Today Damon had arrived at the earliest acceptable calling hour to assure that Catherine would be at home, but she was not in the drawing room.
“My dear Lord Devlin!” gushed Lady Braxton. “We are delighted to see you again so soon. But then few men are able to forego sight of my girls for long.”
He responded formally, but none of the ladies noted his coolness. Wiggins’s arrival with a tea tray created a bustle during which Hortense cut out Drucilla for the privilege of sitting next to the earl. Drucilla’s glare could have slain armies.
The Braxton women were again gowned in fussy ruffles and ribbons, more ornamented than the day before. But none of them sported the tiniest gem. And that was a glaring omission, for others of Lady Braxton’s ilk wore their entire jewelry case when they wished to impress. He could only conclude that they owned none.
Drucilla looked even more like a rabbit today, with her hair arranged in ear-like coils on either side of her head and a ribbon tied around her neck like a collar. Hortense had dampened her gown, the clinging muslin proving that her figure was as bony and off-putting as he had suspected. She had borrowed a trick from her sister and now carried a fan which had already twice assaulted yesterday’s bruises. Neither girl had the slightest notion of subtlety.
“Will your niece be joining us?” he asked Lady Braxton after accepting a biscuit from the shabby footman.
“Not today. Poor Catherine is suffering a headache.” She smiled, but there was a hint of unease in her face.
“Are you attending Sir Mortimer’s party next week?” demanded Hortense, her strident voice turning the question into an accusation and offering an incongruous contrast to her furiously batting eyes.
“I doubt it. I still have business in town. Only the problems caused by the Connors fire made this trip necessary.”
“Surely you can remain that long. Everyone will be there,” urged Drucilla, leaning forward much as her sister had done the day before.
The results this time were worth assessing, but his appraisal was no different from those he made of the Cyprians outside the opera house, and with the same conclusion – he was not interested. “What is the occasion?” he asked.
“A christening party for his grandson,” explained Lady Braxton. “The boy was born only three days ago.”
“So Toby is married and now has an heir,” he said in surprise. The lad was only two years younger than himself so was ready for the responsibility, but he had not heard of the nuptials.
“His wedding was a veritable scandal.” Hortense snorted. “They wed in much haste barely eight months ago, and now we see why.”
“Perhaps not,” objected Drucilla, more to irritate her sister than because she believed it – or so it seemed to Damon. “They had been courting for much of the summer. It is unfortunate that the child was born early, but he is reportedly very small and may not live out the year.”
“Much you know about it,” Hortense snapped. “You have never even seen a babe, so how are you to judge what is proper?”
“Nor have you!” shot back Drucilla. “You are merely jealous because Diana snagged a gentleman you had been making sheep’s eyes at.” She giggled at Damon. “Her taste runs to tall, thin men rather than powerful, handsome ones.” She tried to bat her lashes but only twisted her face into a grimace.
“Girls!” admonished Lady Braxton, a blush staining her cheeks as she turned to Damon. “How is Mr. Connors?”
“As well as can be expected.” He shrugged. “Burns are the worst sorts of injuries. It will be several weeks before he has any chance of returning to the fields.”
They chatted about neighbors he had known before joining the army and about changes in the area. Damon was merely going through the motions, for Lady Braxton’s judgments were so catty that he refused to believe any of her statements. And she could not hide her disdain for the lower classes. Drucilla had reverted to giggling, though he was spared the frequent rap of her fan. Hortense’s voice grated on his ear until he was ready to scream, and her simpering was enough to put him off food for a week.
“But Mrs. Carmody’s girls cannot hold a candle to my own,” declared Lady Braxton, returning to her favorite topic. “You should hear Hortense on the pianoforte, my lord. Such power! Such control! There cannot be another performer like her in the world. No one in town can compare. She will take society by storm when we bring her out. Play that piece by Beethoven, dear.”
Hortense smiled and furiously batted her lashes before taking her seat at the pianoforte. This explained why it had been moved to the drawing room. Performances must be a regular part of entertaining.
He grimaced as she hit the first notes, recognizing the piece – barely. It was Beethoven’s
Für Elise,
though he wondered if the composer would still take credit for it should he hear Miss Braxton’s version. Instead of the gentle, flowing tones he had expected, Hortense produced labored, strident sounds in a rhythm Beethoven never imagined, from an instrument that could not have been tuned since Damon had left for war. Gritting his teeth, he set his expression to neutrality – any form of a smile was impossible – and endured the longest fifteen minutes of his life. He tried to convince his brain that this was artillery fire. It didn’t work. Would she never finish? God help him if she tackled anything longer.
“Lovely, dear,” said Lady Braxton, smiling as her daughter finally plowed through the last run. “Did I not tell you how accomplished she is, my lord?”
“You are right. I have never heard the like,” he managed, but some of his pain must have shown, for Lady Braxton’s smile wavered.
“Drucilla also plays,” the baroness announced brightly, “though she is younger so has had less instruction.”
Damon almost groaned when the girl pulled out a Mozart sonata. Dear Lord! It was three times as long as the Beethoven piece. But he relaxed once she started. Though she had even less concept of rhythm and dynamics than her sister, she did have the advantage of speed. Mozart would undoubtedly turn in his grave if he could hear the crashing dissonance imparted to his work, but Drucilla finished in half the time the composer had intended. Damon sighed in relief.
“Quite remarkable dexterity,” he murmured, then turned his attention to quitting the premises.
* * * *
Catherine slipped out of the servants’ entrance and escaped through the kitchen garden. Escape was not a proper way to think of her behavior, but it was true. She needed some time to herself.
For two days she had listened to Dru and Horty gloat over the Earl of Devlin. His second visit had convinced the hen-wits that he adored them, though they argued frequently over which he would choose as his countess. They repudiated other explanations for the earliness of his second call. Their conceit had survived three years during which not a single gentleman had visited twice, so no warning from Catherine could dull their enthusiasm.
She gave up trying. Time would reveal the truth. Damon could not possibly have changed that much. Besides, Wiggins confirmed that he had called to see Uncle Henry about estate matters. It wasn’t his fault that Lord Braxton remained in Taunton. Damon’s failure to reappear supported this theory. He would not return until he knew Uncle Henry was home. But convincing Dru and Horty was impossible. Any hint that the girls were air-dreaming, and they would turn on her.
It was the argument over their relative skills on the pianoforte that had finally driven Catherine from the house. Poor Damon. She was appalled that he had been subjected to such torture. It must have taxed his manners to the limit. He had an excellent ear and appreciated good music. Even picturing him within hearing of her cousins made her shudder. That alone would explain his failure to call again.
She wandered across the meadow and entered the tract of forest that was her favorite part of the estate. It bordered Devlin Court and had been a playground for the three of them when they were young. Even after the boys started school, they had spent term breaks at home, only rarely objecting when she tagged along.
She slipped into the clearing that had always been her refuge and perched on her usual rock. The stream bubbled over rounded stones, filling the glade with laughter. Here they had played at knights and pirates. Here she had brought her books to read when Peter and Damon were away. Now she came to think and – occasionally – to dream, for she knew her cousins would not find her. They refused to walk farther than the distance from door to coach unless accompanied by a gentleman.
Where were her dreams now? They had changed as she grew older, modified by time, by maturity, and most recently by her lowered status. The dreams of a dappled gray pony gave way to those of a spirited horse, to life at school, and to her expected come-out. When Peter and Damon bought colors, fear for their safety and disappointment that they would miss her Season moved to the fore, accompanied by prayers that her father would turn aside his anger and accept Peter’s decision. For two months he refused, ranting almost daily about his son’s intransigence. She now wondered if he had used ire to mask his own fear. But she would never know, for before his temper could cool they were all dead. After the devastation of that summer, she had avoided this spot for a long time, unable to face the memories.
But its tranquility eventually drew her back. Peter was safe for all eternity and Damon had survived. Now her dreams were purely selfish – hopes that Uncle Henry would recoup enough to buy husbands for her cousins, for they would blame everyone but themselves if they faced spinsterhood, and she would be their first target; prayers that she and Sidney would learn to get along, for when he acceded to the title, she would have to share his house; and fantasies that Aunt Eugenia would become worthy of her position before she blackened the family name beyond redemption.
Unwillingly, her thoughts returned to Damon. She had always known that he would return. And feared it. Despite her prayers, a tiny voice inside her head wished that he had perished along with Peter. For the first time, she blessed fate for preventing her from appearing in company. How could she face him? He had forgot her, repudiating the connection she had expected to last a lifetime. And she would never understand why.
* * * *
Damon cantered across the park, his eyes taking in none of the beauties of the day. Something was very wrong at Ridgway. Burt, his groom, reported that Catherine never spoke with the neighbors, refused to appear in the drawing room when guests were present, and turned down all invitations. She rarely left the estate, never traveling beyond the village. That was not at all like her. What had happened?
More to the point, how was he to meet her? If she did not greet guests, there was no point in calling again – and he doubted he could tolerate another hour with the Braxtons. Should he send her a letter? But she had responded to none of his previous ones. Burt claimed she was well, according to the Ridgway grooms, and had suffered neither accident nor illness, but Damon could not reconcile that with her behavior. No one could change so drastically.
She had always bubbled with enthusiasm and humor, jumping at any challenge. He had often needed to rescue her because she insisted that she could do anything that Peter could – and usually better. Never mind that she was a girl fully five years younger. She had ridden races, jumped impossible fences, climbed trees, fished the stream, challenged Peter at chess – though never Damon, for he could beat them both to flinders – and done a host of other things Lady Braxton would have swooned over. But hiding from the neighborhood and cutting old friends was out of character.
He slowed as he entered the woods, nearly turning aside. Peter was more strongly present here than at any other place on the estate. It had been a favorite playground in their youth. But it also offered peace and tranquility that he badly needed right now. Picking his way through the trees, he suddenly pulled Pythias to a halt.
Catherine sat on a rock, as she had so many times in the past. But this was a different Catherine from the girl he had known, and not just because her gown was several years out of date. Her face was sad, her expression remote. Was she also troubled by memories of Peter?
How absurd! She would have visited this spot hundreds of times over the last eight years. Besides, she was not a girl to dwell on her losses.
But she was no longer a girl, he realized an instant later. She was a woman. Unfashionable as the gown was, it encased an appealingly curvaceous figure. Gone were the blemishes she had struggled with that last year. Instead, those startling violet eyes dominated a heart-shaped face with a smooth, creamy complexion. Full, red lips were set in a frown, but he remembered her sunny smile. Her black hair was unflatteringly pulled back, but its innate curliness could not be hidden and he had no trouble picturing her in a stylish cut. No wonder she never appeared in public. Lady Braxton must know how poorly her own girls would compare, though that could not explain why Cat had not wed years ago. She was beautiful. His fingers tingled with the need to loosen her hair and tear off the hideous gown so he could dress her as she deserved. He thrust the thought aside, guilty over admiring anyone but Hermione – even the girl who was nearly his sister.
“Hello, Catherine,” he called softly as his horse picked its way across the stream.
She jumped. “My lord.” The cold voice halted him, his surprise turning to pain as she whirled to leave, almost as awkward as the last time they had met.
“You did not used to be so formal,” he protested.
“I believe you are trespassing, my lord,” she reminded him. “The stream marks the boundary, as you must recall.”
“Catherine! What have I done to deserve this?”
She froze, her face twisting into anguish. “How can he do this to me?” Her whisper cracked on the words.
“Do what?” he demanded.
She jumped, obviously unaware that she had spoken aloud. But she pulled herself straighter and raised her eyes to his. “Not one word,” she choked, tears shimmering on her lashes. “I don’t even know how he died!”
“My God!” Damon dismounted, tethering Pythias to a tree. “I wrote that night. It was the hardest letter of my life. And I wrote again a fortnight later when I heard of the accident.”