Chapter 17
Thomas arrived in the churchyard more than an hour before the funeral service was due to start. Lady Morton had given him the specifics, despite urging him to exercise caution, possibly not even go at all.
She was right, of course. Whilst Thomas was not an enemy of the Ambrose family, at least not in his own estimation, the man who was being buried would have certainly seen it that way. And, as much as he despised the old Earl of Barford, it was his funeral.
He would be no more expected to turn up at it than he would have expected Philip Ambrose to attend the funeral of the Duke of Shawcross. Not that Thomas’ father showed any signs of weakening that he had seen.
He stared out across the graveyard from his vantage point in the trees and wondered if he would be seen. Thomas knew he would have a good view of the service itself, for he could clearly see the mound of earth, rich and brown, piled high next to the freshly dug hole.
It made him shudder to think of such preparation, even though he knew there could be no other way to do things. But he could not escape the curious feeling as he looked at the mound of earth and the hole in the ground. It would soon contain the remains of a man; a man he had hated, yes, but a human being who had lived and breathed but days before.
It reminded him of Pierce and the day they had lain his own brother to rest in that very graveyard some seven years before. He remembered well how he had seen the mound of earth as he had approached the family plot at his father’s side. He had been too bound in grief to even feel anger at his father’s self-contained, proud, and pompous display. The anger had come later.
Thomas blew out a great sigh. The day was warm enough, but there was a chill whenever the breeze drifted through the trees and found him in his hiding place. He was wearing black garb so as not to appear disrespectful if he happened to be discovered. Still, despite the thickness of his black tailcoat, he was beginning to wish he had worn a great coat over the top.
Standing on the edge of the graveyard out of sight was going to be a fairly sedentary business, and Thomas would soon feel cold. Especially when the service began, and he dare not move at all for fear of drawing attention to himself.
Of course, in the end, Catherine might not be there at all. If he did not see her, would he really wait to see the man who had ruined his life lowered into the ground? He thought not.
Thomas could find no warm feelings for the old Earl of Barford, but he had long since relinquished all ideas of revenge and bitterly nursed grudges. It was enough for him that he did not like the man, he did not need to make that feeling more active. After all, he had seen just what such feeling could become and exactly where it could end if it went unchecked.
Thomas had never truly forgiven himself for his brother’s death. He knew, of course, that none of it would have happened if Pierce had not betrayed him in the first place, but he knew very well that there had been an opportunity to prevent the tragedy which ensued.
Had he forgiven Pierce, there would have been no need for his brother to chase him so recklessly and at such a speed as he made his way to Stromlyn Lake.
Still, Thomas had other things on his mind as he stood in the cover of the trees and thick shrubbery and revisiting old ground would not help to bring Pierce back; it was done.
Thomas embraced himself a little as another cool breeze swept through the trees and made the leaves rustle and the larger branches sway rhythmically. Would she come?
Whilst he had known immediately of the Earl’s passing, and soon after of the date for the funeral, Thomas had heard nothing at all about the attendance or otherwise of Catherine Ambrose. If she was still Catherine Ambrose, that was.
Lady Morton had no information on Catherine whatsoever and never had in all the time she had been away. She had been as much in the dark as anyone else in the county. The truth was that people rarely spoke of Catherine Ambrose, most of them fearing the wrath of the Earl of Barford.
Over a surprisingly short amount of time, Catherine appeared to have been forgotten, although he was sure their plight was still a good source of occasional private teatime gossip.
Lady Morton had been a great friend to Thomas from the day she had created a little story to explain his absence from the room when he had wanted to speak to Catherine secretly. He smiled sadly to himself as he thought of how much had changed since that day, and just how many years had passed with only himself and Lady Morton to remember it all.
Of course, Catherine would remember every part of it if she had a mind to. Thomas knew that so much might have changed for her since she had been away to whatever part of Derbyshire had been her home for eight years.
She was a beautiful woman with such intelligence and a magnetic personality; surely, she would be married by now. For all Thomas knew, she might not even live in Derbyshire anymore. She could be anywhere.
His only hope of setting eyes on her again was on that very day, the day of her father’s funeral, he was sure of it. That idea filled him with the most terrible dread that she would not come at all, and all hopes of ever looking upon her beautiful face, if only from afar, would be dashed forever.
Married or not, Catherine would certainly not be obliged to attend her father’s funeral. The man had disowned her entirely, so even a small consideration in his will was unlikely.
But there was Philip. Surely, she would come to the church at least to support the brother she had so loved. Still, even that relationship might have changed, and Philip might still not know exactly where it was his sister had been sent. In those circumstances, he would surely not have been able to track his sister down at all.
Just as Thomas had convinced himself that he was chasing his own tail, there was some movement across the graveyard. He peered out to see that carriages were drawing up outside the church and mourners were beginning to gather.
There suddenly seemed to be an awful lot of people making their way through the graveyard to the Ambrose family plot. There were certainly more mourners than a man of such foul manners and character would deserve, that was for certain. Still, like the funerals of many a titled man, most in attendance were there out of a mixture of societal duty and curiosity. Maybe that would one day be his own fate, for he would undoubtedly be buried a Duke, barring any further tragedies in the Carlton family.
Would his own graveside one day be lined with the curious? The dutiful?
At that moment, he saw her. She was wearing black but had chosen not to wear a severe black veil to cover her face, and for that he was grateful.
Thomas leaned forward, leaves brushing the sleeve of his coat as he tried to get closer as if a few inches would make his view of Catherine so much clearer.
As far as Thomas could see, Catherine was as youthful and beautiful as she had been on that last, wonderful, terrible night; the night that had haunted him every day since he had scuttled away through the semi-darkness from the Barford estate before anyone else could see him.
Her brown hair looked smooth, and it shone in the sunshine. He could just make out the almond shape of her eyes; the eyes he would never forget as long as he lived.
Thomas fought an urge to stride out across the graveyard to be at her side. How many times he had thought of their reunion, an affair imagined in his head to be so romantic and full of joy. It had never occurred to him that the next time he saw her would be at a funeral to which he would not be welcome.
Thomas felt his heart lurch as she saw her link her arm through that of a tall, slender man. The very thing he dreaded was to see her at the graveside on the arm of her husband. But he quickly realized that the man was none other than Philip Ambrose, the new Earl of Barford.
He was right, Catherine had come to support her brother on that day. It was doubtful, even though he had not spoken to her for so long, that she would truly be there to mourn her father.
Almost feverishly, Thomas scoured the mourners looking for someone he did not recognize. It was a lengthy task, but he was most intent. There were no men around her at the side of the grave whom Thomas did not recognize and, after several minutes of squinting into the crowd, he was sure he knew the rest of them by sight if not by name.
Of course, that did not mean that Catherine was not married. She might well have a husband who could not or would not attend. Still, he hoped that idea was as unlikely as it seemed.
Thomas could not make out the Reverend’s words exactly, catching just snippets of phrases in the common liturgical tones of most holy men. He could not take his eyes off Catherine, wishing he could see her more clearly. He could see her beautiful face, but not well enough to make out her expression. He had no way to read her feelings at that moment.
He wanted to read her, to know what was going on inside her head and heart. It was all he had to support her with, even if his support would, by necessity, be unknown and anonymous.
As he stood in the cover of the trees, Thomas wondered what they would say to each other if they had that moment to themselves. Would he tell her how relieved he was to see no husband at her side? Would she smile and reach for him, evaporating the last eight years as if the two of them had never been apart?
He imagined her touch and found that it was not difficult to do. Thomas had paid no heed to any other woman since Catherine had left, despite the fact he was engaged to be married to Lady Eleanor Barchester, daughter of the Earl of Winsford.
He had only agreed to the engagement after years of grinding down by his father. Within days of Pierce being buried, the Duke had fully turned his attention upon Thomas, keen to groom him for his role as the heir to the Duchy. For the Duke of Shawcross, there had been no period of mourning his first-born son. He had barely missed a step from one day to the next, barking instructions at Thomas as if he had always been the heir and not the spare.
With Pierce gone, and the tremendous weight of guilt on his shoulders, Thomas had found every day torturous. And the idea that he would never find Catherine after his failed attempt in Derbyshire had stripped him of all hopes of a happy or even vaguely contented life.
He had quietly railed against his father, never truly arguing with him, but making no attempt to search for the bride his father had been insisting upon for so many years.
Thomas was perpetually reminded of his duty to marry a woman of good blood and to sire an heir for the next generation. It was almost pathological, his father’s desperation to project his seed and family name into a distant future he himself would never see.
For himself, Thomas could not have cared less. Whilst he had taken on the duties of the heir, he had only done so in some sort of morbid respect to his brother. In no time at all, Thomas realized the weight of constant pressure and lack of self that his brother must have felt for all those years, and it made him feel guiltier than ever.
Although Thomas had always been blessed with more than his fair share of intelligence, he wondered at how easily he had ignored everything Pierce had had to endure over the years. What a strain it must have been for him to suffer his father’s constant attention and boorish instructions on every move he made.
It was simpler for Thomas in many respects because he cared little for his father’s opinion of him, unlike poor Pierce to whom it had always been so important. Or important up until the moment he had betrayed his brother and realized his father’s good opinion could never, ever be won.
But still, it had been far from easy. Thomas was making ready for a role he did not want and a title he cared nothing for. But the fact was that there was nothing else for him to do but succumb to it all. There was nowhere else for him to go, and if he wanted a living at all, he would just have to grit his teeth and bear it.
And gritting his teeth had been exactly what he had been doing ever since he had finally given in to his father and agreed to court Lady Eleanor Barchester. He had little interest in her and had easily seen her for exactly what she was; a title hunter. A young lady who would be a Duchess if she had anything to say about it.
She was confident without being particularly intelligent or talented, and only beautiful if overdone costumes and characterless features were your want in life. To Thomas, she was a symbol of his lack of autonomy in the world.
And now, perhaps, she had become something else. As Thomas’ mind raced with possibilities, wild notions of real meetings with the woman he still loved more than life itself, perhaps Lady Eleanor Barchester would be an obstacle to his happiness; an inconvenience of the highest order.
The change in the Reverend’s tone caught Thomas’ attention and drew him back into the present moment. The service was drawing to its conclusion, and the mourners were moving just a little.
Philip Ambrose threw a handful of dirt onto the coffin, as was traditional. Catherine, however, had clearly chosen not to participate in any way and stood stoically with her hands at her side.
“Good for you, my love,” Thomas said under his breath and smiled.
She was still strong; she was still his Catherine.
Thomas had moved just a little in a bid to get just one inch closer to her. The movement, however, caught the eye of one of the mourners; Catherine.
She looked up sharply, seeming so strange as the rest of the congregation stared down into the grave. She was the one difference, the only person who stood out. She had broken the coherence of the group, but he was the only one who could see it.
Thomas dared not move a muscle, but she continued to stare over, her gaze unbroken.
At that moment, Thomas knew that she had seen him. Even if it had been for just the briefest moment, he was certain that she knew it was him.