Chapter Thirty-Three
Every stroke of the quill grated on her nerves. It would be the pleasure of Lord Hedgewood and Lady Worthington to invite you…
Cat hated the words. Each one brought her closer to the engagement ball, closer to marriage to Hedgewood. Yet she could not ignore that the invitations must be sent. She blotted the ink, set the completed note on a stack of a fifty or so just like it.
Across the dining table where they had spread out the invitation lists, Essie had a similar pile of stationery, though she was not writing. Instead, she fiddled with her quill, running it through her fingers as she stared out the window with unfocused eyes.
“Aunt Essie?”
The lady jumped, a squeak falling from her lips.
“Are you well?” Cat asked, though she already knew the answer. Essie had been living between nerves and fright since the incident in the carriage.
“Of course. Yes. Of course.” She bent over the paper, set the quill to it—but did not write. “No.”
“I did not think so.” Setting the invitations aside, Cat leaned against the chair back.
Essie lifted her face, eyes wide behind her spectacles. “How can you focus? How can you sit across the breakfast table from him, after what he did?”
“Because I refuse to let him win.” She hadn’t thought of it that way before, but it was how she felt. “I can be afraid enough to be careful, but not so afraid that he wins.”
Shaking her head, Essie opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Cat doubted she fully understood. Aunt Essie was kind, sweet even, but there was little fight in her. She simply did not have it in her nature.
“Remember,” Cat said carefully, looking over her shoulder toward the door to ensure they were alone. “If anything happens to me, leave immediately. Be ready.”
Essie nodded, then looked once more to the invitation in front of her. Still, she did not write.
“All will be well.” She thought to add, I promise, but decided she could not add that to her lie.
The door opened and Essie jumped again. She made the same little sound as her gaze whipped toward the doorway. The butler stood there, expression mildly put out. She could see a second man behind him, cap removed and clutched in his hands.
“A messenger for you, my lady.” Brown flicked his gaze toward the man. “He refuses to give it to anyone but yourself.”
“Let him in.” She turned fully in her chair to face the door.
Silently, but with mild irritation on his narrow features, Brown moved aside and let the man enter. Cat recognized him now as a footman from Ashdown Abbey.
“Jacob, hello.” She smiled at him. “It is good to see you.”
“Milady.” He nodded to Cat, then again to Essie. “Ma’am.”
“You have a message?”
“Aye, from Mr. Sparks. He said I should deliver it to no one but you.” The footman reached into his coat and drew out a packet sealed with red wax. Stepping forward, he offered it to her. “Mr. Sparks said you should read it immediately.”
“I will, thank you.” Heart thumping, she took the packet and turned it over in her hands. There was no indication what it held beyond several papers. “Brown, see that he is provided food and rest before he leaves again for Ashdown Abbey.”
“Thank you, milady.” The footman beamed at her and touched his hand to his forehead in farewell.
“Please follow me, sir.” Brown bowed to Cat and closed the door behind them.
Curiosity burned in her, and she quickly broke the seal and opened the outer layer. Inside was a carefully folded sheaf of papers. She recognized Mr. Sparks’s handwriting as if it were her own.
My lady,
I obtained a copy of the marriage contract and have studied it at length. I am not a solicitor, but I am familiar enough with legal language that I can read it easily. I am sorry, but I cannot see a way out. The document is carefully drafted, and very much in Hedgewood’s favor.
I wish I had a better answer for you.
Yr. Humblest Servant,
Matthew Sparks
Despair could be heavy, both on the body and in the soul. Cat dropped the letter onto the table and frantically read the other papers. It was the contract itself, copied in Mr. Sparks’s script. Eyes quickly moving over the words, Cat read each provision.
She found nothing on the first read, nor the second. Nothing that would give her freedom.
Nausea rose in her throat, bringing with it a sour taste.
“What has happened?” Alarm shot through Essie’s words. “Mary Elizabeth, you look ill.”
“I must marry Hedgewood.” Cat had to force the words out, pushing them beyond the need to retch.
“Yes, dear.” Essie looked down at the invitations, back up again. “It will not be so bad. You will be away from here, safe, with a husband possessed of good humor—all of which consoles me, just now.”
It did not console Cat.
“Excuse me, Aunt.” She needed to be alone with her misery.
Her bedchamber brought her no solace. It did not soothe any part of the pain in her chest. Cat hadn’t realized how much she had hoped the contract would free her until that hope was gone.
Even through the choking agony of defeat, Cat knew she must dispose of the note. Stirring the banked coals to life, she dropped the note into the embers. It smoldered, caught flame, and melted into ash. The contract she folded small. Moving to her escritoire, she opened the bottom drawer, set the paper in the back corner and covered it with the leather-bound ledgers there. They were old household accounts, written in her mother’s tidy script, and no longer of any use.
Except to Cat. Now.
When she had finished hiding the note, Cat stood in the middle of the room, staring at rose-gold streaks of light from the setting sun. She would have to dress soon for the evening engagements, force herself to smile to the ton—perhaps even Hedgewood. Wycomb would escort her into ballrooms, lies upon lies spewing from his mouth as he murmured platitudes to lords and ladies.
Oh God. She could not do it.