Chapter Nine

Many of the top families, certainly all of the dukes still in London, attended one of the larger balls of the holidays together. Salsbury sat near Catherine, the sweet torture twisting her insides, happy fluttering competing with balls of dread. At one point in her life she would never have recognized the new duke of Salsbury but by family resemblance, and now that he was vital to her happiness but out of reach, he was everywhere.

She learned he had spent much of his time before his father’s death at school at Cambridge, and her parents had gone to great lengths to avoid his family when he was in town. Consequently, she hadn’t met him. They were polite enough now, but neither said more than was required. How could she approach him, knowing what her family had done to his, knowing how their fathers had behaved? The very knowledge of Aster behavior shamed her. She wouldn’t know how to bring it up or discuss it even if she thought it would help. She was embarrassed of her reaction to Salsbury’s earlier conversation, embarrassed she could not just apologize on behalf of her family. Did it matter what the Salsburys had done? What mattered to her was what her own father had done.

Her uncle and her mother both attended the party. Her brother was expected to arrive. It seemed a family reunion of sorts—all family members were in attendance as well as all the families of the dukes and earls who were in London during Christmastide. Surprisingly, many lingered in town this year. The yule log burned in the fireplace. They had played charades, sipped punch, and enjoyed readings of Shakespeare. Until that evening, she had nearly forgotten the holiday was upon them.

Everyone was talking about the upcoming Twelfth Night and Epiphany that a great friend of the prince regent, one Lord Timton Smithson, would host. All the dukes and their families and the royal dukes and their families were invited. A Duke’s Christmas, he was calling it. They were to come to Carlton House and celebrate with His Highness.

Dinner seemed desolate but quiet. Catherine avoided conversation even with Lord Channing, who sat at her side. Salsbury seemed to be doing the same with Lady Fenningway also seated at his side. Then a ruffling disturbance fluttered at one end of the room. Conversation stopped in a wave as it approached her. She craned her neck to see what was causing such a shift in attention. Then her heart went into her throat. She stood quickly, her chair tipping over behind her. Penelope wandered into the room, Catherine’s uncle not far behind. She played with the feathers on the ladies’ turbans as she passed. Whispers sounded in a great rush of rain as soon as she passed.

“Friend!” Penelope shouted when she saw Catherine. She ran to her. “Uncle said you would be here.”

Salsbury rushed to Penelope, his face tightened, his eyes stony. He wrapped his arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Come, sweet. Let’s go see what Cook has in the kitchen.”

But Penelope stiffened. “No! I want to see my friend.”

Catherine hurried to her side. “I’m here. Hello, Penelope. Let’s find Cook like Salsbury said.”

“Salsbury? Who’s Salsbury?” She giggled.

“Stephen.” She corrected and savored the name on her lips. They started to move away, Salsbury’s calm and patient exterior belying the fast rhythm beating on his neck.

Uncle’s sneering voice called from behind them. “Behold the Salsbury sister.”

A few ladies sucked in their breath.

“Oh yes, he keeps her hidden away. Embarrassed, are you, Salsbury?”

Stephen stiffened beside her, but to his credit he kept a steady stream of conversation with Penelope.

Catherine whispered to Stephen, “I’m so sorry.” She showed his sister a bracelet. “Look, Penelope. So pretty.”

When Catherine caught his eye, Salsbury glared, furious. She shrunk, swallowing, and would have stepped away into the nearest hallway were it not for Penelope clinging to her arm.

They made their way out into the hall, and a carriage was called. Forward-thinking servants had it ready much more quickly than she thought possible. Catherine waited awkwardly, talking with Penelope until they moved to leave. “Can I help you into the carriage, my friend?” She grabbed hold of Penelope’s arm.

Salsbury barred her way, wrapping his arm across his sister’s shoulder. “You’ve done enough already. Leave. Us. Alone.” They entered with only a half-hearted calling out for “friend,” from Penelope to wrench in Catherine’s heart. And then the carriage departed.

Catherine could not face the guests for the rest of dinner. She called for her carriage as well, not caring what her uncle managed for his ride home. She didn’t know if she could face anyone ever again.

Any sliver of hope she harbored that perhaps she and the duke could overcome the difficulties between them shriveled up with his glare. He hated her. And, as guilt tore at her, she realized he had good reason. She had behaved as every other Aster had to his family by carelessly sharing the name and existence of a sister, setting Penelope up for mockery and disdain to the very man who would deliver such cruelty. Salsbury was rightfully furious.

* * *

The more she thought on the evening, the more agitated she became. Pacing in her room, Catherine could scream at the audacity of her uncle. She would pen a letter to her brother straightaway, right after she sent off this one to Stephen. Was Gregory not the duke? Could they not cast Lord Aster from their immediate lives, ask him to go stay at another Aster holding?

Her uncle’s words about their financial state concerned her. Could they be out of money? Had her father and his before him lost everything? She couldn’t believe it. And she suspected her uncle preyed on her perceived naïveté and lied to her.

She would speak to the steward right after she paid a visit to Penelope Salsbury.

She had many things to coordinate before Twelfth Night at Carlton House. But she was determined to make one thing right, if that’s all she ever did as an Aster.