Chapter Eight
Catherine dwelt a great deal on the incident in the mews. Though she still could not guess how the villain knew about Ginger, she thought perhaps he had learned of her former attachment to William from the gossip columns.
Though his voice had not been cultured, the man obviously knew how to read and write. She had decided he was not gentry because of both his dialect and his rank smell.
Eventually, she received a note from Sir Herbert informing her that the smugglers had been caught and were in jail. However, the “Gentleman Smuggler” was not among them. They did not know his identity, and Sir Herbert had been released only because they had insisted that he was taller than their customer.
Even so, her fear of her assailant caused her to stay close to home. She hardly ventured out.
It was more apparent, as days passed, what a friend she had lost in Sybil. Before their schism, they had seen each other several times a week to go shopping on Bond Street, visit Hatchards bookshop, or sample ices at Gunter’s. They had ridden together in the park of a morning and walked together in the afternoon. Sharing dreams and tastes, they had become the closest of friends. How could such a friend betray her as Sybil had?
Had Catherine talked so much about William that Sybil had fallen in love with him by proxy? Or had they been seeing each other secretly throughout William’s courtship of Catherine? How could the woman have been so underhanded? She had always been a docile, devoted friend.
Never one who enjoyed needlework, Catherine read—witty fiction, natural history, poetry, but not sermons or political treatises. Out in the early mornings on Rotten Row in Hyde Park with her brother, she galloped Ginger so that no one could stop to talk to her.
The only visitors she would see were Miss B. and Lady Clarice. The plans for the East End readings were put in place, and finally the day came for her to begin the reading of The Mysteries of Udolpho. Her escort was to call for her at two p.m.
Catherine dressed in a brown merino wool frock with an ivory pleated fichu and a matching brown pelisse. Her bonnet was warm brown velvet with a gathered lace insert that framed her face becomingly—or so her maid, Parker, said.
She heard the knocker at two p.m. precisely. Stebbins brought her escort into the downstairs sitting room.
“Good afternoon, Lady Catherine.”
She was astonished to see that it was Sir Herbert. Heart leaping in surprise, she asked, “When did you come to London?”
He removed his hat and gave a short bow of the head. “A few days ago. I am here to escort you to the East End.”
“Oh,” she said, looking into his silvery-gray eyes. A thrill passed through her. And she was supposed to be blue-deviled over William!
“I am glad you are dressed warmly. It’s cold out.”
She preceded him to the vestibule, pulling on her leather gloves. Could she have asked for a better companion? Except for the Blossom House ladies, he was the first person she had seen since returning to London who did not peer at her with either anxiety or curiosity. In fact, there was something remote about him, as though he were purposely holding himself apart from her.
“I thought you were to go straight from Dorset to Oxfordshire,” she said once they were settled in a smart curricle pulled by a particularly fine pair of blacks.
Sir Herbert appeared not to have heard her. “Your assailant was not a gentleman, you said in your letter. Can you tell me anything else about him? I should like to assure both of us that he was caught along with the other smugglers.”
She drew her breath sharply. “You think he may still be at large?”
“There has to be a very good reason why he risked his neck to attack you, both in Dorset and here in London. The only punishment for smuggling is a heavy fine. The punishment for assault or murder is hanging.”
Where had her wits been? She had not thought of this.
“And you think that a man who would risk so much would not risk being caught with the other smugglers?”
“Correct.”
Catherine tried to recall the attack that she had, until this moment, been trying to forget.
“Did you have any idea of his height?” the baronet asked.
“He was not much taller than me. It was easy for him to whisper in my ear. I got the impression that his head was not too far above mine. He was also exceedingly muscular.”
“That is a good start. Unfortunately, the description fits most of the smugglers.”
“One thing may set him apart. He was able to read and write.” She told him of the note she received. “He had to have been smart enough to research the gossip columns.”
“He must have had another source telling him of you and Cumberwell,” Sir Herbert said. “Only your first initial is used in the gossip columns.”
She bit her lip. His thoughtful expression shone through the stark lines of his face. Sir Herbert was handsome in a different way from William. His face was fascinating, and it was a challenge to make out what he was thinking. Was he interested in her as a woman or merely as a damsel in distress?
“That is all I can really tell you about him,” she said with regret.
“Very good. Perhaps you will remember more in time.” He tossed a ha’penny to the sweeping boy at the crossing.
A little addled by his closeness, she changed the subject. “Those are very fine horses.”
“Thank you.” After a moment, he said, “I tried to call on you yesterday. Your butler said you were not at home to callers.”
“I was not refusing you in particular,” she said. “I am sorry.”
He said nothing.
“I asked Stebbins to deny me to everyone.” She examined the seam of her glove. It needed mending or it would tear. “You must have heard the gossip about me. I do not intend to exhibit myself as an object of pity.”
He did not reply to this but asked instead, “What are you reading today?”
With a little laugh, she told him, “The Mysteries of Udolpho. I do not suppose you have ever read it?”
“You are wrong. I have a sister who loves Gothics. I read aloud to her in the evenings while she sews. I thought it a regular spine tingler! Should thrill the East Enders.”
“I hope it does. I want this project to succeed.”
The horses pulled them through the streets of Mayfair. Ladies bundled against the cold walked in pairs on their afternoon visits. Carriages, curricles, and phaetons passed them going the other way to Hyde Park. She wondered briefly if the sight of her in a curricle with Sir Herbert would be documented in the Morning Post gossip column.
“Very able ladies, Miss Braithwaite and Lady Clarice,” her companion said.
“They are not content to be without a project. Best of all, they do not gossip.”
“A rare virtue,” Sir Herbert agreed.
Catherine realized she had been living in her head for too long. She was so out of touch with other people that it was an effort to make conversation. And Sir Herbert was not like most of the gentlemen of her acquaintance, who principally talked about themselves.
"Tell me about the friends you were with in Dorset. I know Viscount Wellingham slightly, but I had never met his wife until the other evening.”
“I’ve been friends with him since Oxford. Capital fellow. He works at the Foreign Office. He recently married Lady Wellingham, who’s from Northamptonshire.
“The way he dresses, he looks like a dandy,” she said. “But he does not act like one.”
“It is an affectation. Beau likes people to underestimate him.”
“Whatever for?”
“He can run into some rough characters in his work for the Foreign Office. I’ve been friends with Strangeways since Eton. First-rate athlete. His estate’s down in Kent. His wife’s from Virginia in the American South.”
They were drawing into the East End, as anyone could tell by the smell of dung, rotting rubbish, and stewing cabbage. Ill-dressed children darted out into the street without looking, unaccustomed to anything but foot traffic. Stooping women carried shawl-wrapped burdens of sticks on their backs. Soldiers too wounded to serve in the army wore tattered uniforms and begged in the street.
The women and children hurt Catherine’s conscience, but she knew that the soldiers at least were being fed one meal a day at the Duchess of Ruisdell’s soup kitchen for the wounded. While she understood Lady Clarice and Miss B.’s philosophy that the poor would elevate themselves once they became literate, she still wished she could feed, house, and clothe them. It made her heart ache to see the conditions in which they lived. Her own suffering of late seemed like self-indulgence.
Conversation ceased as they drove through the neighborhoods in search of Saint Francis’s. They found the church at the end of an alley—a Gothic structure with a small rose window, blackened from coal smoke.
Sir Herbert flipped sixpence to an urchin with instructions to mind his horses, promising sixpence to follow when he returned. He then escorted Catherine into the ancient structure. It was darker than she expected, but there was already a small crowd gathered.
The reading did not go precisely as planned. There was a good deal of jeering, as well as coming and going. Realizing the text was somewhat difficult for her hearers to understand, she simplified as she read, varying her vocal tones and pitch. Finally, toward the end of an hour, she had her listeners’ attention.
Annette came almost breathless to Emily’s apartment in the morning. “O ma’amselle!” said she, in broken sentences, “What news I have to tell! I have found out who the prisoner is—but he was no prisoner, neither;—he that was shut up in the chamber I told you of. I must think him a ghost forsooth!”
Catherine’s voice had grown thin and tired by the end of her appointed time, and she was forced to discontinue, with the promise that she would return at the same time in two days.
Sir Herbert escorted her back out to the curricle, which had fortunately suffered no harm, and they began their slow journey back through the busy streets. Catherine was fatigued and nearly overcome with the difficulty of a task she had thought would be appreciated.
“You must not be discouraged,” said Sir Herbert. “You started as you mean to go on. Simplifying the text was the right move.”
“I guess I am overwhelmed by the size of the task. Will these people ever want to read?”
“Lady Clarice and Miss Braithwaite have the right idea. But no one supposed it would be easy. You are taking the right road.”
Catherine was warmed by his assurances. In fact, his whole presence was comforting. He thought of her as a person, not a wronged woman.
“You are very kind,” she said. “Thank you for coming with me. You gave me courage.”
“You are not lacking in courage, my lady. You forget. I’ve seen you manage your mare. You should have gone over that cliff. You would have if most anyone else had the reins.”
She colored with the warmth of his praise. She knew it was sincere. This was not the sort of man to give idle compliments.
When they arrived at her home, he helped her down from the curricle and led her up the steps, his hand on her elbow.
“Will you stay for tea?” she surprised herself by asking.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I would like that.”
Once inside, he helped her off with her pelisse, brushing the back of her neck with his fingers. His touch was unexpectedly welcome to her, causing her senses to come alive. As she removed her bonnet, she smiled at him. It felt like the first time she had smiled in a while.
“Stebbins, could you see that we have tea brought to the Red Room?”
Stripping off her gloves, she led her guest into the sitting room off the grand hall, which was cold and drafty. A fire had been lit in the overly decorated room. She saw the gold moldings and baroque cornices through Sir Herbert’s eyes, guessing that a man as straightforward as he was found the place overly fussy. The walls were covered with paintings of war and pillaging. Catherine had always disliked it. Going to the fire, she held out her hands.
“Do you have any idea where I might purchase a tortoise?” she asked. “I should like to get one like Miss B.’s. I adore Henry Five.”
“I suspect they have to be acquired in foreign parts,” he said, smiling at her and thus changing his face entirely. It was no longer forbidding, and of all things, he had dimples! His teeth were even, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. He looked altogether charming.
“You should smile more often,” she said. “It makes you look quite friendly.”
He smiled again. “Lord Ogletree might find you a parrot, if that would do. He used to be a sea captain.”
She contemplated this. “I am not certain that a parrot from a ship occupied by seamen in His Majesty’s Navy would be a proper companion for a lady. Language, you know.”
He chuckled. “Correct. You would not like a dog or cat, I suppose?”
“I have both in abundance at our estate in Somerset. Henry Five has lived so long that he gives one perspective, you see.”
Sir Herbert pondered this. “What you want is the British Museum. Egyptian antiquities. Mummies. The Rosetta Stone.”
“Should we plan a robbery?” she asked with a laugh. “I should like a mummy in my bedroom to aid in contemplation.”
He grinned, and the tea cart was brought in. Catherine felt more relaxed and happy than she had since she had cried off her engagement. Pouring out his tea, she asked, “Milk, sugar?”
“Straight up, if you please.”
“This will warm us up,” she said. “I am cold through and shouldn’t be at all surprised if it were to snow.”
Once they had their tea, she passed him the lemon poppy seed cakes and watercress sandwiches.
At that moment, Robert joined them. Standing in the doorway, he exclaimed with evident surprise, “Sir Herbert!”
“He was kind enough to be my escort to the East End,” Lady Catherine said. “We are both frozen. It seems likely to snow.”
Robert said, “I did not know that was today. I would have played your escort.”
“You abhor the East End, and we were there for a couple of hours. I was reading aloud.” She explained her cause.
“Rubbish!” pronounced Robert. “The poor do not want to learn to read. You are wasting your time.”
“I do not believe you,” Catherine said, riled. She refrained from lecturing her brother in front of Sir Herbert.
“Anyway, I thought you had more sense than to go out when this smuggler is on the loose.”
She was growing irritated. It was obvious that her brother did not intend to acknowledge Sir Herbert’s presence further.
“No one in the East End knows or cares about ton gossip,” she said. “And Sir Herbert does not care about it, either. It has been good for me to do something.”
Her guest had drunk his tea and placed the cup and saucer on the tea table. Clearly, he was uncomfortable with this domestic quarrel and was readying himself to go. Catherine found she did not want him to leave, but Robert was still ignoring his presence.
“I’ll be on my way, Lady Catherine,” Sir Herbert said. He withdrew a calling card. “Let me know if I can be of any assistance.” He laid his card on the mantel.
“I shall see you out,” she said, throwing a pointed look at her brother.
When they had reached the hall, she said to Sir Herbert, “I apologize for my brother’s bad manners. He can be a boorish snob. I was very grateful to you for your escort today. When are you taking me to view the mummies?”
He laughed. “Tomorrow? But you will find they are too cumbersome to carry away in your reticule.”
“I can but dream,” she said.
* * *
When she returned to the sitting room, she poured her brother a cup of tea. “Why were you so rude to Sir Herbert?”
“Don’t like the fellow hanging about,” he said in his grouchiest tone. “The man’s got a tendre for you. It doesn’t do for you to encourage him.”
“You are mistaken, Robert. He was sent by Lady Clarice to escort me today.”
“If you weren’t so distracted by your emotions over that confounded rascal Cumberwell, you would have noticed the way the cursed baronet looks at you.”
Her heart gave a little skip. “It is your imagination, Robert. The man’s face is completely impassive.”
“Well, it won’t do to give the fellow the wrong idea.”
“I’m sure your lack of welcome was very evident to him. Heaven knows why I am fond of you. You are a rude man, you know. And a snob.”
“You are a marquess’s daughter. It won’t do to forget that.”
“He only escorted me to the East End today! He didn’t ask for my hand!” Catherine flung out of the room, irritated.
* * *
In the sitting room off her bedroom, she paced and looked through the calling cards she had picked up off the hall table. From the number of them, she could tell that curiosity about her situation was still rampant. But most disturbing was the fact that William had called. Catherine’s heart pounded so hard she became further irritated.
What does he want?