Beyond Innocence (26 page)

Hypatia's description of her as a woman disappointed by love hadn't struck her as widowlike. Could losing one's spouse to an early death sour one on the institution of marriage? Her father hadn't been that way, but perhaps
Florence
hadn't seen enough of life to know the forms that grief could take.

She composed herself on the hard green sofa, expecting the duchess's friend to turn and greet them.
The woman, however, was not yet finished with her servant.

"Bertha," she said in a voice even softer than before. "Was that the butcher's boy I saw hanging about
the back door this morning?"

A dull flush crept up the lowered face. "Jeb was only dropping off the meat."

"You know how I feel about my servants having followers."

"Yes, ma'am.
I wouldn't do that to you.
Not never
."

By this time,
Florence
was feeling sorry for the
embarrassed
girl. When her eyes darted towards her mistress's guests,
Florence
offered a tiny smile. If the maid saw it, it did not abate her misery. "Shall
I bring the tea now, ma'am?"

Their hostess patted the slump of the maid's big shoulder. "You know I'm only thinking of you, Bertha.
A woman
caa
so easily be led astray."

"Yes, ma'am.
The tea?"

"Of course, Bertha.
And use the tongs to arrange the okes. You know I can't abide finger marks." With that, ifceir hostess finally turned. Her smile was lovely;
peaceful
?
-.
en
, like a nun who had spent her life in prayer.
Florence
found herself warming to her, despite her peculiar treatment of her servant. She rose from the couch and offered as graceful a curtsey as she could. The woman seemed to appreciate the effort. Her smile curled more deeply into her cheeks.

"You must be Florence Fairleigh. Hypatia has written me of your many virtues. I am Catherine Exeter, the Honorable Miss Exeter until my father died. But that is ancient history. I hope you will call me Catherine, as my dear old friend Hypatia does. From all she has said, I feel as if I know you already."

"It... it would be my honor,"
Florence
stammered, darting a startled look at Aunt Hypatia. Just how much had the duchess told her friend? She felt distinctly off balance as she settled back into her seat.

"You're engaged to Freddie Burbrooke, are you not?" Catherine asked, perching like a bird on the edge of a delicate green and white chair. Her demeanor spoke only of interest, polite but genuine.

"Yes,"
Florence
answered, fighting her impulse to turn to the duchess for guidance. She knew she must not appear overly enthusiastic. "I think we shall suit. He is a kind man."

"I'm certain he seems so," Catherine said. "But a woman can never be too careful. The kindest face can hide a heart of stone, especially when that face belongs to a Burbrooke."

This extraordinary speech robbed
Florence
of hers.

"Catherine," said the duchess in almost as gentle a scold as her friend's.

As if it were a joke, Catherine released a musical laugh, one that must have charmed her suitors when
she was young. "You're right, of course. I must not forget that nest of vipers is your family." Her eyes sparkled with humor as she patted the arm of the couch beside Hypatia. "The Burbrookes brought me you. For that I will always give thanks."

"We can both give thanks," said Hypatia, answering Catherine's smile with one of her own. "Now tell
me, old friend, what gossip have I missed since I last stopped at Greystowe?"

The pair had much to catch up on and
Florence
was happy to relinquish the burden of conversation. Their speech was filled with exclamations like "no" and "indeed, it's true" and "who'd have thought she'd do such a thing?"
Florence
could tell they were enjoying themselves. As soon as the tea and cakes were comfortably dispersed, she rose to wander the room, taking care not to brush its ornaments.

A lovely fruitwood spinet sat in the farthest corner, with an old Church of England hymn spread open on its stand. She was tempted to sit and play, despite her indifferent skill. Instead, she touched the ornate silver frame of the single photograph on its top. An elegant young woman in rich modern dress gazed serenely out at
Florence
. The resemblance between her and Catherine Exeter was striking. She had the same sleek fair hair, the same doll-like perfection to her face. The photographer had captured not only
her beauty but her confidence. Here was a female secure in her womanly charms. If Catherine Exeter
had looked like this when she was young,
Florence
had a hard time imagining the man who could disappoint her.

"Ah," said Catherine now, "I see you've found the picture of my niece. Pretty, isn't she?"

"Beautiful,"
Florence
agreed.

Her hostess crossed the threadbare carpet to stand behind her. With the tip of her finger, she made an infinitesimal adjustment to the picture
Florence
had just released. "She writes me every week, you know.
Keeps me apprised of the doings of society.
Foolishness, most of it.
But my Imogene is a sensible girl.
Married as well as a woman can, mith her head and not her heart.
Her husband gives her everything she wants."

"How
.. .
fortunate
,"
Florence
said, not sure how to respond. Despite her words, Catherine Exeter was frowning, as if the beautiful image did not completely satisfy.

"Yes," she said musingly, her lips turned down. "Fortunate.
Keeps him wrapped around her finger.
Only safe place for a man.
My Imogene would never be so foolish as to fall for a Burbrooke."

Florence
squinted at her hostess, perplexed by the strangeness of her tone. She seemed to be trying to convince herself of something she knew to be untrue. And what grievance could she have against the Burbrookes? Twice now she had mentioned them disparagingly.

"Catherine," Hypatia warned, but this time her friend did not let the dangerous topic drop.

"No, Hypatia," she said, her eyes remaining on
Florence
. "The girl has a right to know what she's getting into. Oh, I don't say Freddie is the worst of the Greystowe males. I leave that honor to his brother. But the blood is bad. It chills their hearts and forks their tongues. No one can hold them, neither with beauty nor with charm. By all means, take what you need from them, but do not give them your trust; do not give them your love. If you do, you' 11 spend your life ruing the day."

Florence
's heart beat unevenly in her throat. The woman's claims struck a chord she could not silence. She had given Edward her love and she did indeed rue the day. And Freddie—could he be cold? Was that why he didn't respond to her kisses?
But no.
She shook herself free of her fear. Freddie liked her; that could not be feigned. As for Edward, if he broke her heart, it would be her fault, not his. He had never promised her anything. He might be moody and brusque, but she'd wager her soul that he was honest.

"I'm sure you must be mistaken," she said, somewhat breathless beneath the intensity of Catherine's gaze. "Edward and ... and Freddie are very good men."

"The best," Hypatia seconded. She had risen as well and now laid a soothing hand on Catherine's back. "Neither of them are anything like their father."

Catherine gave a little shudder before her expression cleared.

"Perhaps," she said. "But you must promise me"—she captured
Florence
's hands—"should they ever
hurt you.
should
you ever need help, you'll do me the honor of turning to me."

Florence
hadn't the faintest notion what to say.
Luckily.
Aunt Hypatia loosened Catherine's grip on her hands. "I'm sure that won't be necessary," she said. "My goddaughter is a sensible girl."

Her friend blinked. "Good. Good. I am gratified to hear it. But should you need me do not hesitate to ask."

The duchess stroked the back of Catherine's neck where it rose above the ruffled black silk of her collar. It was, for her, a gesture of uncommon tenderness. "Perhaps we should be going, my dear. We don't wish to overstay our welcome."

"Never," said her friend with a warm, staunch smile. "You are always welcome here. But I know you must have other calls. Letty Cowles will never forgive me if I keep you to myself. She has two new grandchildren, you know.
Boys."

Hypatia's laugh was comfortable. "Indeed, we must not rob her of her chance to crow."

The two women clasped shoulders and exchanged affectionate kisses.
Florence
could see the shadow
of their youth in their smiles; the ease of their lifelong friendship. Abruptly, she regretted the departure
of Merry Vance. Would she ever be known by anyone as Catherine and Hypatia knew each other: her flaws forgiven, her foibles understood?

She waited until the coachman flicked the reins across the horses' backs to ask the question that had
been pressing on her mind. "Catherine is the woman Edward's father jilted, isn't she?"

"Yes," Hypatia admitted, twisting her palm over the head of her ivory cane.
"Just one of his many sins.
The odd thing is
,
I think Stephen truly loved her. He always treated Edward's mother coolly, as if it
were her fault she'd been the daughter of a duke. Poor thing never knew what she'd done wrong.
Always fluttering about trying to make up to him."

Florence
shivered in spite of the heat. She prayed she'd sever know that kind of pain.

* * *

Edward could tell
Florence
wasn't well. Off her feed, Jenkyns would have said. She didn't ride, didn't laugh,
didn't
sneak off to the kennel to spoil the dogs. Without a hint of her old anxiety, she followed the duchess on her round of local calls, taking tea with the old ladies as if life held nothing more interesting than grandchildren's antics or the beadle's wife trying to pretend a ten-year-old dress was new. They
even went to visit that loony old bat, Catherine Exeter, the one whose door the boys in the village made
a dare of touching. Considering her history, Edward knew he ought to make allowances, but she had
once pelted three-year-old Freddie with a brace of windfall apples.
Called him a spawn of the devil, simply because he'd tumbled over her wall during a game of hide-and-seek.
She'd apologized later,
and their mother had accepted, but Edward had never been able to forgive her. He didn't care how
many socks she knitted for the poor or what a God-fearing Christian she was.

If
Florence
could visit a woman like that without complaint, there was definitely something wrong.

Even Aunt Hypatia noted her loss of verve.

"Missing your friend?" she probed one night at dinner. "It's a shame she had to leave, but Edward
could take over your lessons."

Florence
shook her head. "I'm just a bit homesick. Your friends remind me of the ladies I knew in Keswick."

"Hmpf," said Aunt Hypatia.

Edward longed to echo her skepticism. A bit of homesickness didn't put circles under a girl's eyes or cause her to pick at her food like a bird. He couldn't remember the last time
Florence
had looked
directly at him. As uncomfortable as that intimacy could be, he found he missed it
And
what did she
mean by shaking her head at the suggestion that he help her with her horsemanship? He knew such
an arrangement was inadvisable, but that she would dismiss it out of hand pricked him like a nettle.
Irritating chit.
Did she think he'd sent Merry Vance away to spite her?