Anne Barbour (20 page)

Drew had, indeed, found himself unexpectedly overwhelmed by the strangeness of his new life. His fellow officers were all the best of fellows, but he was used to companions he had known all his life. Later, as the horrors of war invaded his life, her letters had become a lifeline. Then came the incident that changed his life forever. During the battle of Toulouse, he was caught in a hail of gunfire and fell beneath the wheels of a battle wagon, loaded with rifles and ammunition. He had been left crushed and broken, and awoke to find himself a monstrous caricature of the man he had been.

Of all the expressions of sympathy he had received from friends and family, it was only Helen’s understanding and friendly good sense that he could bear. Her gravely comforting words strengthened him and saw him through the darkest of the hours following his desperate struggle for life and the ineffectual efforts of the surgeons to make him whole again. He had grown to depend on the arrival of her letters as a starving Israelite must have awaited his daily ration of manna in the desert.

He was not sure when he had begun to love Helen. While he was technically betrothed to Catherine, he certainly could not speak to Helen of his growing need for her or of the feelings that were swelling within him like a spring bud. He had been so laughably sure that she felt the same way, and when at last they came face to face, she would see beyond the obscenity of his face and form to the man beneath. How could she have gone off to marry this Arthur Dench, when she had never so much as mentioned the fellow to him?

And now Catherine insisted she wished to marry him. Lord, when he was whole and reasonably personable, she would have nothing to do with him. but now that he was deformed and hideous, she declared her steadfast intention to be his bride. Why, for God’s sake?

John had written him that her infatuation with Randolph Sills had, not unexpectedly, faded in the light of reality, but surely that could not account for her about-face.

The carriage had by now arrived at Graymore Abbey, the seat of his brother, the Earl of Barnstaple, and Drew descended wearily. Ceddie had come out to meet him, rubbing his hands briskly at Drew’s approach.

“Did you find the Edgebrooke’s well?” he asked anxiously. “Sir Martin appeared to be coming down with a putrid sore throat last week, and I was concerned that he would not be in health for the house party.”

“The house—? Oh, good God, Ceddie. Are you still planning to go through with that nonsense?”

Cedric, Lord Barnstaple was a tall, jovial man. He had acceded to the title a scant year ago on the death of his father, and all his neighbors and tenants agreed that in that time he had taken up the reins of his authority with industry and dedication. He was not blessed with an abundance of intelligence, but his nature was sunny and he was a genuinely good person. Also, he had the gift of choosing his staff well, a trait that served him in good stead as master of Graymore Abbey, one of the premier estates of the country. Added to that was the fact that his wife was as sharp as she could hold together, and ran her household with the efficiency of a sergeant at arms.

He gazed now in consternation at his brother. “Nonsense?” he gasped. “Drew, invitations have gone out to half the county, not to mention the people from London. They’ll be arriving, some of them, this afternoon. The wedding is less than three weeks away, after all, and it’s high time for the celebrations to begin.”

“Ceddie, I told you when I arrived, I do not wish to marry Catherine—and that’s putting it mildly. I’d sooner ally myself with a ring-tailed catamount. And, don’t you remember? She has no real wish to marry me.”

Ceddie’s forehead creased in a troubled frown. “That was before you went away. After she discovered what a bastard Sills really was, she mellowed considerably. And, even before that—well, she told me she was truly sorry for what she said to you on that last day. You know,” added the earl thoughtfully, “I don’t think she’s lost her temper—at least, not really—since.”

“Ump.” replied Drew skeptically. “I don’t care if she’s turned into a plaster saint, I don’t want to marry her. Why can’t I get anyone to listen to me? You tell me it’s all for the best—John merely pats me on the head and tells me not to be surly—Sir Martin and Lady Edgebrooke burble all over me, and even Catherine—

“But, it is for the best, my dear boy. Every man needs a helpmate, after all. I mean where would I be without Miranda?”

Drew smiled despite himself. Where indeed? It was generally assumed that Ceddie did not so much as choose a cravat without the advice of his perspicacious wife.

“Miranda is a pearl beyond price, brother. Catherine is Spanish coin.” He grunted. “Are the Edgebrookes arriving tomorrow, as well?”

“Of course. The celebration would be pretty hollow without the presence of the bride-to-be. Now, Drew, I want you on your best behavior. Give Catherine a chance. And yourself, for that matter.”

Drew stiffened. “Meaning?”

Ceddie shifted uncomfortably. “Nothing, only that you seem to consider yourself as—completely worthless now— and you’re not, Drew.” His brown eyes were almost pleading as he faced his brother.

Drew knew an urge to lift his face to the sky and howl. He turned on Ceddie and snarled, “My God, I am possessed of a face that scares little children. I cannot tie my own cravat—can’t so much as cut my own meat. Only the fact that I am an aristocrat with an inherited substance is saving me from starving in a gutter, for my hopeful career as a diplomat will never come to pass, and I am fit for nothing else. So, tell me, Ceddie—what precisely is your definition of the word ‘worthless’? And do I not fill it beautifully?”

He turned on his heel and walked into the house.

Lord Barnstaple had been correct in his estimate. The first guests arrived not an hour before dinner that night, and by the next day, the abbey began to fill with friends and relatives. The process of greeting those he had not seen since his departure from home three years ago was not quite the ordeal that Drew had dreaded. Evidently, Cedric and John had told everyone what to expect. Reaction to his appearance was apparent, but no one actually flinched upon greeting him. To his sour amusement, one or two of the younger, sillier ladies apparently considered him rather a romantic figure.

Thus, it was with a reasonable degree of equanimity that he greeted Sir Martin and Lady Edgebrooke and their offspring on their arrival the following day. Catherine, he noted unwillingly, looked like a gift from the heart of the forest in a simple gown of pomona green sarcenet embroidered with leaves of a darker green. She smiled at him when she stepped from the carriage, but he merely offered a brief hello before turning to John. Pulling his friend aside, he whispered, “You wanted to go fishing—well, now’s the time. If I don’t escape from this parcel of determined well-wishers I may well go screaming mad before your very eyes.”

Catherine, who had moved toward him, halted abruptly, and Drew could have sworn the pain in her eyes was genuine. Swallowing, he turned his back to draw John off toward the house. He was forestalled by the approach of a young man, tall and personable, with fair, modishly curled hair and bright, blue eyes. He was dressed in an ensemble that might have been considered by some a little excessive for the country. He strode past John and Drew.

“Catherine!” he cried delightedly, pressing a fervent kiss on her hand. “I have been waiting for you to arrive. You are looking radiant today as usual.”

The gentleman turned, then, and addressed Drew.

“Hallo, coz, good to see you again.” He stretched out a hand with apparent cordiality and Drew accepted it with a shade less heartiness. Why the hell had Ceddie invited Theo Venable to the festivities? He was family, of course, although the relationship was fairly distant. Drew had never liked him above half, considering him spoiled and too knowing for his own good, but he had always maintained a cool courtesy toward him. It appeared the young man and Catherine had become friends, he mused irritably.

“It’s good to see you, too, Theo, but if you will excuse me, John and I are off for a spot of fishing.” Once again, he pulled John in the direction of the house, and less than an hour later they stood together on the banks of a small stream that flowed nearby. For some moments they did not speak, and all that could be heard was the rippling of the brook, the singing of their lines as they cast, and the faint plop of lures landing on water. At last John spoke.

“Being a little hard on Catherine, ain’t you?”

Drew did not reply for a moment, concentrating his attention on the placement of his lure. Fishing was just one more activity that was proving almost impossibly more difficult without the full use of his left arm. “Are you going to lecture me, old friend?” he drawled at last. “I’ve had enough of that from Ceddie since I came home.”

John laughed easily. “I’m the last man in the world to be giving lectures to anyone on anything, as well you know. All I’m saying, is it ain’t like you to give hurt where it ain’t deserved.”

Once more, Drew was silent for a few moments before he turned to face his friend. “I think we have a difference of opinion here on what’s deserved. But, I apologize. I don’t wish to speak ill of a man’s sister. The fact remains, however, that I remember her as a termagant of the first water.” He sighed heavily. “I know it would create a terrific row if I was the one to cry off, but I’m hoping I can persuade Catherine to do so.”

“But she doesn’t want—

“I know. She doesn’t want to hurt our families. Well, I don’t either, but I’m not willing to sacrifice my well-being for the sake of this charming but totally unrealistic fantasy they’ve created. Nor do I think Catherine should be expected to do so, either. Good God, John. I’d think you’d be rooting on the sidelines for this betrothal to die a natural death. Surely you want more for your sister than a lifetime shackled to half a man.”

“I want only for her to be happy.” replied John slowly. “And from what I can gather, marrying you is what she wants to do.”

Drew snorted. “Fustian!” He gathered up his tackle. “I think we shall have no luck this afternoon. Shall we go back to the house?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and strode away from the river. After a moment, John sighed and followed him.

Conversation was desultory among the two men as they walked. Drew felt a moment of regret for his outburst. It was natural that John should take Catherine’s part, but Drew was not the acquiescent boy who had marched off to war with a head full of brass bands and flying banners. He was older now, by several centuries, it seemed, and he was not, by God, going to be pushed into an arranged marriage with a woman who had sent him off with the strident hope that he not return.

His lips curved into a bitter smile. Not that it hadn’t been a near thing. He did not blame Catherine for the disaster that had befallen him. That would be superstitious nonsense, but—

His unpleasant reverie was interrupted by the sound of high, excited voices. Looking toward the sound, he found that he and John had emerged from the woods surrounding the house and had entered a small terraced area. A few hundred yards away a group of children played, and in their center was Catherine and another young woman.

They were playing ball, and Catherine was laughing with joyous abandon. Her hair had escaped the confines of the pins and ribbons of her coiffure and it hung down her back in a heavy molten fall. The lithe splendor of her form was outlined clearly as she strained upward to catch the ball.

Once again. Drew experienced a treacherous tightening of his throat. As he watched, his cousin Theo ambled onto the scene and moved close to Catherine. She seemed to welcome the young man’s approach and soon his laughter blended with hers. Turning away from the sight, Drew strode toward the house.

* * * *

Watching his progress surreptitiously, Catherine’s heart sank. How could she reach Drew if he would not so much as speak to her? Unable to maintain her pretense of frivolity, she withdrew from the ball game, ignoring Theo’s protestations, and made her way into the house. Restless, she entered the library, and for some minutes simply stared blindly at the volumes displayed for her perusal in this elegantly paneled chamber, furnished with comfortable chairs and footstools.

Reaching for a volume entitled Martyrs and Their Deaths, a tome she felt precisely reflected her mood, she was stayed by the sound of the door opening behind her.

“Ah, there you are, Catherine. I wondered where you had got to.”

Miranda, the Countess of Barnstaple, entered the room, her step purposeful, as always. She was a small woman, but moved with such authority that one had no difficulty in envisioning a legion of distinguished forebears arrayed at her back. Drawing Catherine to a satin striped settee, she settled herself beside the young woman with a brisk crackle of skirts.

“Now, tell me,” she continued, “about your meeting with Drew yesterday.”

Catherine smiled tightly. “It did not go well, to put it mildly.”

In a very few words, she related her conversation with her betrothed. Miranda shook her head.

“I suspected it would be so. I would not have believed a man could change so drastically—and I do not refer to his physical impairments.”

“I am sure it is not to be wondered at,” replied Catherine slowly. “Aside from the horrors that have been inflicted on him, he has watched his comrades fall and die in unimaginable agony. I do not believe that those of us who have not experienced it can even remotely comprehend the effect of such carnage on the human spirit.”

“I’m sure that is true, but Drew is home now. among his family, and”—Miranda bent a significant glance on Catherine—”and those who love him. Yet, he remains as bitter and defensive as though he were still facing the enemy. I don’t think I have seen him smile since his arrival, and he meets every pleasantry with a caustic reply.”

“At least he will speak to you.” Catherine swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “He has made it more than plain that he would rather not so much as remain in the same room with me.”

“Oh, my dear.” Miranda placed her hand on Catherine’s. “This must be terribly difficult for you.” She lifted her eyes to gaze directly into Catherine’s. “I do not wish to pry, of course, but we have, I hope, become friends as well as neighbors, and it seems to me that after Drew left—and after Mr. Sills—that is, once you—Well,” she finished hastily, “it appeared that your feelings for Drew have grown—” She stopped short and lifted her hand in an impatient gesture. “Pah! How I hate roundaboutation. Catherine, it is my belief you have come to love Drew.”