The Gilded Cage (17 page)

My mouth drops as I catch her meaning. If Jane has compromised herself for my heartless cousin, there can be no doubt of his wickedness. I remember his words from this morning:
Katherine Randolph, I have loved you since the moment I saw you.
Yet, days after meeting me, he was stealing the honor of a lovely girl in a cheap inn.

Jane is not too stricken with love to miss the horrified expression on my face. “Katherine, it's all right. Henry is coming here on my father's return, to finally ask for my hand!” The words tumble out of her; I can tell she's long been wishing to say them.

And suddenly, I cannot find the words to tell her that the man she's pinned her hopes on, that she's already given herself to, is so unfaithful. “Are you certain that he's the right husband for you?” I blurt out, sudden and too loud.

Her face, so radiant and trusting, shuts tight as a fist. “What are you talking about?” she says.

My throat is dry; I can barely swallow. “I only mean … Don't you think he's a bit …
old
for you?”

“Why are you saying this?” she cries, propelling her body as far back across the love seat as it can go. “You know how I feel about him—I've made him a promise!”

I reach for her hand, foolishly, and she snatches it back. “Explain yourself, Katherine. What has happened to change your affections toward me?”

“Jane, please. I feel the same toward you as ever—only, I must tell you something. This morning, Henry … he asked for my hand. In marriage. I never wanted it, and I didn't have any idea that he would, I just…”

Her hand connects smartly with my cheek, shocking me into silence. “How
dare you
?” she spits, her pretty doll's face contorted behind sudden tears.

I hold my throbbing cheek in silence. There's nothing I can say to alleviate her pain.

Mr. Dowling crashes into the room, red-faced and puffing. “Good lord, girls, do I hear weeping?” He stops speaking when he sees us, my body hunched into itself and Jane burying her face in pillows, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

“What has happened here?” he asks softly.

“It's my fault,” I whisper. “I'll go—I must go at once.”

As I rush toward the entrance, I hear Jane tearfully demanding that her father leave her alone. I don't stay to hear his response, but he must have listened: He joins me in the foyer a moment later, where I'm waiting miserably for the butler to bring my things.

“Girls often argue, and they often make up,” he says, rubbing his forehead in sad perplexity. “Though I don't claim to understand it, I'm sure you two will be bosom friends again before your next ball together.”

I nod in silence, taking pity on a man who must wish very much for the advice of his wife today. And before I leave Jane's home for the final time, I ask her father for a certain address. He seems surprised but acquiesces. I don't worry whether my request makes me seem less of a lady in his eyes—in a day or two, it won't matter what anyone in this country thinks of me.

 

CHAPTER 19

I
ASK MATT TO
drop me off a few streets from my destination, so that I might walk through the busy streets of Bath a final time. Though the day is fine, cold and bright, the golden stone of the buildings has lost its charm for me. My eyes long to rest on Virginia's rustling vistas of hickory and oak, to breathe air fragrant with pine sap instead of smoke and crowds.

When I reach the address given to me by Mr. Dowling, it's much as I imagined it: a cozy three-story brick house, unadorned but well kept. A very young maid in a starched cap answers my knock.

“My name is Katherine Simpson; I am Mr. William Simpson's cousin,” I say coolly. “Is he in?”

“He is, ma'am.”

“Would you please show me to his rooms at once? No need to announce me—he's expecting this visit.”

She surveys my clothing, evidently debating whether I am who I say I am. “Female guests are not allowed beyond the parlor,” she says in a thick country accent, then flashes her dimples at me. “But the master of the house is away, and if you're Mr. Simpson's cousin I see no harm in it.”

I nod slightly, feeling an uncomfortable stab of jealousy toward this pretty maid, then follow her through a hallway redolent with cooking smells. She leads me up an uncarpeted flight of stairs, and then raps sharply on the first door that we come to.

There's a rustle and scrape from within, as of papers put aside and a chair pushed back, then Mr. Simpson appears at the door. He's in a white shirt, the collar unbuttoned, and spectacles sit on his nose. He runs a hand through his mussed dark hair and snatches the spectacles from his face, tucking them into his pocket. “Lady Katherine!”

The maid turns to me in frank curiosity as my cheeks burn red. “Thank you, Mary,” Mr. Simpson says hurriedly. His face seems to be wavering between embarrassment and something else, finally settling into his customary seriousness. “You've caught me at lunch.” The plate on the table behind him holds watery stew and a trencher of bread—farm food.

“Perhaps I might eat with you?” I ask.

He nods uncertainly. “Mary, would you please bring up another portion?” As she curtsies and walks pertly away, he turns to me. “Has something happened? Are you all right?”

I hesitate a moment, then shake my head. “I'm not. But perhaps I shouldn't have come here—I don't wish to put you in the way of gossip.” I make myself look into his eyes. “I told her I was your cousin.”

“Cousin or not, this visit isn't entirely proper,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine. “But I'm very glad to see you.”

For a moment we stand in the middle of the room, looking at each other. My black skirts over crinolines seem to cover half the floor, and I feel too shy to remove my hat.

Finally, he reaches his hand out toward mine. “Would you like to—” he begins, and then Mary returns bearing a covered plate, and tea in a chipped cup.

As she sets the table, taking far longer than she needs to, I look around the room. It's simple and clean, comfortably cluttered with books and papers. I spy an alcove at the rear, through which a bed with smooth white sheets can be seen. I see Mr. Simpson following my gaze, and swiftly turn my eyes to the floor.

With a curtsy, Mary withdraws again. Mr. Simpson picks up his teacup and raises a brow. “Would you like to remove your hat, Lady Katherine?” he says.

“You should call me Kat,” I reply. “Now more than ever. I'm here because I mean to sell Walthingham Hall.”

His hand pauses in midair a moment before he brings it up the rest of the way and swigs the remainder of his tea. “But why?” he says, his jaw tight.

I shift under the intensity of his stare. “Surely you can guess, sir.”

“But to give up your home … Where would you live?”

“It's not my home,” I say quietly. “It never has been.”

He slaps his cup onto the table and moves closer to me. “Am I understanding your intent, Lady Katherine? Do you mean to leave England?”

There's a tremor in his voice that makes it difficult for me to speak. “I do. Please understand that I must.”

“But you can't go,” he says quickly. “I mean, you mustn't. Even without your house, you have your title. Your brother's exhibition is coming up; we must navigate the sale of his paintings together, and the founding of the orphanage you spoke of.” His voice is filled with urgency.

“Mr. Simpson, you cannot talk me out of returning. Please don't try. I'll still bestow money for the orphanage—I trust you to see to its founding, and will pay you well to do so. But please do what you must to begin the sale of Walthingham. As soon as possible.” I've spoken more loudly than I need to, and the silence that follows my words is thick.

Finally, he shakes his head. “If that is what you wish, then I'll help you. But, Katherine: You're still under the guardianship of your cousin. He will need to sign the deed of sale, and you won't see the money until two years from now, when you become independent.”

“I can wait. I can work. I'll want for nothing in Virginia.”

“But you've changed,” he says simply. “You may find, when you arrive, that the place is the same, that your family loves you as well as ever. But
you'll
be different. Too different, I fear, to return to your former life.”

I step toward him, searching his face. “Why do you say these things to me? What good can it do you to be cruel?”

“Cruel!” He reaches out and grabs my hand, his touch sending a bolt through me. “I swear that isn't my intent. I speak from experience—I want only to save you pain, if I can.…”

His face is closer to mine than it's ever been. My heart stutters as he moves his hand to my shoulder, then my neck, cupping the hollow there. “There are people here who care about you,” he says. “Who have come to
more
than care for you…”

Then his fingers find my still-reddened cheek. As he touches the raw skin there, I see Jane's face, in the instant before the slap. Her rage, her pain—all caused by me, by my unlucky arrival in England.

I close my eyes and jerk my head away, and just like that Mr. Simpson's hand falls away. When I open my eyes again, he's standing straight and proud. He looks again like the man he was during our earliest acquaintance, his tenderness replaced with stiff embarrassment.

“I'm going back to America,” I say.

“Yes, I know. I know that you must.”

“Getting close to you … it will only cause both of us pain.”

“Yes, my lady. You're right. Forgive me for … for momentarily imagining otherwise.”

I shake my head helplessly. “I'm happy that you could. That anyone could want to be close with me now, after all that's happened—it means more than I can say.”

He still watches his hands. “You aren't to blame for what's happened since you arrived here. Please believe this.”

My heart is in my throat as I reach into my purse and pull out my brother's watch. Though the blood has been cleaned away, I'll always see it, splattering the thing's fine face. “Here.” I push it toward him, across the table. “I want you to keep this.”

He looks at the watch as though afraid to touch it. “I could not.”

“Please,” I say. “Something to remember me by.”

He stands up, surprised. “Lady Katherine …
Kat
 … I'll need no help remembering you, and I can't accept such a valuable gift.”

“You must,” I insist, standing up to face him. “It's broken, but you can have it fixed. I'd like to think of it here, in your possession.”

Finally, he folds his hand over the watch, and then tucks it away into his pocket. “Thank you,” he says.

I step close to him and rise onto my toes, pressing my lips to his cheek. I inhale his good, clean scent for a moment. “Good-bye, William,” I whisper, then hurry from the room.

It's as much as I can do to compose myself before allowing the housemaid to see me out—cousin or not, there will be gossip if I'm seen running from a gentleman's lodgings in tears.

Walking back toward the coach, I feel that my last tether to this place has been cut. But it doesn't make me feel free—just empty.
I should have kissed him properly
, I think.
What could it matter now?
So lost am I in thoughts of him, of the other ways our parting might have unfolded, that I run directly into the rough coat of a man traveling in the opposite direction. As I raise my arms in brief apology, not wishing to be detained, he grips them tight at the elbows.

I look up, full into his face, and see with a start that he is not a stranger. He's the rail-thin intruder I overheard John arguing with at Walthingham Hall, the morning after the ball. His blue eyes hold mine with smiling menace.

“Take your hands off me at once!” I cry.

Then another hand clamps around my mouth, and an arm crushes me at the waist. A voice from behind hisses in my ear.

“You'll want to keep your voice down, Lady Katherine. This can be quick or not, but screaming won't help you either way.”

 

CHAPTER 20

M
Y CAPTOR PULLS
me back into an alleyway, my boots kicking and clattering over loose stones. The skinny man keeps a watch to either side, and then follows us. He tilts his hand to show me the knife in it, glinting.

I'm shoved against a moldering brick wall, still clamped to the second man's chest. Twisting to see his face, I accidentally bite down on my tongue. The sudden taste of metal is sharp against my teeth, and the damp scent of decaying plaster makes me woozy—but I've identified him: He's the squat, brutal-looking one who accompanied the tall man to Walthingham Hall.

My eyes keep traveling of their own accord to the knife, and I see that the hand gripping it is freshly bandaged. I gawk at it for a moment before I'm overcome with the gut-punched recognition of my own stupidity. All the time I'd been accusing old McAllister, insisting he be questioned, I'd paid no mind to the clearer threat.

“It was you, wasn't it?” I breathe, glaring at the tall man incredulously. “You who've been lurking around Walthingham—you who Stella got a bite out of, before you managed to kill her. Thank God for that, at least.” I spit a mouthful of copper at his feet, too angry to be afraid.

Tall laughs, in a way that does not involve his flat blue eyes. “Spirited, isn't she?” he says. “It's lucky for you that our employer has no interest in teaching uppity girls about the world and their place in it. Though my friend here would be happy to make the lesson on his own, were I to request it.” His fat companion holds me in an unshifting grip, showing no inclination to speak again.

And just like that, all the humor slides from Tall's face. “But here's what my employer
does
want: his money. All of it, up front, and fast.”