Anne Barbour (21 page)

Catherine felt herself go first very cold, then exceedingly warm. She had never discussed her feelings for Drew with anyone, not even John. An automatic denial sprang to her lips, but in the face of Miranda’s obviously sincere concern, she replied hesitantly, “I—I am not indifferent to him.”

Miranda smiled. “An understatement, I believe, but I am glad to hear you say it. I must, however, confess to some puzzlement. You and I were not acquainted at the time of your, er, infatuation with Mr. Sills, but by all accounts you expressed your displeasure with Drew at some length. I am wondering how you underwent such a profound change of heart after Drew left.”

Catherine’s heart thudded uncomfortably and her mouth went dry. “Oh. Yes. Well, I have known Drew since we were both in leading strings, and I always liked him.” She laughed awkwardly. “At least, when he was not pulling my hair or perpetrating some ghastly joke on me. He was a very good sort of boy,” she concluded lamely. She twisted her hands in her lap under Miranda’s waiting silence and forced herself to continue. “As we grew older—well, if the truth were known, I phased into a period of violent infatuation for him. He could not see me for dust, of course, but I wove all sorts of fantasies about him when I was in my early teens. I had outgrown such feelings by the time I was sixteen or so, but we remained friends. In fact, if it were not for my ridiculous—and very temporary—infatuation with Randolph Sills, I should probably have agreed willingly to a betrothal with him, even though at the time my agreement would have been based solely on the fact that one must marry, after all, and I held Drew in great affection.”

She drew a deep breath. “After Drew left, and I saw Mr. Sills in his true colors, I was terribly sorry for the way I had treated Drew. I thought about him a great deal—the, um, admirability of his character—and all that—and I realized that he is all that a woman could ask for in a husband.”

Catherine’s gaze remained locked on her fingers, still clenched in her lap, but she was aware of Miranda’s silent skepticism.

“Of course,” replied the countess smoothly. “Purity of character and high moral purpose are just the qualities that would entice a maid to fall head over heels for a man.”

Sudden tears flooded Catherine’s eyes. She was a private person and had never allowed herself a true confidant. Even John, who was aware of the details of her perfidy, was not privy to her feelings about Drew. But Miranda had become a good friend in the two years since she had come to Graymore Abbey as Ceddie’s wife, and Catherine knew a sudden, overpowering urge to open her heart to this kind, no-nonsense little woman.

She sat very still for a long moment before she spoke again.  “Tell me, Miranda, do you remember Helen Carstairs?”

“Of course. She visited here often with your mother. A nice young woman, if rather quiet. Wait,” Miranda said, arrested. “Drew mentioned her just recently. In fact, he spoke her name almost as soon as he got in the house. Ceddie told me later he had been writing to her.” Her brow creased slightly. “I gather the correspondence became somewhat warm. He seemed quite devastated at the news of her marriage. I must say, I was rather surprised. Miss Carstairs seemed so very proper—not at all the sort who would embark on a clandestine correspondence between a betrothed gentleman and an unmarried lady.”

“She didn’t.”

“But—”

“It was I who wrote to Drew—using Helen’s name.”

The countess fairly gaped. “You! You carried on a correspondence with your own fiancé—under a pseudonym?”

Catherine shrank into the settee. “Yes—I did. Oh, Miranda,” she cried, “I know how it sounds. I don’t know how I could have launched on such an outrageous charade. Not that I regret any of it, of course. I could have bitten my wretched tongue off at the roots right after I hurled that vicious tirade at Drew. When John had told me of his refusal to so much as open my letters, I knew I deserved nothing better, yet I longed to make amends. It was John who had made the suggestion—only as an irony—that I might try writing Drew under another name.

“I responded with suitable mockery at the time, but later the idea slowly took possession of me. John brought up the notion again, with the additional hint that a letter from, say, Helen Carstairs, our mother’s prosaic companion, would no doubt be received with platonic gratitude by a lonely soldier.”

“And you did not think of what would happen later—-when Drew came home?”

Catherine flushed. “No. I plunged into my pretense, with no thought as to its ultimate consequences. I suppose you cannot understand, but I was so delighted by Drew’s willing reception of and response to ‘Helen’s’ chatty missives. He told me that my insights and warmth came as a delightful surprise—and it was not long before he began to share his innermost thoughts with me—with Helen, that is.”

Catherine’s expression became dreamy and she gazed unseeing at the landscaped lawn beyond the library window. “I found I had more in common with my brother’s friend than I had ever dreamed and—and I was touched as I had never been before. I filled pages with my own response, and when Drew received his grievous wounds I cried with him and did my best to provide balm for his ravaged spirit.”

She straightened and turned to look directly at Miranda. “The day came at last when I realized I had committed the supreme idiocy of falling in love with a man whose regard I had effectively destroyed. And now”—her eyes filled with tears once more and her voice sank to a whisper—”and now, I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, my dear.” Once more, Miranda reached to touch Catherine’s hand. “How awful for you.”

They sat thus for a few moments, then Miranda straightened and continued in her customary brisk tone. “Well, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. What’s done is done, and we must consider how to bring the matter to a happy conclusion.”

Catherine stared at her in surprise. “Happy conclusion? How can you say so? There can be no such outcome for me.”

“Nonsense. Drew is in love with the woman who wrote those letters, is he not?”

“Well-—I don’t know. He never breathed a word of his feelings in his letters, though I sensed that he ... But, what does that matter? If he has given his heart away, he believes it is to another woman.”

“You are not listening,” responded Miranda patiently. “He loves the woman who wrote the letters, and that woman is you.”

“But—”

“All you have to do is apprise him of that fact. It may take him a few days to accustom himself to the idea that the woman he loves is actually the woman he is to marry in three weeks’ time, but I’m sure he will understand your reasons for deceiving him so delightfully.”

“Delightfully? I am not at all sure Drew will see my little masquerade in that light. Really, Miranda, you have no concept of the depth of his loathing for me right now.”

She rose and paced the carpet for several moments. “But you are right,” she continued at last. “I must tell him what I have done. I can continue my lie no longer.”

She bent a tremulous smile on the countess, who also stood, just as a gong sounded in the distance. “It is time to dress for dinner,” she said. “Let us hope that by the end of the evening, you and Drew will have resolved your difficulties and we shall all be looking forward to a happy wedding day.”

Catherine’s smile faded. She was not nearly so sanguine as Miranda on Drew’s response to a confession of her perfidy. In any event, she could not possibly tell him the truth so soon. She would see what transpired over dinner, and then perhaps tomorrow ...

Leaving Miranda in the corridor outside the library, she made her way wearily to her room.

* * * *

Drew’s heart sank as he entered the dining room along with the other family and friends trooping in for the evening meal. It must have been Ceddie who ordered that he be placed next to Catherine.

He had successfully avoided her in the preprandial gathering in the blue salon. Not that she was easy to ignore. Tonight, she wore a deceptively simple gown of blue silk that clung to her lithe curves in a sweep that began just under her breasts and fell to the tips of her matching kid slippers.

God, she would be a witness to his inept struggle to feed himself. She would watch as he had to summon a footman to cut his food, and she would see his pathetic efforts to butter his roll. He almost turned and fled the room, but, taking a deep breath, he took his place at the table. He must not give in to his stupid panic. This is how he was now, and he must face down his humiliation. His lips curled in a bitter smile. Perhaps his crude performance as a dinner partner would be enough to disabuse Catherine of her avowed wish to marry him. Turning to Catherine, who was now seated beside him, he raised his wineglass to her.

“You are in looks tonight,” he said shortly.

Did he imagine the flash of pleasure that shone in her eyes for a moment?

“Thank you,” she said simply, then after a moment, added, “Did you enjoy your fishing expedition with John this afternoon?”

He grimaced. “We came home empty-handed, I’m afraid, although I enjoyed getting out to the brook.”

The conversation languished until Drew, in a spurt of desperation said, “The abbey is looking prosperous. I was struck by how green everything is—especially compared with Spain.”

“Oh, yes,” breathed Catherine. “I remember—” She stopped, appalled. She had almost said she remembered his descriptions of the heat and dust of the endless Spanish plains. “That is, I have heard that the climate in Spain is very nearly insupportable.”

He uttered a sharp bark of laughter. “That is hardly the word. The grit blew into one’s very skin, as did the suffocating heat. Sometimes our column seemed like a serpent, writhing along the plain, caked with dust and withering with thirst.”

He paused abruptly, surprised that he had unburdened himself to such an extent. He had not spoken so before except to Helen. He became aware of a footman at his shoulder, proffering a platter of roast beef. To his surprise, the man deftly scooped a portion of meat onto his plate, already cut into bite-sized portions. The vegetables that followed were green beans and sliced parsnips, both easily managed with one hand, and another servant provided him with rolls, already cut and spread with butter.

He supposed he had Ceddie to thank for this, he thought. Or—no, it must have been his sister-in-law, he surmised as he intercepted an understanding smile and a slow wink from the countess. His returning smile was rigid. He should be grateful for these little attentions, but they only served to remind him, in mortifying detail, of his present situation.

When he looked again at Catherine, she had turned away to converse with the partner on her other side. Drew bent over his plate, devoting himself to his dinner.

Catherine gave scant attention to Squire Bentwaters. All her senses seemed riveted to the conversation taking place on her right. Drew was speaking to Mrs. Portlarington, a middle-aged matron who had known him all his life. To Catherine’s surprise, he appeared to be responding courteously to the lady’s pleasantries. She grimaced inwardly. Perhaps it was only with her that Drew elected to vent his spleen.

After giving a proper amount of time to Mrs. Portlarington, Drew turned back to Catherine. His conversation was bland and unexceptionable. At the end of the meal, when the ladies withdrew to leave the gentlemen to their port, she breathed a small sigh of relief. Perhaps Drew was getting over his antipathy toward her. Perhaps there was a chance she might reach him after all.

This pleasant delusion continued until the gentlemen joined the ladies again in the gold salon. Drew had just entered the room, his eyes going directly to Catherine, but upon sighting her, he had moved in another direction. Lady Barnstaple reached out a hand to intercept him.

“Lovely evening,” she said in a minatory tone.

“Yes, it is,” replied Drew warily.

“The moon is full and the stars are out. You will wish to enjoy a stroll on the terrace with Catherine,” continued Miranda, her tone brooking no dispute. She beckoned to Catherine, who was standing in conversation with her mother. Lady Edgebrooke, her gaze meeting that of the countess, gave her daughter a slight push and, blushing, Catherine moved forward.

Theo Venable also moved forward, as though he would intercept Catherine, but a threatening glance from Miranda halted him in his tracks.

Thus, a few moments later, Drew found himself strolling on the terrace beside his betrothed, her hand tucked in his arm. He noted with some surprise that he felt comfortable with Catherine at his side, though her closeness brought a most unwelcome response. He guided her to a stone bench.

“It is time we talked,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

Catherine drew a long breath, “I suppose it is.” She placed her hand on his and Drew fancied he could feel its warmth spread over his body. “I know you have cause to dislike me, Drew,” she continued. “My behavior before you left was inexcusable. I can only offer in my defense that I was young—and spoiled—and fancied myself desperately in love with someone else. I have been granted my every wish since I was a child, and I simply could not conceive that my parents actually intended to make me do something I did not want to do.”

Lord, he wished she weren’t so beautiful, thought Drew. The moon, as advertised, beamed brilliantly, drawing glints of deep fire from her hair. Her eyes were starshine on velvet and it seemed to him that they were filled with the ineffable sweetness he remembered from the days when he had fancied himself falling in love with her.

He pulled away slightly, so that her fingertips fell from his sleeve.

“And Helen?” he asked tightly.

Catherine made no attempt to reestablish the brief contact, but she leaned toward him. Drew immediately became aware of the familiar scent of her, a combination of flowers and, he thought, a hint of lemon.

“Please believe me,” she replied, “I did not encourage Helen in her romance with Mr. Dench in order to spite you, nor did I keep her from telling you of her marriage plans.”

Again, Drew pulled back.

“That’s as it may be, but you see”—he struggled to maintain control of his voice—”I rather lost my heart to her.”