miss Beauchamp.
His lips widened, as he gave a low chuckle. “Don’t look at me like that, dearest Catherine. You must know my feelings by now.”
She shook her head. “I … I have been wrong before.”
“You were not wrong before. You never were wrong. You have always been all that is good, and true, matchless and beyond compare.” He reached down, plucked a handful of sweet violets and presented them to her. She drank in the sweet, subtle scent, heart thrilling, heat filling her cheeks until she was sure they held a similar hue to the dusky pink shawl she wore. “I remember you once told me what violets symbolized.”
He did?
“I have always thought them so appropriate for you, so sweet, so modest and unassuming, yet ever faithful, ever lovely.”
He had?
“I just wish I’d never given you cause to doubt.” His eyes shadowed. “I can never forgive myself for that time.”
“Oh, please”—she placed a hand on his arm—“please don’t hold on to that anymore.”
“I won’t, if you …” He picked up her hand, examined it. She could see the gold in his long lashes as his perusal continued. Breath caught in her throat as he lifted her hand and kissed it. He shifted closer so she was forced to look up. From this near position she could see the bronze hairs on his chin, the lips tweaked into pensiveness, the eyes so clear and blue holding a promise. “Dearest Catherine, say you’ll forgive me.”
Her heart sang at his nearness, at his endearment. “Of course I forgive you.”
“You are so kind, so generous, when often I have not been.” He shook his head. “I was an angry fool, embittered by your father’s refusal, then I came here, saw your sweetness hadn’t changed, only matured, but I was convinced you could never love me again—”
“I never stopped.”
“Really?” His eyes glowed with tenderness. “Then I have been twice the imbecile, for I was a jealous fool when I saw you in Bath.”
“The general was but a kind friend, someone who paid me compliments while I tried to convince myself I would not die if you married Miss Beauchamp.”
He laughed, low and husky. “She came at a time when I was at my lowest, my weakest, when I was sure you could never hold me in affection again.”
She winced internally. Oh, if only she had been quicker to forgive, to understand his good nature had never changed. If only she had been brave enough to show her true feelings, how many months might they have already had together?
He shook his head. “It is true she tickled my heart, but she could never dwell there, making life lovely and worthwhile, not like you always have.”
Oh-h-h …
He released her hand to gesture at the gardens. “All of this, the cottage, everything was all for you. There has never been anyone but you. My dearest Catherine, I love only you.”
Happiness broke over her as a wave. “Oh, Jonathan.” His name tasted like honey. “I love you, too.”
His smile could light a thousand night skies. “Dearest, sweetest Catherine, say you’ll make me the happiest of men and be my wife.”
“I will.”
His fingers slid across her cheek, his eyes darkened, before dropping to her lips. She closed her eyes, her nerves tightening in expectation, and in a moment both sweetly reminiscent and shamelessly eager, she felt his breath caress her skin before his lips closed over hers.
A stab of wild joy pulsed deep within, and she leaned close, closer, savoring his fingers framing her face, holding her as tenderly, as possessively, as his kiss.
This moment—made of memories, sustained by dreams—this delight cherished, once thought lost forever, now rekindled, sweeter than ever.
How truly wonderful.
EPİLOGUE
Winthrop
May 1817
“I CONGRATULATE YOU, Lord Winthrop, on your wisest investment yet.”
Jonathan smiled down at the pert Countess of Hawkesbury. “She is a treasure not easily won.”
“And yet you have won her, which says as much about her ability to appreciate a person of quality and character as it does yours.”
“Thank you.”
She grinned. “Now I know about protocol—Nicholas is forever having to tell me what social customs must be followed—but I simply insist you escort your betrothed instead of me.”
“But—”
“Come now. Do you wish to suffer the disapproval of an earl’s wife?”
“Not at all.” The dinner gong sounded.
“So go. Collect her now.”
He did, much to the surprise of the other guests, but they didn’t mind, and neither did he, for there was no one else he’d rather speak with, gaze upon, than his lovely Catherine.
“You are so lovely, my dear.”
Her cheeks flushed, making her eyes seem ever more starry. Mourning had been put off, she wore a simple cream gown with slightly puffed sleeves, from which slipped her elegant arms. Around her neck was the ruby necklet Harold Carlew had once given Mother. She had happily bequeathed it to Catherine. “Of course she should have it! It never suited my coloring, anyway. Besides, I much prefer emeralds.”
The dinner passed in a surfeit of dishes, but he was barely aware of what he ate, of what was said, save that he was happier than he ever dreamed. Here, seated at the head of Winthrop’s table, surrounded by the people who wished them best, next to the woman soon to be his wife. Was it possible a man could die of happiness?
Clothilde leaned past Drusilla to gain his attention. “Did I mention Avebury’s fortunes have improved?”
A few times, yes. He listened anyway, glad more for Peter’s sake than anything else. Peter at least seemed to have derived joy from his archaeological diggings, telling stories of his time at the coast in a manner sure to bore a few guests very soon.
He turned to Catherine, seated at his right, and met her smile. Her lips beckoned him nearer, her eyes deep pools of mystery that the candlelight only enhanced. How long until they wed?
“Excuse me, old man, but please remember there are other guests here.”
Jon blinked, his reverie broken, and said to the viscount, seated next to Catherine, “Unfortunately, some of my guests do not let themselves be forgotten.”
Carmichael grinned, before saying to Catherine, “I think he is entranced by your beauty, Miss Winthrop. You are lovelier than I have ever seen, if I may be permitted to say so.”
“You may,” Catherine said, her eyes, her smile fixed on Jon.
Jon’s heart swelled. How good, how right this was. How blessed he was by God.
“Why must you?” Serena Winthrop asked from opposite Carmichael.
“I beg your pardon?” the viscount asked.
“It is not my pardon you should beg. It’s Catherine’s, and Jonathan’s, for flirting with his intended.”
“Serena!” hissed her mother. “Do not bother the viscount.”
“Mama, I rather doubt he’s ever bothered by anything one says, but feels instead a sense of superior amusement.”
“Serena!”
Jon laughed at his friend’s dumbstruck expression. He sipped his wine and murmured, “I do believe she has your measure, young man.”
Carmichael’s look of surprise melded into something approaching rueful. He turned more fully in his seat as he studied Catherine’s sister. “What an extraordinary young lady you are.”
“Thank you.” Serena gave him one of her cool looks, as Catherine called them, before returning her attention to her plate. For a young lady of eighteen she possessed a poise and self-assurance worthy of a duchess three times her age. Her words could be quite cutting, though her countenance remained as tranquil as her name.
Jon
raised his brows at Carmichael, who still seemed at a loss, before smiling at his wife-to-be. Thank God he had learned to push past Catherine’s aloofness, to understand her depths. If he hadn’t …
“Well, I suppose you’ll all be relieved to learn I shall soon return to London.” Amid the sounds of protest, his mother smiled. “No, it is time.”
He saw her smile slip a little, and he felt a similar shadow. His sister’s fate hung over them like a silent weight. No word apart from that one letter to say they were married. While that assured somewhat, he remained concerned that the enquiry agents he’d employed had failed to locate her or Hale. Where was she? God, protect her . . .
“You shall be missed, Lady Harkness,” Catherine said, with a tender look.
“Perhaps. But that might be because there will be so much less to talk about in my absence.”
Amid the ripple of laughter came Lady Winthrop’s voice, “You do not feature in every conversation, Clarinda.”
“And that is as it should be. For tonight we should focus on my wonderful son’s marvelous engagement to a simply wonderful girl, whom I am very proud to welcome as a daughter.”
Catherine’s cheeks pinked. She glanced to the side, held his gaze. “Wonderful.”
He smiled. Wonderful. And awe-inspiring, how God transformed two pained hearts with such surprising grace. He clasped her hand. Words from a long-ago poet leapt to mind: “If our two loves be one, or thou and I love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.”
Their love, their hopes, once thought lost, but found again: stronger, deeper, forever.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
IN 1816, ENGLAND (and much of the Northern Hemisphere) experienced what became known as “The Year Without a Summer” when global temperatures dropped, and rain and unseasonable coolness led to harvest failures and food shortages. This is believed to be the result of the Mt. Tambora eruption in April 1815 in the Dutch East Indies, which saw the release of microscopic particles into the air that led to magnificent sunsets in England, such as those painted by J. M. W. Turner and witnessed by Clara in The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey.
I was blessed in 2015 with the opportunity to visit the United Kingdom and see my sister who was living there at the time. During my stay, we had the joy of visiting Bath, made famous as the place of Roman-era thermal springs and as the setting of several novels by two of my favorite authors, Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer, including my favorite novel of all time, Jane Austen’s Persuasion. If ever you get the chance to visit Bath, do so. It is a World Heritage Site lined with stunning eighteenth-century architecture, and to visit the Pump Room to “take the waters” (not as vile as often portrayed!), or to visit the magnificent Abbey, or to see the Assembly Rooms much as they were in the Regency period is a real privilege. This Aussie author loved the opportunity to step back in time and walk around historic places made famous in books and films—so different from my part of the world.
For photos and more information about my trip to Bath, and to check out the book club discussion guide and other behind-the-book details, please visit www.carolynmillerauthor.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANK YOU, GOD, for giving this gift of creativity and the amazing opportunity to express it. Thank You for patiently loving us and offering us hope through Jesus Christ.
Thank you, Joshua, for your love and encouragement. I appreciate your willingness to read my stories, and all the support you give in so many ways. I love you!
Thank you, Caitlin, Jackson, Asher, and Tim. I love you, I’m proud of you, and I’m so grateful you understand why I spend so much time in imaginary worlds.
To my family, church family, and friends—whose support, encouragement, and prayers I value and have needed—thank you. Big thanks to Roslyn and Jacqueline for being patient in reading through so many of my manuscripts and for offering suggestions to make my stories sing.
Thank you, Tamela Hancock Murray, my agent, for helping this little Australian negotiate the big wide American market.
Thank you to the authors and bloggers who have endorsed, and encouraged, and opened doors along the way: you are a blessing!
Thanks to my Aussie writer friends from Australasian Christian Writers, Christian Writers Downunder, and Omega Writers: I appreciate you.
To the Ladies of Influence, your support and encouragement are gold!
To the fabulous team at Kregel, thank you for believing in me and for making Miss Winthrop shine.
Finally, thank you to my readers. I treasure your kind messages of support and lovely reviews. I hope you enjoyed Catherine’s story.
God bless you.
CHAPTER ONE
Bath, Somerset
June 1817
WARM SUMMER SUN lit the scene before her: a golden-yellow oak table boasting a squat blue vase with an arrangement of ferns and pink roses. The tension forever lining Serena Winthrop’s heart eased a fraction, as if in obedience to the florist’s intention. Perhaps this lesson might prove less discomfiting than the last. She dipped her brush into the china palette, dabbed it on the thick vellum, then leaned back, tilting her head. Wrinkled her nose. No. The precise blue of the receptacle still evaded her. Egyptian blue? Prussian? No. Definitely not. Perhaps more like …
A smile slanted her lips as she wiped her brush over the cake of pigment then added a few drops of water to the mixing tile. The colors swirled together into a perfect blend to precisely capture the slight glassy sheen of the vase. She leaned forward and smeared it on in precise movements. There. Perfection!
“Ah, Miss Serena.”
Her shoulders tensed again.
“I believe you are holding that brush incorrectly. Allow me to help you. Oh, and Miss Hatherleigh.” The voice grew flat. “You are here, too.”
Serena peeked across at the Honorable Caroline Hatherleigh, daughter of the Viscount Aynsley, whose pretty yet bored expression had miraculously transformed into something approximating calf love as she openly gazed at their art master. Caroline did not seem to notice that he never looked back.
Her stomach tightened as Mr. Goode drew near. Art lessons, her favorite times at Miss Haverstock’s Seminary for Young Ladies, had proved to be her escape from the wicked whispers of the world. When she sketched, or better, when she painted, she seemed to enter a different place, a place of possibility and freedom, yet a place she could control. Creativity seemed to ignite something within her, something so all-consuming that she could paint for hours without noticing she had missed deportment lessons, or a meal, or an engagement with a friend.
Initially, having such a handsome art master had not exactly hindered her enthusiasm, especially as he’d been quick to praise her efforts, even going so far as to declare to Miss Haverstock that Serena was a budding genius. That thought had warmed her, as had the principal’s request for a watercolor for the school’s foyer. Of course she had obliged, thrilled at the compliment, less thrilled by the envy the other girls had displayed. But she had striven to forget them, content to focus her energies on her next challenge. A portrait. A portrait of the art master.
She’d been working to determine the exact color of his eyes—a hazel, requiring a touch of yellow ochre mixed with Vandyke brown—when she had looked up at him one day in class. She’d noticed he liked to help her more than the other girls, and so she had avoided looking at him for too long, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention. But he did have an interesting face, with a smile other girls said made their hearts skip, so she’d been studying his features to capture something of his essence. Only she had not realized just what she had captured. Not until that look that lasted too long.
Somehow in that too-long perusal, his face had subtly altered from that of a slightly too-handsome art master to the features of a man whose eyes and lips told of an interest far deeper than that of her other teachers. Never mind that the other teachers were all females, and at least a hundred years older than he; she had seen that look before. Nausea rippled through her stomach.
“Sir, I—”
“Yes, I know it’s a little difficult to get used to a new technique.” He moved closer, his arm stretching along hers, touching hers, so she could feel his body heat seeping through the thin muslin of her sleeve. “But you have such talent, you could be even better if you trust my direction.”
She’d sooner trust a ferret with a baby bird. She angled her head away, but he moved behind her so all she could see was his dark coat sleeve. He continued to hold her hand prisoner. His breath tickled her ear, setting her hair’s tiny curls to quiver against her nape. Suddenly she wished for a fichu to cover up her neckline. Whilst not immoderately low, the round-necked bodice still revealed far too much skin for her liking—especially when he stood above her, looking down, and she could tell from his breathing the view was to his liking.
Again, she tried to remove her hand from his grasp; again, he held on more firmly.
“Please let me go,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear, but not Caroline. The Aynsley girls had never been known for their discretion, and after the scandal surrounding her sister earlier this year, Serena had no wish to invite more speculation about the Winthrop family.
“I would … if I could.” He uttered a tiny chuckle that suggested he was enjoying this game. “I am sorry, but it seems as though fair Diana has stolen all reason away.”
“Diana?”
“Pardon me. Serena.”
His words left her with the now-familiar uncertainty, shifting her emotions like the sea might toss a sailboat, his words sometimes innocent, sometimes not. But apart from a too-long hand holding—even now his hand guided hers in the long, fluid movements the watercolors required—he had not done anything obviously wrong.