Elizabeth Mansfield (3 page)

“Two gentlemen, Mama, neither of whom was obliged to look on me in a motherly way."

"And what fault did they find, I'd like to know!" the mother declared in offense.

Kate lifted her legs up on the hearth and wrapped her arms about them. "One said I was arrogant—"

"Did he, indeed! Who was the bounder?"

"Lord Ainsworth."

"Hmmmph!" Her ladyship's brows rose in offense. "What cheek! He's a fine one to talk about character! I understand from the on-dits in town that the fellow is a rake."

"A rake? Really?" Kate was surprised. "He didn't seem—"

"Why not?" Lady Isabel asked curiously. "Wasn't he handsome and dashing?''

Kate shut her eyes, trying to picture him again. "Somewhat handsome I suppose," she said, remembering her first reaction to him, "but not particularly dashing. He's losing his hair."

"Nevertheless, young ladies evidently fall at his feet. They say that Beatrice Hibbert threw over an earl in hope of Ainsworth, and all for naught. And I've heard that Miss Landers, Lady Elinor's second daughter, went into a decline when he didn't come up to scratch."

Kate shook her head. "But that's beside the point, Mama. Whatever his character, he certainly maligned mine. And, not three hours later, Percy did, too!"

"Percy? Percy Greenway, who's adored you since infancy? He called you arrogant?"

"Worse than that. He said that I was impossible to like!"

Her ladyship gaped. "He didn't!"
 

"He most certainly did. And with the utmost sincerity."

Lady Isabel stared at her daughter for a moment, and then, with brow wrinkled, resumed her sewing. "I suppose you said something cutting to the poor boy," she suggested.

"Nothing I haven't said a dozen times before."

"Hmm." Lady Isabel continued to stitch.

Kate cocked her head at her mother curiously. "What are you thinking, Mama? That there
is
something wrong with me?"

"From some points of view, I suppose that perhaps ..." She paused and lowered her eyes.

"Well? Go on," Kate prodded.

Lady Isabel, her brow wrinkled, stuck her needle into the fabric and put the work aside. "Men do not take kindly to ... to ..." Here she hesitated again.

"Go on, Mama," Kate urged. "I need to hear some truths."

“To... strong women," the mother admitted reluctantly.

Kate's eyebrows lifted. "Strong?"
 

"You are strong, you know."
 

"I
don't
know. What does that mean?" She watched her mother's face intently. "Stubborn?"
 

"Well, yes, I suppose so."

"Arrogant, too?"

"I suppose some might find you so."

"Evidently some do," Kate muttered ruefully.

There was a moment of silence. Lady Isabel peered at her daughter, the affection in her eyes darkened with concern. "I don't believe being strong is so dreadful a fault," she said gently,

" 'Tis dreadful enough!"

The mother had no response. Kate stared into the fire thoughtfully while her mother picked up her embroidery frame and resumed her stitching. Kate, hearing the tiny pluck of the needle piercing the fabric, looked round in annoyance. "Really, Mama, I don't see why you must keep on sewing while I am trying to speak seriously to you."

"I'm sorry if it disturbs you, my love. But sewing is necessary to
my
character."

"Truly?" Kate asked curiously. "In what way?"

"Concentrating on my stitchery is my way of calming myself. If I didn't have my embroidery, I might not be able to maintain the serene manner I deem appropriate to a widow of my years and position."

"Serenity?" Kate's voice was scornful. "Is
that
what you find necessary to your character?"

"Yes, I do. Serenity, I believe, becomes me."

Her daughter opened her mouth to retort.
Serenity is a pale virtue,
she wanted to say. But on second thought she held her tongue. Perhaps it was not so pale. There was much to be said for being serene. A serene person was not arrogant, not disturbed, not disquieted, as she herself was at this moment. Her mother probably had the right of it.

Kate uncurled herself, got up, bent over her mother, and kissed her on her forehead. "Yes, Mama, serenity does become you," she said and headed for the door.

"Where are you off to?" Lady Isabel inquired serenely.

"To get a mirror. And then to the drawing room, to take a good look at the girl in the portrait. I want to compare us."

"To compare yourself to the girl in the Persian shawl?" Lady Isabel's eyebrows rose. "Whatever for?"

"To determine if my face has the same arrogance I see in hers."

FOUR

Kate dreamed about him again. It was the third time that week. Three times she'd awakened with a slight feeling of depression, cobwebs of the same annoying dream clinging to the edges of her brain—hazy recollections of Harry Gerard, Lord Ainsworth, standing in the drawing room doorway mocking her. How
long,
she wondered as she crawled out of bed and scrambled for her robe,
will this irritating dream recur?

The weeks that followed Lord Ainsworth's visit had been unpleasant ones for Kate. For one thing, the weather had turned cold, making the October air feel like January and spoiling her pleasure in her daily walks. For another, she often found herself in the drawing room, studying a painting that irked her to look at. She didn't understand why she was drawn to peer at it when, in all her years before, she'd not even bothered to notice it. Perhaps her sudden fascination with it had come from the disquieting awareness that the arrogance in the painted face somehow reflected something unpleasant in her own.
Is that arrogance,
she found herself wondering,
the reason Percy finds me impossible to like?

But the most unpleasant part of the past several weeks was the recurrence of the memory of her interview with Lord Ainsworth. The stupid
contretemps
seemed to have lodged itself firmly and permanently into her inner being. If she'd been in a proper frame of mind, she'd have forgotten the incident long since. Lately, however, something seemed to be wrong with her. She had only to shut her eyes and there he'd be, Harry Gerard, Lord Ainsworth, standing before her, his mouth curled in a slight, sardonic smile, and his light eyes laughing at her. What was he doing, lingering about in her memory that way?

She thrust her feet into a pair of fleecy slippers, padded over to the window, and drew aside the draperies. A quick glance at the still, snowy landscape gave her no cheer. Even the air seemed winter-gray despite the wan efforts of the sun to make itself seen through thin clouds. She shivered and drew her robe closer about her. It would be another bone-chilling day.

The sound made by the drawing aside of the draperies must have alerted her abigail, for the door opened and Megan stuck her head in. "Ah, y're awake," the maid said cheerfully. "Good mornin't' ye."

"Mmmmph," Kate responded glumly. Megan's perky Irish-red curls and lively spirits affected Kate in the same way that a sudden bright light affects eyes long accustomed to the dark—she winced at the sight of the girl. "Go away!"

In response, Megan merely smiled more broadly and stepped into the room. "Sounds like ye need a bit o' cheerin'. I'll bring the purple muslin wi' the big sleeves fer ye to wear. That'll brighten yer mood."

"No it won't. Do go away, Megan. I don't want to dress just yet. Has Mama gone down?"

" 'Bout 'alf an hour ago." She eyed her mistress's robe in disapproval. "Ye don' want t' go down like that, do ye, Miss Kate? Ye won't be warm enough."

"Good God, girl, stop being motherly. I'll be fine. And when I decide to dress, I'll do it myself, so you needn't bother hanging about waiting for me."

"Oh, aye," the maid sneered. "As if ye cin do up those buttons by yersel'. I'll be back." And before Kate could retort, she scooted out of the room.

Kate glared at the door for a moment. Then, after making quick work of her ablutions, she wrapped herself in a warmer robe and took herself down to breakfast.

Her mother, fully dressed and aproned for her needlework, sat at the table reading the day's mail. She, too, did not look pleased. "I've a letter from your uncle Charles," she said, frowning.

Kate was surprised. A letter from Uncle Charles usually filled her mother with delight. Lady Isabel had the greatest affection for her brother-in-law, Charles Quigley, now Lord Rendell, They had always been good friends, and Uncle Charles could always be counted on for aid when trouble came upon them.

When Viscount Rendell died, Claydon Castle in Norfolk, Rendall Hall in Suffolk, and all the other Rendell properties went to Charles, but he insisted that his brother's widow and her daughter continue in possession of Rendell Hall. He'd made it quite clear that he and Aunt Madge were content enough with Claydon and that Rendell Hall and acreage were to be used entirely for his sister's benefit. There were not many brothers-in-law half so generous.

"What's wrong?" Kate asked as she took her place and reached for the teapot.

"He writes that we must come to him next week. We're to plan to spend an entire fortnight at Claydon. It seems that your aunt Madge is preparing for all manner of festivities. What a bore."

"Why do you say it will be a bore? If Aunt Madge is planning festivities, you may be sure a ball is in order. That means a coterie from London is sure to be there. Some of your own cronies, certainly. You will have a delicious time gossiping and learning the latest on-dits from town."

"I don't gossip. And I've long since lost interest in the news from town. I'm of an age when I enjoy nothing so much as quiet days like this, safe and at peace in my own home."

"Of an age? What nonsense!" Kate eyed her mother in annoyance. At this moment a stream of pale winter sun, slanting in from the tall, east-facing windows, was haloing her mother's dark hair. She looked positively lovely, her daughter thought. Vigorous and youthful, with smooth skin and full cheeks, she seemed at least a decade younger than her not-quite-fifty years. Why, Kate asked herself, was her mother so reluctant to do something with her life? It was time Kate herself took some action. Her mother was too young to wither away into loneliness. What the woman needed was a companion, preferably a man.

The more she thought about it, the more sure Kate became that it was time for action. There were many widows not half so attractive as her mother who'd found a second love in their lives. And surely there were many elderly gentlemen who would suit. Kate would find a second husband for her mother or die trying. And the house-party at Claydon was the perfect place to start. "Really, Mama, I won't endure having you speak that way," she said. "You're much too young to consider retiring into an armchair for the rest of your life. I don't see why you insist on behaving like an elderly dotard."

"I insist on behaving as I see fit," Lady Isabel retorted.

Kate shrugged. "Nevertheless, we will do as Uncle Charles asks and accept his invitation."

Lady Isabel frowned at her. "Will we, indeed?"

"Yes, we will. Let me have the letter. I shall write our acceptance this very morning."

"There you go again, deciding everything yourself," her mother remarked. Nevertheless, with a sigh of surrender, she passed the letter over to her daughter as ordered.

Kate's face fell. "Do I decide everything myself?" she asked, half to herself. Could planning for her mother's future be called decision-making? And was making decisions a sign that she was indeed as arrogant as Harry Gerard had suggested? It was a sobering thought.

"Yes, you do," her mother said. "You choose the menus, scold the delinquent housemaids, choose the fabric for new curtains, figure out what we can afford to offer as Boxing Day gifts to the servants, select whom to invite for tea when—" But at that moment she caught a glimpse of the alarm in her daughter's eyes. "However, I must admit," she added, seeking to soften her remarks, "I encourage you to do so. Because you're usually right."

Kate bit her lip. Had she the right to interfere in her mother's life? "I really don't wish to make decisions for you, Mama. If you truly don't want to go to Uncle Charles', I'll make our excuses."

"No, no," Lady Isabel admitted, "I was only blathering. Of course we must go. I wouldn't offend Charles for the world."

Kate nodded and let her eyes wander over the letter in her hand. "It sounds as if they're planning an out-and-out gala," she remarked as she nibbled at her toast. "I wonder why."

"I wondered that myself."

Kate paused in the act of pouring her tea. "It isn't someone's birthday, is it?"

"No. The tone suggests a much more exciting event than a mere birthday." Lady Isabel put down her cup and rose from her chair. "Well, there's no use surmising. We'll learn what it is soon enough. Meanwhile, I shall retire to my easy chair while I still may."

Kate was studying the letter with brows knit, but suddenly the puzzled expression cleared. "I'll wager I know what it is!" she declared.

Her mother, starting from the table, looked back at Kate over her shoulder. "You do?"

"It's Deirdre. She gone and got herself betrothed."

Lady Isabel's mouth dropped open. "Good heavens, do you think so?"

"Yes, I do. What better reason for Uncle Charles to hold a gala?" Kate smiled for the first time that morning. Her cousin Deirdre was a favorite with her, quite like a younger sister. "Wouldn't it be delightful if Deirdre were betrothed?"

"Humph," grunted her mother, "why delightful? She's nineteen, five years younger than you. I shall have to spend the entire fortnight thinking of excuses to make to my friends about why
she's
betrothed and
you
are not." And with that, she strolled from the room, her embroidery cart trundling along behind her, oblivious of the resentful glare Kate threw at her back.

FIVE

The two ladies, accompanied by Megan, the coachman, his tiger, and a footman, set out in two coaches for Claydon Castle at noon. The first coach carried the three females. The second—a shabby old laudalet driven by the footman—was loaded with almost a dozen trunks, portmanteaux and bandboxes, and the wooden, four-legged, wheeled contraption that her ladyship used to hold her embroidery frame. Because the journey—a mere forty-eight miles—usually required no more than five hours, they expected to arrive at Claydon before tea. Their plans were overturned, however, by a pair of unfortunate circumstances. First, a sudden, quite heavy snowfall slowed them down between Mendlesham and Scole. And then, no sooner had the sky cleared and they'd started out again, when the ladies' carriage lurched to the side with a frightening crash. A wheel had broken. The coachman signaled the driver of the other carriage to go on ahead while he made a temporary repair and coaxed the crippled vehicle ever so slowly to the nearest town. There the ladies were made as comfortable as possible at a shabby inn while a wheelwright was summoned to put on a new wheel.