Chapter 16
Catherine had decided to make the long journey back to Hertfordshire alone. Whilst the Earl of Barford had been Celia Topwell’s brother, it was clear that she had no intention of attending his funeral herself. In fact, neither Celia nor Charles Topwell had any intentions of paying their respects to Oscar Ambrose and Catherine could not blame them at all.
Not only had he treated Celia and Charles so poorly, but her aunt and uncle had objected strongly to the way he had treated Catherine also.
And when she had received word from her brother that their father had died, Catherine felt nothing. Well, perhaps that was not entirely true, for she had felt a little curiosity to go home after so many years away, and she had felt her own hopes and fears for how her relationship with her brother Philip would have fared after so long. And, more than anything, she felt a deep need to see Thomas Carlton again.
Catherine still thought of Thomas every day, could see his handsome face every time she looked at her beautiful son and knew that her feelings for him had never changed. She loved Thomas with all her heart and with the same ferocity of the very day they were parted eight years before.
When the letter had come, Catherine had been sitting out on her favourite bench in her aunt and uncle’s beautiful grounds. She had been enjoying a late summer’s afternoon as she watched Henry clambering about in the only tree she allowed him to climb.
It was a sturdy tree with low, broad branches, one that was easy for him to get into and out of without incident. She always watched him like a hawk, knowing that Henry was as keen as mustard to get to one of the taller trees and test his skills somewhere other than the tree he had known how to climb since he was five.
“Aunt Catherine, this tree is too easy,” he complained as he peered out at her through the thick leaves. “This tree is for babies.”
“That is just silly, Henry.” Catherine laughed as she shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted at his fine little silhouette against the bright blue sky. “Babies cannot climb trees.”
“You know what I mean, Aunt Catherine,” he went on, and Catherine stifled another laugh when she realized that he was beginning to whine and complain a little.
Whining and complaining did not suit Henry, and when he did do it, it always amused her. But Henry had a sensitive heart, one that Catherine would protect at all costs, and so she was careful not to laugh at him or say anything that would undermine his burgeoning confidence in himself.
“I do know what you mean, Henry,” Catherine said gently. “But I would like you to wait until you are a little older before you try any of the bigger trees. I know that you are very good at climbing, but my nerves are not so very good at watching. And so you see, you would be doing me a great kindness by sticking to that tree for now, my dear.”
“Alright then, Aunt Catherine,” he said in the most adorable, proud-little-boy fashion.
No doubt he liked the idea of doing something to protect Catherine’s feelings and soothe her nerves, and the feeling of pride at that moment clearly outweighed the excitement of a new tree.
“Thank you, Henry. It is always nice to be kind to somebody else, is it not?”
“I always like being kind to you, Aunt Catherine.” Henry sat himself down on the broadest of the branches, and Catherine grinned to see his skinny legs swinging back and forth.
“And why do you like being kind to me, Henry?”
“Because I love you, Aunt Catherine,” he said in a perplexed tone which suggested she ought to have known that already.
“And I love you too, Henry,” Catherine said and felt the familiar tightening of her throat.
From the moment Henry had been old enough to speak, Catherine had forced herself to get used to his mode of address. So many times over the years she had been tempted to tell him everything, feeling sure that he would be pleased to know that his beloved Aunt Catherine was actually his mother.
But Henry was still just seven years old, and once he found himself comfortable in whatever company he was in, he talked non-stop. Henry liked nothing better than to chatter, and even when he was climbing his little tree, he generally talked through the whole effort.
He was such a happy, personable little boy that he reminded her more and more of Thomas. He was sensitive, it was true, and yet he had a certain confidence with people, just like Thomas had always had.
Henry waved to her from the tree, and she smiled and waved back, watching him carefully. As always happened, she drifted off into thoughts of Thomas and how his talkative and confident nature had led him to approach her in the first place.
Had he been any different at all, they likely never would have spoken, for Catherine would certainly not have had the courage to have approached him herself.
“Have you seen Henry anywhere?” Celia called out in an extraordinarily loud stage-whisper as she approached Catherine from the kitchen door.
It was a little ruse that the two women had played over and over, ever since Henry had taken to climbing the tree. And Henry, despite being a bright little boy, never seemed to realize that they were making the whole thing up for his benefit, again and again.
Catherine smiled and let her eyes stray to Henry who quickly put a finger to his lips and shook his head vehemently, beseeching her to remain silent.
“I have no idea, Aunt Celia. I cannot think the last time I saw Henry. Perhaps it was this morning,” Catherine said loudly and smiled when she heard Celia chuckle, low and quiet.
“Well, perhaps I will sit here with you for a while until he appears,” Celia said and settled herself down on the bench at Catherine’s side.
Catherine could immediately see that Celia held an unopened letter in her hand, although it was face down, and she could not see to whom it was addressed.
“What a beautiful day it is today, Celia. It reminds me that summer will not be here forever.” Catherine sighed. “As warm as it is, there is a quality about the light in late summer; it is very different from early summer. A little more yellowy, I think.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” Celia said thoughtfully. “And it is a reminder, I think. A bittersweet one.”
“We must make the most of it then.” Catherine risked a glance in Henry’s direction and could see that he was busy stripping the leaves from one of the branches, fully occupied, and having forgotten that the two women were there at all.
“You look after him so well, my dear,” Celia said, changing the subject suddenly. “He could not have had a better governess if we had employed somebody. He really is a clever boy, is he not?”
“He is, and to teach him has been a wonderful experience for me. It keeps us together all the time and in such a way that I never feel I have to explain my constant attention to him.” Catherine smiled at Celia, and her eyes strayed to the overturned letter once more.
“Everything comes as second nature now, my dear, and I can hardly remember a time when we struggled to be careful of everything we did and said. The feelings of trepidation seem so far away now.”
Celia was right; they had fallen into a very easy arrangement. In the beginning, Catherine had hoped rather than believed that Charles Topwell’s plan would work. But they had all stuck to their part, the four of them supporting one another throughout, each acting as a watchman to the others, all of them mindful not to do or say the wrong thing.
For Celia, Charles, and Agnes, of course, the whole thing had become easier much more quickly. For Catherine, however, there was always the temptation to change things a little between herself and Henry, to let him know just how closely related they were. There was always that tiny twinge, that little ache, every time her son referred to her as his aunt.
But, all in all, the plan had worked, and Catherine was more grateful than she could ever have expressed. Her life, whilst not complete over those last years, had been content enough. Henry was the most important person in her world; he was her child, and she would protect him like a lioness with her cub.
“You came home very early from the evening buffet with your friends yesterday, Catherine. Is everything alright?” Celia always approached such subjects with care and caution.
“Yes, I am fine, I promise.”
“You enjoyed yourselves?”
“Yes,” Catherine said and felt shabby for lying. “Well, no, not really,” she said and frowned apologetically.
“What happened?”
“The same as last time, I am afraid. Constance and Stella are very kind, and I know they have my best interests at heart, but I do wish they would stop introducing me to hopeful men of a certain age.” Catherine sighed dramatically, and Celia burst out laughing.
“Oh dear, was he as bad as all that?”
“Worse, and it was not one hopeful gentleman, but two.”
“Well, as you say, your friends have your best interests at heart.”
“They certainly think they do, Aunt Celia. But I have told them time and time again that I am not interested in marrying, and I wish they would just believe me. I think that they are under the impression that I am simply objecting because I am embarrassed to find myself unmarried at seven and twenty.”
“Seven and twenty is not old, my dear. And you really are very beautiful, Catherine. It is hardly surprising that there is no shortage of gentlemen who are doubtless only too pleased to be introduced to you.”
“How kind of you, Aunt Celia. But I truly do not want to be married. I never want to marry, not now.”
“Because of Thomas?” Celia had not mentioned Thomas for a long time, and it did something to Catherine’s heart to hear his name spoken aloud.
“Yes, because of Thomas. Always Thomas.”
“Do you still love him?”
“As much as I ever did, Celia. I know that I will love Thomas Carlton until the day I die.”
“Have you never heard anything about him since you came here?”
“How could I? My brother has never written, and I dare not write to him for fear of what my father will do. Poor Philip,” she said and felt the familiar ache of missing her brother. “And for the same reason, I could not write to Thomas either. And he has never tried to find me, has he?”
“Not that you are aware of, Catherine. That is not to say that he has not tried. You cannot know what difficulties he has experienced since you were last in Hertfordshire.”
“And I suppose I shall never know,” Catherine said miserably.
“I am not so sure that is true,” Celia said and turned the letter so that the handwriting on the front could be seen. “For this is post-marked Hertfordshire, Catherine.” Celia lowered her voice and let her eyes stray to the contented little Henry in the tree.
“Hertfordshire?” Catherine’s voice came out in a wheeze of shocked excitement.
She leaned forward and peered at the handwriting without taking the letter from her aunt at all, almost as if she dare not touch it. She could see that it was addressed to her and addressed in a hand that was so familiar that even the passage of time could not disguise it.
“My goodness, Aunt Celia, it is from Philip.”
“Are you sure?” Celia sounded impressed. “You can tell his handwriting from a few lines of address?”
“I would know it anywhere,” Catherine said and sat still as a statue, still not reaching for the letter at all.
“Catherine, are you going to open it?” Celia sounded pleasantly impatient.
In the eight years she had been at Ivy Manor, Catherine had come to know her Aunt Celia very well indeed. She could be described, at best, to be inquisitive and, at worst, to be rather nosy. But it was always done very gently and without malice and was always mildly amusing.
“Well, I suppose I ought to,” Catherine said and realized that her hands were shaking as she reached out to take the letter from Celia. “Look at me; I am trembling.”
“It is understandable. I know how you have missed your brother.”
“If I am honest, I fear the news.”
“News? What news is it that you fear?”
“I suppose I fear my brother telling me that Thomas has become married, although I suppose that is silly. Philip has not written to me at all these last years, and it would be an unlikely catalyst for his sudden communication, would it not?”
“Probably the easiest thing to do would be to open it and read it. There can be no benefit in conjecture at this stage, Catherine.”
“Quite so,” Catherine said and swallowed hard as she opened the letter.
She read it for some moments, although it was but brief. She could never have imagined a letter from Philip being so brief after so many years, but there was no doubt a reason for that. And the news, whilst it did not upset her, surprised her. It was curiously the last thing she had expected, and she felt a little stab of guilt when she realized that she was relieved to discover that it was news of her father’s passing, not news of her old love marrying.
“He is dead. My father is dead,” she said simply and looked at Celia.
“Goodness me, I am surprised to hear that. My brother was always very hale and hearty, certainly not the sort of man one would expect to die whilst relatively young.” Celia looked more interested and thoughtful than devastated. “I must admit, I do not feel a great deal about it.” She shrugged and looked at Catherine.
“If I am honest, neither do I. Not for the man himself, I mean,” Catherine said thoughtfully. “But there are a whole host of other emotions that will need to be picked through sooner or later, emotions entirely unconnected with my father and his passing.”
“I understand, really I do.”
“Well, I will have to get to the bottom of my own heart sooner or later, for Philip wishes me to attend our father’s funeral.”
“And will you go?”
“Yes,” Catherine said and nodded firmly. “But not for my father’s sake; for Philip.”
Just days later, as the last of the post carriages she had taken led her ever closer to Barford Hall, Catherine knew that it was not just for Philip’s sake that she was making that journey. She needed to know, once and for all, what had become of her first and only love.