by Mary Balogh
“Master Jonathan will come,” Josh said, looking up at her at last, anxiety in his eyes. “He’s not angry. Josh didn’t tell no one or show no one. Josh kept it safe for Master Jonathan.”
Kate went very still. “Did you, Josh?” she asked. “But of course you would. I know that you are to be trusted. And you have an excellent memory. Is it a package you have?”
Josh swallowed noticeably. “Josh not tell anyone,” he said. “Master Jonathan said not to tell no one.”
Kate smiled gently. “What a very loyal friend you are,” she said. “But you know, Josh, when someone goes forever, like Master Jonathan has done, someone else takes his place. Master Nicholas is his son, whom he would have loved dearly if he had known him. You like him. And you know he likes you. Will you let me send the package to him?”
Josh shook his head. “Josh don’t know nothing,” he said.
“If Master Nicholas comes here and asks you for it, Josh,” Kate said, “will you give it to him? He will be so happy to have something of his father’s, and he will be so pleased with you for guarding it loyally all these years. Will you?”
Josh looked frightened. “Master Nick?” he said. “He will come and ask me?”
Kate nodded.
“You go tell him now,” he said. “Josh wait.”
She smiled. “It will take a while,” she said. “I shall find him and tell him how carefully you have guarded his father’s package. In the meantime, Josh, you must guard it awhile longer. You are a good and loyal friend and I love you.” She stretched up and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
And with that conversation ringing in her ears she had had to walk back around the house and be sociable—or at least brightly insulting—to Sir Harry Tate. Even her new knowledge that she loved him had taken second place to her excitement.
The marriage papers. They must be the marriage papers. Did it not make sense that Viscount Stoughton would have left them at the lodge with someone he knew to be so fiercely loyal? Josh had certainly proved over the years that Nicholas’ father had made a wise choice.
And now she had enough to tell Nicholas Seyton to make him suffer guilt pangs about her for the rest of his life. Good! She only wished she could witness some of his embarrassment and remorse.
Kate buried her face in her arms and let excitement wash over her.
But soon enough her chin was on her hands again, a crease between her brows. How on earth was she to send Lord Lindstrom’s letter to Nicholas and tell him to come with all haste for Josh’s package when she did not know where in Shropshire he lived? It seemed incredible that no one knew, none of his old friends. The fact that he had left his address with none of them certainly seemed to prove that he really had given up, that he expected no further evidence about his legitimacy to be found.
There was only one thing to do. She must ask Mr. Dalrymple. He was a kindly man and he must be a good friend if Nicholas had written to him at the Abbey. It was not going to be easy to ask. How could she explain wanting the address of a man she was supposed never to have met? But she must think of something, and soon. The Pickerings were to leave at the end of the month. That gave them no more than ten days after her own departure. If Nicholas arrived back after they had left, he might find it difficult to locate them.
Anyway, Kate thought, there were the Pickerings to think of too. She had in truth been feeling dreadfully guilty about her part in bringing about their dismissal. Sir Harry’s scathing accusations had made her feel even worse. She knew that there was no chance whatsoever that they would find employment elsewhere. Yet Lord Barton had said nothing about a pension for them. If Nicholas could only come before the end of the month, and if those papers did indeed prove that his father and mother had been legally married, then they would not have to leave. Lord Barton would have no more power to dismiss them.
There were five more days until the ball, she thought. Six before she must leave. Now, of course, she had no more reason to stay. She had discovered what she had hoped to find. She could write her letter and leave. But no, of course she could not, she remembered with a sigh. She had to stay in order to accompany Lady Thelma on her elopement. Foolish girl!
Kate pushed herself to her knees and climbed down from the bed. She would not leave before she had to anyway, would she? Not when she had five more days out of the whole of the rest of her life in which to see Sir Harry and to be stimulated and exasperated by his conversation. It was going to be hard to return to Aunt Priscilla and look about her for new employment, knowing that all the men she would see and know for the rest of her life were going to appear depressingly ordinary when set beside the memory of him. Or even when set beside the memory of Nicholas Seyton, for that matter.
She had, in fact, been extraordinarily fortunate since her arrival at Barton Abbey. She could look on the gloomy side of things, of course, and think she had been quite dreadfully luckless. She had fallen in love with a faithless adventurer, and then she had come to love a cynical, disapproving aristocrat who made no bones about admitting that she did not attract him at all. But she would never be sorry she had met either of them. Nicholas had taught her that she was capable of physical passion. He had taught her that the intimacy of man and woman could be pleasurable to both. And Sir Harry had stimulated her mind as well as her senses and had shown her that the complexities of human nature could be exciting, challenging.
She would not be without either acquaintance. If she had not met these two men, she would still be judging the whole world of mankind by what she had experienced with Giles. And she would still be convinced that only by living a strictly independent life could she achieve any measure of contentment. She felt better able to turn outward with love and openness to the whole world, having known love with Nicholas and Sir Harry.
So she would enjoy the five days, Kate decided, and leave at the end of them . . . with regrets, yes. There were going to be pain and emptiness to take with her. But on the whole she would have a renewed optimism about life despite her thought of a few minutes before. There would always be the Gileses and—far worse—the Uppingtons. And the world was filled with Thelmas. But there must also be numerous exciting, dynamic men and women to make life worth pursuing.
In other words, she concluded, taking the pins from her hair and shaking out the heavy silver-blond locks in preparation for brushing them, life was what one made it. And she was certainly not going to spend her remaining years pining for two gentlemen who were clearly just not for her. She would find others—or one other, if she were fortunate. All she wanted was one. One man to love and to marry and to have children with. Those three experiences that she had shunned with distaste and distrust a mere few weeks before.
“She went to the Evanses to ask for my address in Shropshire,” Nicholas repeated, absently patting the neck of the horse Jim was rubbing down in its stall.
“That’s what they said, Master Nick,” Jim said.
“I see.” Nicholas lifted the other hand to scratch his head. What the devil? “Thank you, Jim.”
He wandered out of the stables and along the terrace toward the fountain. Now, why would Katherine Mannering be wanting to write to him? For personal reasons, perhaps? A love letter? More likely a letter that would rip up at him, if he knew the woman. And of course he would deserve every blistering word. In fact, it was just such anger and contempt he had meant to provoke in her by apparently abandoning her without a word of farewell the day after they had shared such tender intimacy.
But he could not imagine that she would write to him for any personal reason. She had far too much pride even to acknowledge his existence after the way he had treated her. There could be only one possible reason why she would wish to find him. She must have discovered something, either some other imagined danger to his person or some new information. It was unlikely that she would fear for his safety in Shropshire. And if there had been any plan to have him arrested there, for kidnapping or smuggling, then of course he would know about it too.
What then? Had she discovered something new, turned up something in the library maybe?
Nicholas sat on the high rim of the basin into which the fountain spilled its water, and held one hand to the spray. How frustrating not to be able to just go to her and ask her what she had to say to him. Was it important? he wondered. He supposed it must be if she was going to some pains to find his direction and if she was prepared to swallow her pride by writing to him.
How very provoking!
And of course none of the servants knew the address of his property in Shropshire. How was she coping with the frustration of not being able to discover what she sought? he wondered.
How did he feel about her leaving? And only six days hence. In one way it would be a relief. He had wondered more than once what he would do if he had to leave suddenly in pursuit of Clive Seyton while both Katherine and Uppington were still at Barton. He might set all the servants of the estate to guarding her, but he would never quite trust that she would be safe. An absurdly conceited thought, of course. The day before, she would have been in a sorry case if Josh had not been close by. A great deal of good he had been doing her, tearing uphill to the hermit’s cave, running so hard that he had felt he was going to lose the battle with his lungs to force enough oxygen into his system for survival.
She would be safer away from Barton Abbey for the time being, he thought. But he must be sure to know where her aunt lived. And he must hope that new employment would not come her way too soon. Of course, if nothing came of his expected trip to France, he might never need to find her again. She would be better off unencumbered by a man whose accident of birth had set him in a type of no-man’s-land, not of the gentry class, yet not of the lower classes either. Katherine was beautiful and spirited and intelligent. It was inconceivable to believe that she would spend all her life in service. It would not take long for some gentleman to make her his bride. Someone who could give her the kind of life she deserved.
But if he could only prove his point, find his mother, know himself legitimate, then he would not care about the earldom or even the possession of Barton. He would care only that he had a perfectly respectable name to offer his love.
Six days, though! Nicholas got to his feet and wandered onto one of the gravel walks that would take him on a circuitous progress through the flowerbeds and ornamental bushes of the formal gardens. It was no time at all. He would not even be able to dine and dance with her on the night of the ball. He had already decided that he must have a severe case of exhaustion from insomnia on that day. He believed that his presence at Barton Abbey was an open secret throughout the neighborhood, but even so, he must be cautious. It was one thing for the servants to maintain the secret. Servants were bred up to discretion and intrigue. It was another thing to trust the gentry not to blurt out his real name for all to hear. And some of them might not take kindly to having to share a table with him. Besides, he imagined that at least the captain of the coast guard would have received an invitation, if not more of the soldiers. He must steer clear of them.
So his time with Katherine was short. And he might never see her again after she left. He was rather surprised that she was leaving. It was true that the employment must not be very attractive to her. Lady Thelma was a rather lackluster character to be bound to as a companion. And of course Uppington’s presence as the girl’s suitor was a definite drawback. But he had not thought of Katherine as someone who gave up easily. Her experience of the afternoon before must have unnerved her to a sufficient degree that she had given her notice today.
And who could blame her? Katherine Mannering was no virgin. She would even give her favors outside the marriage bed if sufficiently aroused, as he had once found to his intense pleasure. But he supposed that rape was no less of an ordeal for that reason. It was difficult, no doubt, for a man to realize just how deep a degradation it must be to have one’s very body invaded against one’s will.
The fact he found most difficult to understand was her refusal to tell anyone of her ordeal. He had even been inclined to blame her before their spirited exchange on the clifftop a while before. How could she keep her mouth shut merely to save herself humiliation when a whole family would suffer the consequences for a lifetime? She could not know that he would send the Pickerings to his own home and find a place for them there, even if doing so would put a strain on his very limited resources. He had thought her selfish and unfeeling to treat thus the man who had come to her rescue the day before.
But she was probably right. He had lived a sheltered existence, but even he should know enough of the ways of the world to perceive that she was right. He had known for most of his life that the chief virtue a man could possess was social rank, and the greatest vice poverty or illegitimacy or a name of no significance whatsoever. If the choice ever had to be made between believing a marquess and believing the impoverished and employed widow of an obscure gentleman, well . . . Obviously there would be no choice at all.
Yes, Katherine was right. She might still have tried, for her own peace of mind, to be able to tell herself that she had done all she could for the Pickerings. But he could not blame her for keeping quiet. She was, when all was said and done, human. He was something in the habit of setting her on a pedestal, expecting extreme courage from her at every turn.
Six days. Not even. She was leaving on the sixth. He could not even bear the thought any longer of trying to make her hate him. There was no point in that part of the deception any longer. Yet he must not go to the other extreme either. He must not see her hurt again. He had done that once to her already. And once was too often.
Nicholas sighed. If only there were not this infernal ball and house party. If only Clive Seyton would get on his way to France so that at least something would be happening for a change. He was not made for a life of inaction.
Chapter 21
Kate was sitting in Lady Thelma’s dressing room, working at her embroidery. It was the afternoon of the dinner and ball and all the ladies had retired to their rooms for an extended rest before the exertions of the evening. But Lady Thelma did not wish to sleep, would not be able to if she tried, she had told Kate, though the latter had told her that she must certainly need the rest. Kate’s case was different, of course. She did not have a ball to attend.
The betrothal of Lady Thelma and Lord Uppington was indeed to be announced formally at the banquet. Thelma had never agreed to its happening, she had insisted to Kate. The marquess and her father merely took for granted that such was her desire. And of course she had not had the courage to tell them that she had no wish for such a marriage. But it would not matter. She was in no danger of having to marry Lord Uppington. By the time the night of the ball was over, she and Sidney Moreton would be well on their way to Scotland.
Normally Kate would have pointed out all the unfairness of the girl’s behavior. A public announcement was to be made one evening, and by the following morning the prospective bride would be eloping with another man. The scandal would bring dreadful embarrassment to both Lord Barton and the Marquess of Uppington. But under the circumstances Kate said not a word. Those two men, especially the marquess, deserved far more than mere embarrassment in their lives, she decided.
The lovers and Kate would leave as soon as everyone was settled for the night after the ball was over. It seemed a dangerously late hour to begin such a journey, since balls had a habit of continuing through most of the night unless the host was unusually firm with his guests. But Thelma said that Mr. Moreton had insisted it was the best of all possible times. No one would rise early the next morning, and it would be assumed until afternoon, probably, that the two who had fled were merely sleeping off the effects of a strenuous night of dancing.
Kate faced the elopement philosophically. She had to leave anyway and she was already in disgrace. It mattered little to her that she would be creeping away in the dark instead of leaving in a more dignified manner the next morning. And she really did not feel she could do anythin
g now to prevent the elopement. She had reasoned with her employer, but the girl was determined. And who was Kate to say that she was wrong? Thelma was extremely weak-willed. If she stayed, it was very possible that she would end up marrying the marquess. A life of social ostracism with her Mr. Moreton was probably preferable to such a life, Kate thought with a shudder.
Besides, the past five days had been disappointing ones in several ways. Late in the afternoon after Kate had visited the Evanses’ cottage, Lady Thelma had told her amidst a great deal of embarrassed stammering that for her remaining stay at the Abbey she would be expected to take her meals in her own room and remain there or working in the library for the rest of each day instead of mingling with the guests.
Kate had felt a vexed sort of humiliation at the command. But she had stayed on for Lady Thelma’s sake. The elopement itself she would countenance. But she would not see the girl undertake the long journey to Scotland without female companionship and the proper chaperonage. But the days had been irksome. Boredom had been the least of her worries, though there had been plenty of that. Sitting in her room or in Lady Thelma’s and taking walks when she knew the guests absent did not help the days fly by.
But there had been other results more bothersome than the boredom. In five days she had not set eyes on Mr. Dalrymple beyond one glimpse through her window as he rode away from the house with a group of others. She supposed that somehow or other she might have contrived a meeting. But it was very unlikely that she would see him alone. And the embarrassment of her request made her unusually timid. If Nicholas Seyton had never meant anything to her, perhaps she could ask a stranger for his address without a blush. But somehow it seemed that asking for such information would make it very obvious to Mr. Dalrymple that she and Nicholas had been lovers. Ridiculous, of course, she had told herself at least a dozen times over the previous five days. But she still hesitated, found excuses, assured herself that the time was inconvenient. When the time was right, she always told herself, she would dare Lord Barton’s wrath and sally forth in search of Mr. Dalrymple.
