Chapter Fourteen
Catherine was very glad she had the winter ball to prepare for and look forward to, because life was not terribly lively in Somerset. She settled into a routine quickly, helping her father with his year-round efforts in the succession houses in the morning, doing the flowers, calling on neighbors, and writing letters and invitations in the afternoon.
Very glad to be home, Catherine felt safe and secure. She preferred Westbury Castle to their house in Town because she had her own wing. Since her mother had died when she was four, she had grown up with a series of nurses and governesses. Her wing of the house was a soft yellow throughout and contained not only her bedroom, dressing room, and private sitting room, but also her own small library with books she had inherited from her mother. It always gave her a great feeling of satisfaction to read and reread the books her mother had cherished.
In addition to these things, she preferred the castle because that was where her father lived. He seldom came to Town and almost never went into Dorset.
His succession houses were renowned throughout the kingdom. Catherine loved working there with him. He grew many varieties of citrus, which thrived in the winter months, as well as green vegetables, orchids, and forced bulbs, so they had continual floral bounty.
To her father, she had always been a companion, and that was the role with which she continued to feel comfortable.
“Katie, hand me that small trowel, if you would,” he said as they worked side by side in the experimental house. “I am going to transplant these seedlings into that box I have prepared. Don’t want to upset their roots.”
“Is this your new strain?” she asked.
“Yes. I am hoping that it will withstand drought better than any of the types of wheat we have now.”
He worked painstakingly as she stood, watching.
“So tell me about London. Any new young men about?”
“No one Robert considers ‘suitable,’ as I am certain he has told you.”
“He writes that you have been spending time with a baronet. Tell me about the man, Katie.”
“A Corinthian, you would say, but with a scholarly bent. Well turned out, athletic. I understand his judgment of horseflesh is not to be questioned.”
Her father paused and looked at her with his still-sharp green eyes. “You sound like you are putting him up for club membership. What is he really like?”
“I suspect Robert does not like him partially because of his politics. He has Whig sympathies. Robert does not approve of my working to better the lives of the poor, but Sir Bertie has actually been escorting me to the East End for my charity work. He has also taken me to the British Museum to see the Egyptian antiquities. He is very knowledgeable about them. Have you ever seen the Rosetta Stone, Father?”
“No. Something I mean to do if I am ever in London. You have not mentioned your work in the East End in your letters.”
“I have just begun.” She told him about Lady Clarice and Miss B.’s literacy program. “The Duchess of Ruisdell is going to take over the readings for me, now that I have come down here.”
“That sounds worthwhile. I have always had a soft spot for your Miss B., as you call her. In my day, she was being courted by the Duke of Devonshire. He gave her a monstrous tortoise.”
“Henry Five. Yes, we are well acquainted.”
She listened to stories of Miss B. when she was younger and had the Town at her feet. Highly amused, Catherine did not realize until much later that her father had not offered an opinion on her associating with a baronet.
Missing Sir Bertie more than she would have admitted, she called on his friend Lady Wellingham the first week after she arrived home. Somerset Vale proved to be an interesting sight—a well-maintained Tudor house set on a hill overlooking a small lake, which was iced over at present.
Lady Wellingham was pleased to see her. “Lady Catherine! How kind of you to call. I do not know many of my neighbors as yet, but I believe you live some little distance away.”
“Only seven miles. A nice morning’s ride. Your estate is quite lovely.”
“Thank you. As I told you in London, it provides endless opportunities for sketching.”
“What a wonderful talent to have,” Catherine said. “You must be very clever.”
“Not particularly clever, just persistent. I sketch only for my own amusement. I am hopeless with a needle, I am finding. I am trying to monogram my linens, but they look like I have been dueling with them instead!”
Catherine laughed. “I wanted to see you again, but I also came to invite you to the ball my father and I are giving two weeks from Saturday next. It won’t be terribly large, probably only about fifty people or so, but it will give you a chance to meet some more of your neighbors.”
Lady Wellingham smiled, and her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I love a ball! And I shall look forward to seeing Westbury Castle. The few neighbors I do know say that it is quite the finest home in all of the West Country.”
Catherine demurred. “Not quite as fabulous as some others, but I do love it. And I shall look forward to introducing you to my father.”
“Will Sir Bertie be coming down from Oxfordshire?” her hostess asked.
The question gave Catherine pause. She had never thought of inviting him, seeing as there was several days’ distance separating them. Catherine said as much to Lady Wellingham.
“Yes, it is a shame he lives so far away. Between us, I believe him to be quite fond of you. I do not mean to embarrass you, but in the time we have been acquainted, I have never known him to care two straws for another female.”
Her words were so welcome, Catherine maintained a neutral countenance with difficulty. “Is he so haughty?”
“Not at all. It took me a while to realize it, but he has a natural diffidence around anyone he has not known for hundreds of years. My husband, Beau, and Viscount Strangeways are his only close friends. I do not know why he is that way. He just is.”
“Hmm. A little mystery there.” Catherine laughed. “Nothing more intriguing than a mysterious man.”
* * *
Catherine had received a letter from Sir Bertie in answer to her own. When she returned from the Wellinghams’, she took it out to read again with the intention of answering it.
Heyford Abbey
Lower Heyford, Oxfordshire
My dear Lady Catherine,
What a pleasure to find your letter waiting upon my return from London. I hope this note finds you well.
I was happy to be reunited with my little family. I have a niece and nephew who are twins, and my widowed sister lives here with them. Since I have been home, they have kept me very busy. We have been engaged in refurbishing the old gardener’s shed as a fort for the twins. My niece is very particular, and she keeps her brother and I bent to the task, despite the cold. We have also built a snowman, written a play (starring Gweet, my niece, of course), and pulled taffy. I am worn down to a shade of the man you knew. It is well-known among my friends that I come to London to recover from the rigors of my life in Oxfordshire!
I pray that you are safe in Somerset and that the smugglers are happy just to have you out of London.
I hope your winter ball goes well.
Yours very truly,
Sir B.
Catherine was charmed by the letter. How unexpected that the Sir Bertie she thought she knew should be so enamored of children. He opened up a pleasant picture in her mind. She had thought him rocklike. That supposition had not kept her from being attracted to him, but this new vision entranced her in a wholly different way. There was a warmth to him that she had never experienced in any man except her father. It was altogether more mysterious in light of Lady Wellingham’s observations about his reserve. What a complex man!
She was engaged in a return letter when the footman announced that she had a caller in the silver sitting room.
William here? Now?
She pinched the bridge of her nose hard. He came to see her alone? What could he possibly have to say? Had he come all the way from London?
She automatically checked her appearance in the hall mirror, but then went on. What did it matter how she looked? It was only William. Catherine entered the silver sitting room. She found her former fiancé leaning casually against the mantel just as though he belonged in Westbury Castle. The sight angered her.
“Lord William? What are you doing in Somerset?”
He straightened and walked across to her, taking both her hands in his. “I have come to see you, Catherine. I have news.”
She managed to disengage herself. “News?” She could not imagine what he meant. She was satisfied that she had shown much progress on becoming immune to his charms.
“Your Gentleman Smuggler?”
She bit her lip. “Oh yes.”
“I heard from the Excise in Dorset. None of the smugglers who are under arrest can give a name to the accomplice who sells their liquor and pays them. They do know he’s a gentleman, though they think he disguises his speech and clothing. He goes by the name of Smith, which is not helpful. The best lead we have is the brandy itself. Sir Herbert Backman says it is Saint Barnabas, which is a rare but coveted brand.”
“I’m afraid I am no help. Whatever the smuggler may think, I have never seen him to my knowledge,” she said.
“I came to put you on your guard. If he is disguised in Dorset, you may have seen him and not known him there, but it’s very likely that you would know him by sight from ton parties. Your assailant in London may be being paid by him to intimidate you.”
Catherine put some distance between her and William by taking a seat in a wingback chair. “So it comes down to catching him selling the brandy, then.”
“The Excise impounded that last lot, and the men who did the actual smuggling are in jail because they don’t have any money to pay the fine. The Gentleman may need to start all over and set up a new operation, but obviously he thinks you are a liability. I am glad you are here at the Castle and not in London.”
William was regarding her with a look she recognized. His eyes were warm with admiration. It was as though they were still engaged.
Once again, it called up her anger. How could he play with her emotions this way? “You need not have come all this way,” she said. “A letter would have been sufficient.”
He sat in the chair opposite and leaned toward her, his elbows on his knees.
“I wanted to see you,” he said simply, looking like the golden hero in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothics.
How dare he act as though everything were unchanged between them! “And Sybil? How is she?”
“Sybil is quite well. She is down here, too. We are visiting her parents.”
She did not know what to say. There was nothing in the etiquette books about this situation.
Growing annoyed, she said, “Why have you really come, Lord William? This was quite an unnecessary visit, and to be blunt, you are not welcome here.”
He stood and wandered to the mantel again, placing his arm across it and fixing her with his eyes. “I miss you,” he said, his voice husky.
She could only stare, her anger increasing.
Catherine stood and said, “I must ask you to leave at once. You have no further business here. I do not care to hear a recital of your feelings. Good day. I believe you know your way out.”
Holding up her skirts, she left the room and returned to her private sitting room.
What was happening? Was he truly planning to leave poor Sybil?
She sat on the daybed and stared out the window. It was a blustery, chilly day. Spent leaves blew through the garden with its thorny, bare rose branches. Snowflakes began to swirl between her window and the landscape. She was very glad to be inside.
When she found that William had strayed from her emotionally, she had thought his feelings for Sybil must be a once-in-a-lifetime passion that neither of them could deny. But it seemed that was not true.
Her heart went out to her friend.
Both her pride and her inclination dictated that accepting him back into her life was impossible. How could she ever trust her love to a man who tried on women like he tried on coats?
Pacing her bedroom, she thought of Sir Bertie. She sensed that he was different. She had been rather bold with him. It was unlike her, but his company was both comforting and delightful. Going back to her desk, she wrote to him.
Westbury Castle
Somerset
Dear Sir Bertie:
Lord William Cumberwell came today to tell me essentially that they are no further in finding out who has been selling Saint Barnabas brandy in London. The men they caught evidently told him that the Gentleman Smuggler disguises himself and his speech. Lord C. thinks I would recognize him among the ton if I should see him and that is the reason he wants to rid the world of me. It is his opinion that my assailant is in his employ.
Allow me to change the subject. What were you thinking that day when you met me on the beach? The look in your eyes told me that you were startled. Were you expecting someone else?
Do write me another letter about the adventures of your niece and nephew. I enjoyed hearing about them very much.
It is too bad you are so far off. I should love for you to come to our ball.
Sincerely,
Lady C.