* * *
Catherine felt her heart sink when just before supper Blanche came to her room. Having finished her ablutions, she had wrapped her robe around her as she contemplated the gown she had chosen to wear for the early evening meal. She faced her stepmother with unflinching poise under her penetrating inspection.
‘I thought I would come and welcome you properly, Catherine,’ she said haughtily. ‘I trust you find your room to your approval. I’ve tried many times to have it updated, but your father insisted it was to be left as it is.’
Catherine was surprised to hear this. She would not have thought her father cared one way or the other or had given any thought to so trivial a matter. ‘It is just as I remember it, Blanche.’ She went to sit at the dressing table, putting the small items she had brought with her necessary for her toilet in order. If Blanche had hoped to see a flicker of unease on her face, she would be disappointed.
‘You look very grand this evening, Blanche,’ Catherine said generously, looking at her through the mirror. Blanche had chosen to wear a gown of deep red, even though the colour accentuated the sharp angles of her face and scraped-back hair.
Blanche smiled. ‘It’s a rarity for us to have visitors these days. I have to dress for the occasion. You have changed, Catherine. The Welsh Marches seem to agree with you.’
Blanche’s smile was condescending. Catherine was in no doubt that her stepmother had been convinced she would still be the same plain, meek girl who had married Thomas six years ago and her new-found confidence had somewhat blunted her attack. She would be disappointed and surprised that this assured woman was no longer a graceless chit.
‘Yes, I was not disappointed—even though Thomas left to fight the war for the King almost immediately, so our marriage did not get off to an agreeable start, I’m afraid.’
‘Perhaps that’s because your marriage wasn’t a love match,’ Blanche said, getting straight to the point. ‘From the very beginning I knew he could never love you.’
Catherine smiled, not in the least shocked by Blanche’s statement. ‘Or I him. And why do you think that was, Blanche? Because he was in love with you? But you could not marry him, could you, because you were already married to my father. You encouraged my marriage to Thomas in order to keep him close, I know that.’
‘You knew—you knew it was me he loved?’ Blanche said, astonished and infuriated by Catherine’s calm, cool manner.
‘Yes, I knew. How could I not? You made eyes at him whenever he came to the house.’
Blanche’s eyebrows raised as she stared across at Catherine, her lips twisting scornfully. ‘You appear to have got over it. But you are right. Thomas would have married me had I not been married to Edward. The war kept us apart, but then when your fool of a father expressed his wish for you to marry, I realised it was just what I needed—what Thomas and I needed—a silly girl to marry off. It was child’s play for Thomas to win your father over and persuade him to consider him for your husband—wealthy, titled and with a fine estate. It all worked out better than we could have hoped. You would be tucked away on the Welsh border while Thomas spent a great deal of his time in London—with me.’
Catherine favoured her with a cool, level stare, seeing at last the cynical calculation of which she had been the object and the cold-blooded way in which Blanche and Thomas had played on her innocence. ‘What a scheming woman you are, Blanche. And my father had no idea—or did he? Unfortunately for you, you did not enjoy Thomas’s favours for long, did you? How it must have galled you when the war intervened and my father went over to Parliament, distancing himself from Thomas—and me. When he went missing at Marston Moor in forty-four it must have come as more of a shock to you than it did to me. For myself I blessed my good fortune that he was gone from my life—if not permanently, then at least for a while. As things turned out, he died anyway of wounds he acquired in the struggle.’
‘You could say that,’ Blanche said quietly, averting her eyes and going to the door, as if the manner of Thomas’s death and the pain it had caused her was too much for her to contemplate.
Catherine looked at her in exasperation. ‘Why do you dislike me so much, Blanche? I was hoping that after all this time things would be improved between us.’ When Blanche turned and looked at her Catherine saw her hesitate and bite her lip, unused to such directness from other people, despite her own rudeness.
‘It may surprise you to know, Catherine, that I don’t dislike you. I have no particular feelings about you at all.’
‘Don’t you? Then while I am here, at least tolerate me. I didn’t choose to marry Thomas. Nor did I wish for his death. I didn’t choose to spend the past four years of my life defending a fortress on the Welsh Marches either—often at the risk of my life while my husband was off fighting a war. I wasn’t sitting idle. We both have our crosses to bear.’
Blanche had the grace to look embarrassed at the raw emotion in Catherine’s voice and Catherine knew this was because she rarely met with opposition and that she should have spoken out before. It was high time she asserted herself where Blanche was concerned. If only Blanche had been more friendly towards her in the beginning, her life would have been more pleasant.
‘Well, we both know he won’t be coming back—and you can thank your father for that.’
Catherine detected a hint of sadness in her stepmother’s eyes and her voice had softened. If Blanche had loved Thomas, then of course she would mourn his passing, which would have to be done in silence. ‘Would you mind telling me what you mean by that, Blanche? What had my father to do with Thomas’s passing? Is there something you know that I don’t? If so, will you please tell me? I don’t like secrets.’
Avoiding Catherine’s eyes, Blanche got to her feet. ‘No,’ she said quietly, averting her eyes. ‘It is nothing.’
Catherine wasn’t so sure about that, but she did not pursue the issue.
‘You grew to loathe Thomas, didn’t you? It wasn’t enough for you to bear his name, to be his wife—to serve him...’
‘Serve him? I did not serve him,’ Catherine retorted scornfully, getting to her feet, refusing to be intimidated by such cutting remarks. ‘I serve no man. I could not forgive his betrayal. Neither did I feel any affection for him. The thought of him touching me and demanding his rights filled me with revulsion. You were welcome to him.’ She went to the bed and picked up the gown she had chosen to wear for supper. ‘Now if you don’t mind, Blanche, I would like to get dressed. I will see you at supper. Oh, and I would dearly like to see James.’ When Blanche cast her a surprised look, Catherine smiled thinly. ‘My father neglected to inform me of his birth. John told me.’
‘I see. Yes—you can see him, but not tonight. And please do not mention the child in the presence of your father. He—he is not what he was and a young child agitates him. It is not good for him to get upset.’
Catherine frowned. ‘I am sorry to hear that. I have no wish to upset him so I will do as you ask and look forward to seeing James tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. I would appreciate that.’
Without another word Blanche left, leaving Catherine with a distinct feeling of unease. Why would it upset her father to discuss his son? Was it not what he had always wanted? And what had Blanche meant about her father having something to do with Thomas’s demise? On a sigh she shook her head. No doubt she would find out in time.
* * *
In no hurry to confront Blanche again so soon, Catherine took her time with her toilet, choosing to wear an extremely fetching dark blue velvet gown which emphasised the slimness of her waist. It was a long time since she had taken such care with her appearance, but she’d had no occasion to do so at Carlton Bray. She even let Molly dress her hair in soft, high curls. When she felt confident that she looked her best, she went downstairs to the dining parlour. Taking a moment she paused, hearing a murmur of voices from inside.
Ope
ning the door, she stepped inside. John was standing before the giant hearth where a fire burned bright, the lively flames sending dancing shadows over the richly tapestried walls lit by several wall tapers. There was no sign of Blanche. She was surprised to see her father ensconced in a large armchair beside the hearth, his feet resting on a footstool. He held all her attention, for she had not expected him to be well enough to dine with them. Conversation between the two men ceased when she made her entrance.
Catherine’s gaze settled on John as she closed the door and walked towards them. He was watching her entrance like a large, predatory hawk, his wineglass arrested halfway to his lips. He had changed his clothes and looked extremely handsome and dignified in dark breeches and a tanned jerkin with a slash of white collar at his neck. His dark hair had been brushed to merciless neatness and drawn back to his nape where it was secured. There was a restlessness about him and she sensed he would feel more at ease outdoors than confined to the house. Switching her gaze to her father, she crossed to him and dropped a small curtsy.
‘Father, I’m glad you are able to dine with us. I would have presented myself to you earlier, but Blanche told me you were resting. You have been ill. How are you now?’
She did not embrace him or show undue affection. He did not expect it and nor would he welcome it. To show any kind of affection or emotion he considered a weakness. Tension tightened her throat suddenly and a stone settled on her heart. Already she was wishing she had never left Carlton Bray. He did indeed look ill. Once so imposing a soldier in both bearing and training, he was now a mere shadow of the man who had earned a name for his military prowess in the service of Parliament. His body might suffer the ravages of ill health, but his mind was still active and intelligent and retained its instinct for command. His face was shrunken and thin, his white hair sparse, but the eyes that looked at her were still penetratingly sharp.
‘No better,’ he replied in answer to her question. His voice was low and rasped in his throat and he seemed to find it difficult to breathe. His stare was uncomfortably forthright and assessing. She smiled, but he did not return it. Her presence did not move him, neither did the tenuous link of kinship.
‘You should have stayed in your chamber. I would have come to see you there.’
‘While I am able to get downstairs I will continue to do so. You made good time. I wondered if you would come.’
‘You summoned me. How could I not?’
‘We have not met since the early years of your marriage.’
‘No—when you came to Carlton Bray to persuade Thomas to change his allegiance.’
‘Which was a vain hope, but I tried.’ Edward glanced up at John. ‘You came quickly, John. I am grateful. It’s good to see you, albeit in such circumstances—which are dire.’ To his daughter, he said, ‘So, Catherine, you are a widow.’
‘Yes. I had not seen Thomas for some considerable time—four years, in fact.’
‘Aye—Marston Moor. What a terrible battle that was—the worst. It was a victory for Parliament, but when I remember the suffering and the misery of it, it was a hollow victory. An enormous loss of so many courageous men—on both sides—including John’s father. How are things at Carlton Bray? You managed without Thomas?’
‘I did my best. It was not always easy.’
‘Not if Thomas gave all his money to fund the King,’ Edward grumbled. ‘You haven’t come to ask for money, I hope.’
‘No, Father,’ Catherine replied quietly, fighting back her disappointment. Any hopes she had harboured that he might have changed during the time they had been apart were shattered. He was still the same unfeeling man he had always been, with not one ounce of love or kindness for her. ‘I have already told you that I came because you summoned me. I don’t want your charity.’
‘Good, because you won’t get it from me. Not one penny piece will go to the upkeep of that damned castle.’
Catherine caught John’s eye and said, ‘The problem is no longer mine, Father. John is now the new Lord Stratton, owner of Carlton Bray Castle. I’m sure he will oversee the running of the estate splendidly.’
Her father’s gaze went past her when the door opened. ‘Sit and have your meal. We will talk at length tomorrow.’
Catherine didn’t have time to reply, for at that moment Blanche walked in, positively glowing, supremely confident in her beauty, impeccably groomed and faultlessly attired. She was followed by servants carrying platters of steaming food and setting them on the table.
‘Can I help you to the table, Father?’
‘Edward will eat in his room,’ Blanche said, crossing to the table to inspect the food.
His wife’s high-handed manner brought a flash of anger to her husband’s face, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. ‘Tonight is an exception. We have guests. I will join you at the table.’
Blanche stopped what she was doing and cast him a look of impatience. ‘Very well, Edward. If you think you are up to it, then of course you must.’ She gestured to one of the servants. ‘Help him, will you, Robert.’
It was a slow process, but between them John and Robert saw him seated at the head of the table. Blanche shot him a look bordering on hatred—which did not go unnoticed by Catherine—and virtually ignored him for the time it took them to eat the meal. He did not eat, but he had a glass of watered-down wine which he sipped.
Supper was a good meal of chicken broth, mutton steaks and roast ducks. The dining parlour glowed from the lighted tapers and the huge log fire in the hearth.
‘Have you any news of the King?’ Edward enquired of John. ‘The last I heard he was being held prisoner on the Isle of Wight.’
‘It is expected that he will be brought back to London to stand trial. He must be made to answer for his actions. He must also be made to swear never again to raise an army inside the kingdom. Parliament and the army will stand for nothing less.’
‘But—on what charge?’ Catherine asked.
‘Treason.’
‘But he is the King of England. No King of England has ever answered to law.’
‘Not any more,’ John said. ‘His extravagance and callous disregard of our laws, his smug assumption of the divine right of his kingship, led us into disaster. There are many who want to see him answer for his crimes—for splitting the nation in two.’
‘What of you, John?’ Edward asked. ‘I know you have matters of importance to take care of at Windsor, but you are more than welcome to remain here with us. Confined to the house as I’ve become, it’s always good to catch up with news of the outside world.’
‘Thank you, Edward. I would be grateful, although there will be nights when I must be at Windsor. The men who rode with us from Carlton Bray have gone to the army garrison there.’
‘Of course, you must stay here,’ Blanche said. ‘Windsor is not far away if duty calls you, but it will not provide you with the comforts we can offer—and I know Edward would be glad of your company. And what of you?’ she said, turning her attention to Catherine. ‘You mentioned how there have been a few skirmishes in the Welsh Marches. I have to say you appear to have survived everything remarkably well.’
‘Yes, as you see, Blanche.’
‘Still, it’s hardly woman’s work, defending a fortress the size of Carlton Bray. Do you still wear breeches when you go about your work?’ she asked with an underlying mockery, helping herself to more mutton.
‘All the time. I find I am on and off my horse most of the time. Breeches are far more serviceable than skirts. You should try wearing them when you go riding—Oh, pardon me. I quite forgot. You don’t ride, do you, Blanche?’ She spoke flippantly, looking directly at Blanche, her eyes reminding her stepmother once more that she was no longer the green girl who had married Thomas, that she had seen and done too much to be either threatened or cowed. She was granted the satisfaction of seeing Blanche’s poise waver before h
er merciless, bright young eyes.
Blanche’s eyes did a quick sweep of Catherine’s pale face and slender shape and she grimaced. ‘Goodness me, I certainly do not! I’m not partial to horses—smelly things, I always think. But you really should take more care of yourself, Catherine.’
‘I do, all the time, Blanche—as you see,’ Catherine was quick to protest at the insufferable remark, but John gave an easy laugh.
‘You would not be willing to wear breeches, Blanche?’
‘No, I most certainly would not. I can’t imagine anything more unfeminine. Now you find yourself a widow, Catherine, you will never get another man to wed you if you don’t care what you look like.’
Catherine threw her a cold look, heedful of her father’s eyes on her, assessing, judging, but thankfully not reproaching. ‘Heaven forbid! The last thing I want in my life is another husband. Thomas did not exactly endear me to the institution of marriage. Why would I want to put myself through that again? I set my own course when he failed to come back from Marston Moor.’
Blanche raised her chin haughtily. ‘What good will that do you? One cannot escape the fact that a woman with opinions such as those is enough to scare away certain gentlemen and as a result the lady—be she a widow or a spinster—will remain so until the day she dies.’
Catherine suppressed a smile. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said in a moment of sheer mischief. ‘Now, that is a daunting prospect for any woman. You make securing a husband sound like a holy crusade for all women, Blanche. Now that I find myself a widow, I have no intention of breaking one of my cardinal rules.’
‘And that is?’ Blanche enquired reluctantly.
‘Never to consider a proposal of marriage unless the gentleman shares the same opinions and view as myself. We must be equal in all things. As a woman alone, for too long I’ve had people dependent on me, looking to me to make decisions, and when I did, praying they were the right ones. Which is why I refuse to dance attendance like a witless fool on any man who will expect me to submit to his authority and not to say anything other than yes and no, a man who will list me among his possessions, like his dogs and horses. I consider ideas such as these unacceptable and insulting.’
Resisting Her Enemy Lord Page 8
