Chapter Five
Kate wondered irreverently if she would burst into flames when she entered the holy precincts of a church for the first time in several years. All heads turned toward her, she might as well have been burning. Ignoring the stares, she took one of the last vacant places in the back pew and looked around her.
It was a pleasant little church, with beautiful stained glass and a little chapel to the side, dedicated, according to the notice on the wall, to sailors. And it was full, numbering local gentry, visitors, and ordinary townspeople among the congregation. Everyone chattered away cheerfully, even those who cast Kate baleful glances.
“She isn’t even wearing black gloves!” exclaimed one affronted woman.
There was a ripple of muffled laughter and yet more quick, surreptitious glances thrown Kate’s way. She paid them no attention, keeping her eyes fixed to the front of the church where Mr. Grant emerged, suitably robed in a plain black cassock. She didn’t know if he’d heard the remark, or if he observed her presence, for she felt a sudden panic. She hadn’t brought a prayer book and she’d forgotten the liturgy.
It turned out not to matter. Everything came back to her. Voices boomed in common prayer and soared in hymns, soothing with familiarity. But it was the sermon that made the greatest impression on her. Not just because of Grant’s deep, oddly beautiful voice, or even the simple goodness of his words, mixed with a leavening humor that kept her genuinely intrigued and attentive. It was the reaction of those around her that she found most staggering. Everyone seemed to hang on his words, men, women, rich and poor. One girl at the end of Kate’s pew even wept silently before raising her head proudly at the end as though determined to do better with her life. And yet his words were never judgmental or accusing, just thoughtful and curiously moving.
Kate swallowed as the final hymn began. She’d tried to blot it out, imagine the words of his sermon applied only to others, to those who cared. But it seemed she did care, for she felt suddenly overcome by shame at the hedonistic selfishness of her life. She hadn’t hurt Crowmore—the man could not have been hurt by less than the death that finally took him—but neither had she forgiven him. The man whom she’d promised to love, honor, and obey, forsaking all others…
If she’d been sitting on the end of a pew, she’d have slipped away at that point. She’d only come to see if he was a real priest. If he wasn’t, he’d certainly learned more than the basics. And here she was, trapped and vulnerable.
So she didn’t look at him as he walked down the aisle, to the door. Those local worthies with pews at the front of the church left first, and everyone piled out behind, waiting to have a word with Mr. Grant.
He helped these people, Kate realized, just by being among them. Just by listening to them, by treating the poor and damaged as human beings, not judging them by their faults or failings. Was that why she’d felt so drawn to him? Because she was more damaged, more in need, than any of them?
I’m not. I’m strong, stronger than Crowmore, than any of his family or mine. I look after myself.
Determinedly, she raised her head, fighting the urge to confide, to confess, to beg him to make her a better person. This man who’d come from nowhere and could even be a French spy.
When she could, she tried to duck quickly past a lady with an enormous hat, but with cursed timing the lady moved on, and unless Kate was prepared to bolt in an undignified manner, she was bound to shake hands with the curate.
“My lady,” he greeted her with the same warmth he showed everyone. “I’m very glad to see you here.” And yet surely his eyes were warmer when they looked at her. She bet everyone thought that.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I enjoyed your sermon. Goodbye.”
But he retained her hand when she would have withdrawn it. And God help her, she liked his touch.
“Do you know about our musical soiree this evening?” he asked. “We’re raising money for town charities, and you would be most welcome. Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Fenton are acting as my hostesses for the evening. Perhaps you would even condescend to sing for us.”
“Any condescension would be in listening to me,” Kate said dryly. “Thank you for the invitation.” And withdrawing her hand, she passed on, nodding civilly to anyone who caught her eye as she walked along the church path and out of the gate.
Of course, she had no intention of attending the ridiculous event. Me? At a provincial church musical evening? It hardly fit with the character she’d built for herself over the years. And yet, didn’t she always do the unexpected? Didn’t she always want to? In this case, she wasn’t afraid of boredom, but of her unlikely attraction to the curate. She didn’t even know if her suspicions were based on common sense or on the need to “de-perfect” him for her own safety.
Yet after the church service, how could she doubt him? How could she doubt the man who had taken on four violent ruffians for her, before the prisoner incident?
Of course, in the cart conversation, he’d suggested he could have been part of the attack, setting himself up, perhaps as some sort of hero. And he had said he wanted to marry her, a most unequal marriage in the eyes of the world. She could have been expected to look more favorably on a hero than on an ordinary curate.
Only why would he want to marry her? There were wealthier and purer-hearted women in the world to ensnare. Besides, if it was true, why the devil would he point out the possibility to her?
So lost was she in speculation that it took her some time to notice the girl glaring at her as they approached each other from opposite ends of High Street. She was young, no older than seventeen, and very beautiful in demure sprig muslin. Although she looked vaguely familiar, Kate had no idea who she was.
She was escorted by a short, plump woman who might have been a governess, apart from her somewhat strident voice, and by a middle-aged gentleman with a gold topped cane. However, the girl’s attention was not on them but on Kate, so much so that the governess actually stopped in front of Kate, blocking her path.
“Is this one of your new friends, Jenny?” she asked, in a strong, local accent.
The gentleman with the cane ogled Kate, while the girl blushed a fiery red with mortification.
“Why, no, ma’am,” she almost whispered. “We are not acquainted,”
The woman blinked at her in surprise. “Then what’re you staring at her for?”
Clearly, the girl wished the ground to swallow her up. “Forgive my rudeness, your ladyship. We have a mutual acquaintance.”
“Did I behave shockingly to them?” Kate drawled.
“Bless you, my lady,” the older woman gushed. “She’s just a child gawping at beauty. I’m Mrs. Smallwood of Kendal. This is my daughter Janet. And Mr. Dollen who has two mills over by Newcastle. And you are…?”
Kate considered her. She was more than capable of depressing the pretensions of people who sought to scrape acquaintance with her for their own ends. And Mrs. Smallwood was clearly an encroacher, a social climber of lowly birth who wanted her daughter to be a lady. But the daughter, although obviously mortified by the mother’s impudent ill manners, had begun this whole encounter by glaring at Kate as though she’d stolen the child’s favorite toy. Inevitably, Kate was intrigued.
“Katherine Crowmore,” she said languidly. “And who is our mutual acquaintance, Miss Smallwood?”
The girl almost whispered, “Mr. Muir.”
Mrs. Smallwood scowled, casting a quick glance at Mr. Dollen as though to see how he took news of this male acquaintance. Kate began to understand. The girl, Janet, was in love with Bernard Muir—or at least imagined she was. But the mother preferred Mr. Dollen for her, no doubt because he had two mills near Newcastle and Bernard, although gently born, had little more than two pennies to rub together.
On the other hand, the speculative gleam in Mrs. Smallwood’s eye told her the woman was not above using Kate to introduce her daughter to prospective husbands who were both gently born and rich. If she knew of Kate’s scandalous reputation, it did not trouble her.
“Ah, yes. Bernard and his sister are practically family,” Kate said carelessly, which is when she noticed that Mr. Dollen, while still ogling Kate, placed his hand in the small of the girl’s back. It might have been a protective gesture, had Miss Smallwood not flinched.
That flinch unnerved Kate, transporting her back to her own girlhood when a very different, much older man had touched her and made her cringe, even while she’d let her parents bully her into marrying him. It was the way of the world. She’d given up a man she loved for one who made her flesh crawl. And the Smallwoods would make this child do the same.
“We should take tea together,” Kate said abruptly to the girl. “Do you stay in Blackhaven?”
“At the hotel,” Mrs. Smallwood replied. “For a few days. My health, you know—”
“Excellent,” Kate interrupted, although she looked at the daughter rather than the mother. “Then the matter is easily arranged. Until then, goodbye.”
*
Although Kate tried quite hard to talk herself out if, it was surely inevitable that she walked round to the vicarage that evening. Even then, she told herself it was to further investigate the mysterious curate, not because he excited and soothed her at once, not because she liked him. Though she might just ask him about Miss Smallwood if the opportunity arose.
A serving maid admitted her to the house with a curtsey, and took her pelisse before directing her to the drawing room. Kate followed the strains of indifferent music to an open door which revealed quite a large gathering for the size of the room.
She was inured to the sudden silence which greeted her arrival, even to the audible whisper, “Who invited her?” And the inevitable, “Not even black gloves. The woman has no decorum.”
A trio of musicians played in one corner of the room, beside a pianoforte. A few rows of chairs had been set out, with a couple of sofas against the wall. A large, silver bowl graced the table at the back, where Mr. Grant stood. In the silence, he glanced across to her and smiled, the same, spontaneous smile he’d given her at the harbor, the one that seemed to turn her insides to liquid.
He murmured, “Excuse me,” to his companions and walked straight toward her as though no one else were in the room. “Lady Crowmore. I’m so glad you could come after all.”
He shook her hand with perfect civility. She might have imagined the swift, unnecessary caress of his thumb, or it might have been an apology for his guests.
“I’m sure you already know Mrs. Winslow.”
The local squire’s wife, and leader of Blackhaven society in the absence of the Countess of Braithwaite, exchanged distant bows with her. They’d met during Kate’s previous stay at the castle.
“We were just about to begin,” Grant said cheerfully. “The rules are simple. A coin in the bowl by way of entry, and from then on, another coin for each performance you like. Denominations of your own choice.”
“I’m sure I can manage that,” Kate said, going at once to the bowl.
By the time she turned back to the room, the music had ceased, the rows of seats were filled, and Miss Winslow stood nervously in front of the piano, ready to sing. An elderly lady sat down at the instrument and began to play. Kate seated herself on one of the sofas and prepared to be appalled.
Actually, it wasn’t too bad. Miss Winslow had a sweet voice, and the pianist provided a soft accompaniment. But the girl’s eyes followed Mr. Grant all the time she sang, as though desperately seeking his approval, or any signs of criticism.
Grant eased himself into the sofa beside her. “Worth a coin?” he murmured.
“Maybe even two. Will you sing?”
He grinned. “Lord, no. Bad enough they have to listen to me in church. Excuse me.” He stood and quietly left the room.
Miss Winslow’s face fell immediately, but her performance was greeted with much applause, and Kate duly added two more coins to the slowly filling bowl. This time, when she returned to her sofa, a gentleman sat beside her, making pleasant but innocuous conversation, as though they’d met before. Which they had, at Lady Braithwaite’s spring ball. Kate eventually placed him as Mr. Winslow, the squire. Since he had twinkling eyes, she responded accordingly until it was time to put another coin in the bowl.
“Perhaps you sing, Lady Crowmore?” Mrs. Winslow asked in frosty accents. Kate suspected she wished her to perform and be humiliated by receiving lackluster applause and earning no coins.
“Oh, I did as a debutante of course,” she replied. “But these days I leave the floor to younger and sweeter voices. What about you, Mrs. Winslow?”
Mrs. Winslow flushed. “Only for charity, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Kate said at once. “Then if you think it will help the cause, I’m sure I can warble out some old tune or other.”
The squire had again taken up position on her sofa, so she wandered out of the room, ostensibly in search of the cloakroom, in reality to find out where Grant had disappeared to.
At the foot of the stairs, her keen ears picked up some movement above. Impulsively, after only the briefest glance around her, she glided up the staircase and was drawn to a muffled murmur behind a closed door. Two murmurs, surely two separate male voices. And yet the curate supposedly lived alone here while the Hoags were away.
Which didn’t mean he couldn’t have visitors. Slightly shocked at her own behavior, Kate hurried back downstairs, and quietly re-entered the drawing room where a young lady visiting with her aunt was manfully murdering a Scottish air. Kate leaned against the wall, just inside the door, in order to make a quick escape if laughter overtook her.
A few moments later, Grant slipped back into the room and paused. For an instant, he met her gaze with a humorous expression of pain, hastily smoothed into one of appreciation as he faced the performer. Kate bit her lip.
Half-an-hour later, tea was served by Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Fenton. Grant again left the room under pretense of looking for some more brandy for those gentlemen who wished to partake of something a little stronger than tea. Since the gentlemen already appeared to be helping themselves from a decanter beside the collection bowl, Kate suspected it was an excuse to pay another visit to the room upstairs. Who on earth was up there?
Her breath caught.
The French prisoner.
Suddenly, she was sure the man had swum around to Blackhaven Cove, had probably been there when she and Grant had walked there together. Perhaps Grant had even known it. She remembered him saying, “All news comes to me at the vicarage.” Had he actually been telling the Frenchman where to find him, where he’d be safe? Surely there had been no need to say at the vicarage to her?
Almost blindly, she accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Winslow and sat in the nearest chair. Grant re-entered the room.
“Tell me, Lady Crowmore,” said the old lady beside Kate. “Is it no longer the custom in London to wear black in mourning?”
“For some, no doubt,” Kate said flippantly, beginning to remove one glove. “I do my mourning on the inside.” As the glove fell into her lap, she picked up a piece of fruit cake from her plate, thus revealing in all its glory, the black paint on her fingernails. She smiled.
An audible gasp went around the room. Kate wondered if she’d gone too far, but when she glanced defiantly at the curate, his lips were twitching. More surprisingly, Mrs. Winslow hid a smile behind her hand. Kate could see her eyes laughing over the top before she turned away under pretense of speaking to someone else. Her voice wasn’t quite steady.
Well, who would have known it? The squire’s wife has a sense of humor.
Kate finished her cake, and leisurely replaced her glove.
After tea, Mrs. Winslow announced that she had prevailed upon Lady Crowmore to sing. If the women present looked somewhat doubtful, it was noticeable that the men seemed to sit up straighter.
All that power over men, she thought sardonically, and still she’d married Crowmore. Still she was left in this intolerable position through another man’s trickery. What the devil was it for?
She chose a short and simple traditional song that Miss Dundas at the pianoforte appeared to know, and sang it without fuss. Her audience looked surprised, as though they’d expected some kind of burlesque theatre act. Except Grant, who, by the door, watched her steadily, the faintest of smiles on his lips.
As expected, the applause from the men was enthusiastic, although that of the women seemed kinder than she’d imagined would be the case. Perhaps she was winning them over, despite her black-painted fingernails.
In fact, the only approval she really cared for seemed to be Grant’s, which annoyed her so much she excused herself once more and, avoiding the cloakroom, ran upstairs to the room where she’d heard voices.
The sun was low now, and the passage was gloomier than before. She could hear no voices, but someone surely was rustling behind that door. She leaned closer to it to hear better—and without warning, it flew open.
A man stood there with his shirt half on and his shoulder bandaged. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and his expression was slightly dazed. He was youngish, perhaps in his early thirties, and his damp hair was very fair.
“Beautiful lady,” he observed with apparent pleasure and stumbled forward so that she made an instinctive grab for him. Between them they made an audible bump but at least she managed to hold him up.
“You’re ill,” she gasped. “You need to be in bed.”
“Bored with bed. Alone.” It was a brave attempt at a leer. Since he was clearly fevered, she didn’t take it seriously, instead dragging him back into the room, which was indeed a bedchamber, and stumbling with him toward the bed. There, she let him tumble back onto the sheets before straightening and rolling her shoulder to ease it from his weight.
Fortunately, he’d landed more or less against the pillows, so she was able to help turn him and let him drink from the glass on the nightstand. Since there was a bowl of cold water and a cloth there too, she bathed his brow.
A shadow fell across the room. Her patient opened his eyes and smiled.
“Vicar,” he said disparagingly, and Kate jerked her head toward the door.
“Curate,” Grant said mildly, closing the door and walking into the room. “Lady Crowmore, you should not be attending this reprobate.”
She dropped the cloth back in the bowl and watched him approach. “Because he’s an escaped French prisoner?” she asked steadily.
“No, because he’s an idiot.”
“And not French,” the prisoner insisted.
“You don’t sound French,” Kate acknowledged. There was relief in that. “Who the devil are you?”
“Cornelius,” the prisoner answered, as though it should mean something to her.
Again, she looked at Grant. “And who exactly is Cornelius?”
Grant said nothing.
Cornelius laughed. “I’m his brother, of course.”