The Gilded Cage (18 page)

“I don't know why you're demanding it from me. You're masons, are you not? Why not settle your accounts with the household?”

“Oh, she's a clever one.” With a snap of his wrist, he brings the knife close to my face. “I'd take offense at that, being accused as a mason, but my friend here, his father was a bricklayer. Noble professions, both. But your man chose to
borrow
money rather than make it, and now it's time that he pay up.”

My racing mind stutters over this new information. If they're not masons, they must be common moneylenders. My heart falls, thinking of my father's gold watch in John's pocket. Perhaps he meant to sell it to alleviate his debts. “If you're looking for money from John, it's too late,” I say. “He's dead.”

Confusion passes over my captor's face. “What are you on about? I don't need anything from any John. We're talking about Henry Campion. Your cousin.”

I gape at him. Henry's world—the world of Walthingham Hall—could not seem further removed from these two.

“Do you hear me, girl? We need the full two thousand pounds. The odd painting and bits of jewelry aren't enough—and he'd better not try any more funny business, like setting that mutt on me. Your cousin's a cruel one, he is. Sending a little dog like that to do his dirty work. You think I wanted to break her neck?” He tests the knife on his thumb, his eyes set on some faraway point. “Now,
people
, they usually have it coming to them. You'll find I'm not averse to using the knife when it comes to them that deserve it.”

As Tall moves closer to my face, I scratch at the hand clamped over my shoulder, but the big man pays me no more mind than if I were a stiff breeze. “I think I'll show you the value of the knife right now,” his companion says conversationally. “How about this: We cut up your pretty face a bit, just to show your cousin we mean what we say?” He runs the tip of the thing along the curve of my lower lip. “I'm a dab hand with it, miss, and I promise you won't lose any more blood than I mean you to.”

I drive the sharp toe of my boot into his shin as hard as I can. He doubles over in agony as I drive my head back into the big man's face. I hear the
thunk
of my skull connecting with his nose, and his grip on me loosens just enough. I make my body a dead weight, slipping through his arms onto the cobbled street.

I scrabble back to my feet, stagger a few steps, and then begin to run. Their shouts behind me quickly fade; I can only hope they are not so foolish as to pursue a well-dressed woman in ostentatious mourning garb through the streets of Bath. My skirts snatch at my legs, and my corset digs into my heaving ribs. But it feels good to run—I'd forgotten just how good. My feet know the way, even as my mind attempts to grasp what's just happened. Finally, I see the carriage, and I pound toward it, still imagining my captors just behind me, breathing at my neck. Matt's daydreaming in his seat, and his mouth falls open when he sees me.

“Lady Katherine!” he exclaims. Then, “Your hat!”

I bring my hand to my head—indeed, I've lost my hat in my headlong rush, and my hair is falling free. “Never mind it,” I say, when I can speak again. “Just go on, get us out of here—take us back to Walthingham at once!”

My lip still tingles where the man traced it with the razor point of his knife. Collapsing back against the bench seat, I discreetly adjust my corset.

I have no doubt Tall would have sliced my face open without flinching. If he's capable of that, is he capable of murder? Perhaps it was he who came across my brother that day, painting white birches in the falling snow.

My mind spins as the horses dash down the road leading out of Bath. What financial mess has Henry involved himself in? And could his foolishness have caused my brother's murder?

The ride passes in a confused haze. I open the window to let the cold air in, and my hair is whipped into a froth by the time we pull up in front of Walthingham. As I enter the house, I can think only of avoiding Henry and retiring to my room early. I've never needed to get my thoughts in order so badly as I do now.

My hand is on the door to my room when I hear a soft “Ahem” from behind me. Grace, dressed in a muted gray. I bite back the curse that comes to my lips.

“A word, Katherine?” she says, then turns and begins walking back down the hall. I have no choice but to follow her to her sitting room, done up smartly in ivory and blue, and altogether too many flounces and tassels for my taste. Tea is already steaming from a silver tray placed between two ottomans.

Her maid is nowhere in sight. As she deigns to serve me herself, I can tell she already knows about the proposal. A sense of bright expectation hums through her movements; even the decided way she raps her spoon against the slender side of her china cup speaks of the knowledge.

Finally, she hands across my tea and fixes me with a look. “No need to be coy with each other, Katherine. What are your intentions regarding my brother's proposal?”

The answer comes immediately to my lips. “I mean to refuse it,” I say simply. “More than that, I'm returning to Virginia as soon as I can. I've already spoken to a lawyer.”

The cup rattles against the saucer in her hand, but she regains her composure quickly, regarding me with shrewdness. “Mr. Simpson, I presume?”

I blush. “Indeed. He's been very helpful.”

“Yes, I imagine he has. But, Katherine, won't you reconsider this rash act? You're needed here, at Walthingham. The estate is your birthright, the running of it your privilege. And Henry will make a very fine match for you. The estate's quarries are his, to add to your own inheritance, and he understands the workings of the house better than anyone.”

If she only knew what I'd endured this afternoon, because of her “very fine” brother's actions, she might leave me alone. But, angry as I am, I can't burden her with it. Not until I understand the true extent of what Henry has done.

“Grace, I simply do not love him. And I never will.” I hold up a hand, warding off her response. “Please believe that I know my own heart. I can never love him as a wife.”

“I wasn't going to advise you on your heart, dear. Rather, I would remind you that marriage has little to do with hearts after the end of the first year. Adolescent infatuations are well and good, but building a marriage on naught but love is like building a house on sand.”

There's a note of bitterness in her tone that makes me curious, but I don't push.

“Marriages are made by contract for a reason. The security and companionship of a match are all that can be expected by a reasonable woman of marriageable age.”

“But I want more than that,” I say softly. “Call me foolish if you must, but I want love in my life. I saw it between my parents, and I want it one day for myself.”

“Your parents' illegitimate match is not a thing to emulate, Katherine,” she says with sudden coldness. “Count yourself lucky to have been lifted from the circumstances their marriage confined you to, and do not set yourself up for the same kind of disaster.”

I look at her squarely. “I've long suspected you felt that way, Grace, but I'm sorry to hear you speak of my parents so harshly. You did not know my mother, so I will blame your words on your ignorance.”

The icy silence that follows this is soon broken by a light knock at the door. Though I'm not surprised to see Henry standing in the doorway, the cold ripple of revulsion that runs through me in response takes me aback.

The smooth, handsome face, the elegant hands and manner of dress—they appear to me now as tools of deception, which he used to fool not just Jane but all of us. Who, seeing him, would dream him capable of such treachery?

I sit stiffly as he bestows a charming smile on us both. “Grace, might I speak to Katherine alone for a moment?”

Grace looks at me with barely concealed disgust and stands. “You may speak to her as long as you like, brother, for all the good it will do you. I'm glad to take my leave.” She sweeps from the room, not bothering to look at me again.

Seeming untroubled by her words, Henry sits across from me, smiling in a way that I suppose is meant to look dashing. “I cannot wait any longer to speak with you, my love. Have you thought about my offer? Will you accept my suit?”

I respond in as steady a tone as I can muster. “I have considered your proposal, Henry, but I cannot accept. It will be impossible for us to marry, you see—I'm returning to America in a few days. There are matters to be settled first, of course, but my time here has caused me only pain. I just want to go home.”

His smile falters during my speech but does not completely fade. “I understand your unhappiness, but we will make new memories together, beautiful ones. As man and wife, we will restore Walthingham Hall to its original greatness.” He presses his hands into his knees, no longer looking at me. “You do not know the estate as I did, when I was a young man before the war. It was a magical place. We can lead a gilded life here, Katherine, together.”

The fervor in his voice makes my skin crawl. “I thank you again for the compliment, but still I cannot marry you. We don't love each other, Henry, and Walthingham Hall is not my home. In fact, I mean to sell it.”

Something passes behind his eyes then, in a flash—something ugly and hard. Just as quickly it's gone, and I see before me the rigidly controlled military man my cousin once was. “You mean to sell our home, Katherine?” he says tightly. “After all we've done for you? After all that we've given to you, taught you?”

Finally, my temper cannot be contained. “If the privileges of being Lady Katherine must come hand in hand with being restrained at the point of a knife, I'm not sorry to give it up,” I say.

His eyes look stunned. “What are you talking about?”

“The men, the ones you owe money to. When they could not get hold of you, they found me instead. I know about your debts—though I don't care to know how you got them, thank you—and I was attacked because of them, because of you. What have you done, Henry? To what sort of people have you opened my home?”

He glares at me, his face an arrogant, remorseless mask. “Oh, but it isn't your home, Katherine. You said so yourself. You have always been an outsider here, unworthy to hold Walthingham Hall!”

“You are the unworthy one. Your thoughtless acts not only endangered my life, they cost me my only friend here.” A sob escapes my throat. “How could you have been so cruel to Jane? You needn't ask, I'm sure, just why she's given me up.”

For a long moment he doesn't respond, just regards me from below his lids with a look of brutal patience. Finally, he sighs. “You're young,” he says heavily. “And you don't understand.”

“I understand all too well. It's true, you have taught me much since I arrived in England—all about the hypocrisy and lies men are capable of. I think it's a lesson I will grow to value in time. But I repeat again, and for the final time: I cannot, I will not marry you.”

“And you will sell Walthingham Hall?”

“I will. You and Grace will be provided for. Mr. Simpson will take care of it, I promise. But the house must be sold.”

He stands slowly, his jaw tight and his face pale. “So be it, Lady Katherine. If that is as you wish it, that is how it will be.”

I'm filled with a sense of dark triumph as his bowed figure limps from the room. Strange that, even as I prepare to sell the estate, I feel more like Lady Katherine than ever. I think of Mr. Simpson's warning—that I've changed, too much, perhaps, to return home. No, I decide. I'm still the same person I ever was. Henry's just now discovering that I'm more a Randolph than he'll ever be.

 

CHAPTER 21

I
'M DREAMING OF
blood-red leaves falling through the clear Virginia air. George is beside me, smiling up at them, glowing crimson in the fading sun. He stretches his fingers out to catch the warmth of it. I smile at him—and he turns suddenly toward me, catching my wrist tight in his fingers. His forehead, high and clear a moment before, now pulses with a livid gash, the same shade as the drifting leaves.

You're hurting me
, I say, but he ignores me. As he moves his mouth to my ear, I smell the yawning, graveyard scent of his breath.
Go
, he whispers.
Run!

And suddenly I'm awake in my bed, blinking against the blinding flare of a lantern. The hand curled cruelly around my wrist is not my brother's. As my eyes adjust, I see three figures standing over me.

Dr. Ebner, gripping my wrist; Henry, watching me with hollow eyes; and a man I cannot name, who has a familiar face. “What's happening?” I croak, clutching the bedding to my chest with my free hand.

“It's for your own good,” says Henry, his tone so cut through with malice that I recoil.

Then everything is happening far too quickly. Dr. Ebner pulls my arm straight out and behind me, the strange man does the same with the other, and they force me upright. In my shock I scream George's name; the doctor's grip slackens a moment, then returns with renewed strength. “Be quiet, girl. Would you prefer that we drug you?”

My arms are tied behind me with swift efficiency, the blankets stripped from my legs. They look pitifully bare and pale, the skirt of my nightgown riding up over them. After a pause, Dr. Ebner tugs the gown back down to my ankles.

Fighting to keep my head upright, I try to look them in the eyes. Some instinct makes me do it—I think it will make them recognize the monstrousness of what they're doing. But they won't look back at me.

Except for Henry. As the other men fight against me, tie my hands, he watches, his eyes trained on mine. To my horror, the doctor forces a band of thick, grimy-tasting fabric into my mouth, tying its ends behind my head. When I'm trussed, unable to scream, Henry steps forward and slaps me hard across the face.