Marchington Scandal (20 page)

“Katharine!” echoed Mary Daltry.

Katharine sank into a chair and pulled off her hat. She was suddenly so exhausted she could hardly speak. “Yes. I went because there was nothing else to do. I hoped to stop it, but I didn't. Lord Stonenden is slightly wounded.”

Elinor shrieked. Mary merely looked very steadily at her charge.

“It is all right,” Katharine went on. “Only a scratch. Tom was very lucky that it was no more. He behaved abominably. He must be stopped, but I can't think how it may be done.”

“B-but what will Lord Stonenden
do
?” asked Elinor.

“What do you mean?”

“He is such a…such a frightening man. Won't he try to get revenge on Tom? He might—”

“This ‘frightening man,'” snapped Katharine, “fired in the air today, and he met your appalling husband only in the hopes of teaching him a lesson. He will
do
nothing. But
I
was tempted to deliver Tom to a magistrate, I may tell you, and see how he liked that.”

Elinor quailed before the anger in her eyes. “I…I'm sorry,” she murmured, clearly uncertain how she had offended.

“No, no, I am sorry, Elinor.” Katharine rubbed her forehead with one hand. It seemed she couldn't bear to hear Stonenden criticized, a development which merely intensified her misery. “I am tired, I think. And discouraged. I wish I could think of some new way to help you.”

But Elinor shook her head. “You have done so much. I could not ask any more of you, especially after today. No, I am beginning to think that Lady Agnes's visit was for the best after all. Tom will not listen to anyone here in London; perhaps he will listen to his father.”

“Is Sir Lionel coming up to town, then?” asked Mary.

“Yes, I got a note today. He and Lady Agnes will arrive on Tuesday. It will be terrible.” She shuddered. “I don't know how I will bear it. But I cannot think of anything else to try.” She drooped a little, looking absurdly young. “Indeed, I am almost glad sometimes that they are coming. It seems to take a great burden off my shoulders. I need only manage through two more days, and then they will take over.”

Katharine felt a certain relief herself. Though she deplored the elder Marchingtons' attitudes and methods, if they could control Tom now, she would forgive them a great deal. “I wish I might have helped you more,” she told Elinor.

“Oh, no. You did too much as it was. And I do thank you.”

“I don't see that I did anything,” answered the other with a wry smile. “All my plans failed.”

“But you kept up my spirits. And you taught me so much.”

“I?”

“Yes, about how to act and what to think and…and everything!”

Katharine stared at her, astonished.

“You did, Cousin Katharine. Indeed, I don't feel nearly as low at the idea of seeing Tom's parents as I would have before.”

“Well, I am glad of that. But I cannot think that I had much to do with it, Elinor. You have grown up a little, that is all.” She thought of the shambles she had made of her own life and added, “I truly hope you have not taken me as your model. I make a poor one.”

As Elinor protested this, Mary Daltry gazed quietly at Katharine, and when the younger girl took her leave a few minutes later, Mary came to sit closer to her cousin's chair, saying, “Tell me what is wrong, Katharine. I can see that it is something serious.”

Katharine looked up, meeting her compassionate eyes. Her first thought was to evade the question and escape to her bedchamber. She felt tears close to surfacing. But the real sympathy she saw changed her mind, making her realize that she needed to tell someone about the turmoil she was experiencing.

Taking a breath, Katharine repeated what she had discovered about herself that morning. It was very difficult to say. She faltered often, and once had to pause to fight tears. But at last it was out. She bent her head and drew a deep shaky breath.

“My dear…” said Mary, taking one of her hands and squeezing it.

“Yes, it is a dreadful tangle, is it not? And I thought myself immune to such things after Robert died.”

“But, Katharine, why should it be so dreadful? As you say, Lord Stonenden seems much improved. He strikes me as an admirable man. And I do think there may be some sort of misunderstanding about the countess. He told me—”

“There is no misunderstanding. I have not told you what happened when I tried to see him about the duel.” She proceeded to do so.

Mary Daltry frowned. “Are you certain…? Well, but of course you are. I cannot explain it.”

Katharine laughed hollowly. “I can. It is only too obvious that Lord Stonenden is in love with the countess. I daresay they may marry; she is a widow now, after all. But even if they do not…” She spread her hands. But despite her bitter certainty, she somehow hoped that Mary might contradict her, might see some explanation that she had overlooked.

Mary, however, seemed lost in her own thoughts. She appeared to be going over something in her mind, pondering each step. “I don't know,” she murmured to herself, “I simply do not know.”

Katharine laughed shortly again and rose to her feet. “
I
know, though I truly wish I did not. I should never have entered society again. I knew it, but I let myself be persuaded. And the consequence is, I haven't helped Elinor one jot, and I have ruined myself.” And with this, she ran from the room.

Mary Daltry was very quiet during the following afternoon. Katharine hardly noticed; she was too preoccupied with her own thoughts and, in any case, she spent much of it shut in her studio. But she was surprised when her older cousin decided to go out in the evening.

“Well, dear,” said Mary, looking a little self-conscious, “it is Julia Anson's musical party, you know, and I did promise her I would attend. It isn't important, of course, and if you wish me to stay with you…”

“Not at all. I am happy for you to go. I am poor company and want only to brood alone. I suppose that is why I was surprised.”

Mary nodded and rose to go upstairs. “I shan't be late.”

When she came down a little later, pulling on her gloves, Katharine heard her murmur to herself, “I don't imagine he will even be there,” as she passed the drawing-room doorway. She wondered at this for a moment, then forgot it as she was again overwhelmed by more personal concerns.

Mary did not return particularly early, and Katharine was in bed by the time she let herself in and walked up to her bedchamber. But the older woman looked quite pleased with herself and not at all tired. She had accomplished what she set out to do, being fortunate in finding the person she sought. The resulting conversation had been eminently satisfactory—more than she had dared hope at the outset. In fact, she was nearly certain that both the problems overshadowing their family would soon be solved, and solved in ways very pleasant to contemplate. As she pulled the covers up to her chin sometime later, Mary smiled. “I
am
glad I went,” she said to herself. “I was very right to do so.”

She said nothing to Katharine about her outing, beyond agreeing, when asked, that it had been quite nice. But at breakfast, she initiated an uncharacteristic conversation. “You know, Katharine,” she said as she poured out the tea, “I think we must go to Eliza Burnham's this evening. I saw her last night, and she was most insistent. She will be offended if we do not attend. It is her son's first appearance in society, you remember, and she is very anxious.”

“I had forgotten all about it,” answered Katharine. “But I cannot go.”

“I know you don't wish to, Katharine. But it will look peculiar. Eliza is known to be your particular friend. It will seem as if you had quarreled if you do not go. You have attended so many unimportant occasions this season.”

“I wish I had not! Oh, why did I not follow my own inclination instead of trying to interfere? I would have been so much happier.”

Mary said nothing.

“I can't face them,” pleaded Katharine. “There is the scandal over Tom, and over my poor picture, and now this duel. I cannot bear to be questioned in that horridly sweet way, with those sidelong glances. I can't, Mary!”

Her cousin looked distressed, but determined. “I understand how uncomfortable it is, dear, and I will help you avoid such people. But this evening is important to the Burnhams. I think you should go, if only for a little while.”

Katharine rested her forehead on her hand. The truth was, she might have faced the gossip of the
ton
—she didn't care enough for society's opinion to be afraid of it—but she could not risk encountering Oliver Stonenden. She had the irrational conviction that if she saw him even once more, she would do something irredeemable. Then, abruptly, she remembered his wound. Though it had not been serious, surely he was not going out just yet, particularly not to a party such as Eliza's, which he would probably have avoided in any case. She was unlikely to see him there.

Katharine raised her head. “All right. I will go. But only for half an hour.”

Mary's expression relaxed. “Certainly,” she replied. And mentally she immediately began composing two notes, to be sent off directly after breakfast.

***

Katharine dressed that evening with great reluctance. The quiet day she had spent had not made her any more eager to go to Eliza's. But she also took particular care, wanting to look her best for all the eyes that would certainly be on her. And when she looked in the mirror before leaving her bedchamber, she felt some satisfaction; no one, seeing her, would guess that she felt quite miserable. She had chosen a striking gown of coquelicot satin, which highlighted the deep brown of her hair and intensified the amber of her eyes. The dress would call attention to her, which was unfortunate, but it also made her look vibrantly lovely, which should discourage those who thought her practically in a decline over the occurrences of the past weeks. Her ornaments were of old gold, and they made the costume richer still.

When she went down to the drawing room, Mary surveyed her approvingly. “Lovely, dear,” she said. “It is so good to be out of mourning at last, is it not?”

Katharine nodded absently. “Shall we go? We may as well get this over.”

“Of course. The carriage is ready.”

They said little on the drive, though Mary glanced at her cousin several times, and they arrived at Lady Burnham's town house in good time. Several other vehicles were discharging passengers as they climbed down, but to Katharine's relief, none were close acquaintances. They greeted Eliza warmly and walked into her drawing room, which was already filling. Andrew Burnham was holding court in one corner, surrounded by a large group of young people. Katharine waved at him. He grinned and returned her salute.

“Shall we sit down?” said Katharine then, looking for an inconspicuous place.

Mary agreed, and they found chairs near the windows. Katharine examined the crowd for people she wished at all costs to avoid, among them Lord Stonenden, Lady Jersey, and the Countess Standen. Though she did not think the gentleman would appear, the two ladies were only too likely to be present, and she could not bear the idea of talking to either of them.

More guests arrived, and the room filled so completely that it was impossible to see everyone. Lady Burnham's son Andrew came over to them and chatted until he was pulled away by one of his friends, who wished him to convince his mother to allow a little dancing. He went laughing, promising to return.

“A charming boy,” said Mary when he was gone.

“He is, isn't he? Eliza should be proud.”

“Indeed. There is Eliza, by the by. I believe she is coming to speak to us.”

Katharine smiled. “I'll tell her she needn't include us in her rounds. She must be quite distracted trying to talk to everyone.”

“Katharine! Mary!” Lady Burnham sank down in a vacant chair beside them. “I'm exhausted. Is it going well? I haven't dared look.”

“Very well,” Katharine assured her, her smile broadening. “Andrew is behaving charmingly.”

“He is a dear boy, isn't he?” Eliza searched the crowd for her son, who was again the center of a laughing group. “He always seems so happy; he has since he was a child.”

“He is very lucky.”

“Yes.” Eliza seemed to think of something and straightened. “But, Katharine, I came over because I particularly want to show you something.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Come with me, will you? You will excuse us, Mary?”

“Of course.” Mary met Eliza Burnham's bland gaze with a look just as innocent.

“But you are so occupied,” protested Katharine, as she also rose. “I could call on you tomorrow.”

“No, dear, I must show you now. Come.”

Katharine followed Eliza across the drawing room and down a hallway to the back parlor. There the older woman paused, then said, “Someone may come in. Let us sit down in the writing room.” And she walked through a curtained archway into a very small chamber beyond. The tiny room was nearly filled by two chairs and an aged writing desk. “Yes, we will be very private here,” Eliza added. She sat down and opened her reticule. “I have it here.” She searched through the meager contents of the bag. “Now, where is it? I distinctly recall putting it in my reticule.” She searched further. “It's gone.” With an angry sigh, she rose. “I must have left it on my dressing table. Wait here a moment, Katharine, and I will fetch it.”

Rather amused, Katharine said, “What is this mysterious object?”

“I must show you. You will wait?”

“Of course, Eliza.”

“Good. I shan't be long.” And she passed through the curtains again and was gone.

Katharine looked around the room, but there was little to amuse her. A broken pen lay on the desk, along with a few sheets of stationery, and there was a single dog-eared copy of the
Spectator
on the other chair. The branch of candles Eliza had brought in hardly illuminated the chamber, and Katharine was about to get up and move into the parlor to wait when she heard voices approaching and shrank back. She didn't want to meet anyone in this isolated room, for she might be trapped by some inquisitive person and be unable to escape.

Accordingly, when the newcomers entered the parlor, Katharine shamefacedly pushed back the edge of the curtain and peeked out at them. Perhaps it was Eliza, waylaid as she returned, or some other friend she would not mind meeting. But to Katharine's consternation, the couple in the outer room turned out to be Lord Oliver Stonenden and the Countess Standen.

She immediately let the hanging drop from her fingers and inched away from the opening. The two people she most wished to avoid, and she was trapped by them! There was no exit except through the parlor, and though she tried to steel herself to rush out with a hurried excuse, she found it quite impossible. She could do nothing but return to her chair and huddle there, hoping that they would leave or that Eliza would return to rout them.

Thus it was that she could not help but overhear the conversation between the man she loved and his mistress. The very idea made her flush scarlet—it was so low and dishonest—but her only other choice was insupportable.

Stonenden and the countess seemed to be continuing a dispute begun earlier. “You must send him about his business,” the man was saying. “You must tell him precisely what you think of him, in unmistakable terms, and rid us of this embarrassment. I cannot tolerate this sort of thing any longer.”

“Did he really shoot you?” replied Elise Standen softly. She sounded not altogether displeased by the idea. “Over me?”

“I have told you that he did. And he has made a spectacle of you and of himself. It must be stopped.”

“Yes.” The countess sighed audibly. “But you know, Oliver, it is so gratifying to be admired by a man fifteen years younger than oneself. It gives me such a lift.”

“Doubtless.” Stonenden's voice was dry. “But we have been over this before. If you prefer his attentions to those of older, more experienced men, there is nothing more to be said.”

There was a rustle of silk. “You know I do not,” murmured Elise caressingly.

“Well, then, send the boy on his way.”

“And if I do?” This was spoken so softly that Katharine could barely hear it. She wished she had not.

“Then the field will be clear,” answered Stonenden.

“Yes.” The countess was clearly dissatisfied with this reply.

“I am weary of this discussion, Elise,” added the man. “Very weary. In fact, I don't believe I wish to have it again. You must do as you please, but I cannot be expected to tolerate young Marchington any further. And, by one means or another, I shan't.”

“Yes, I know, I know. All right. I will speak to him at the first opportunity.”

“Splendid.”

There was another rustle. “It will be wonderful to be together without
any
annoyances, won't it, Oliver?”

“I have never managed to live without annoyances,” he said.

“Oh, why are you always so—?” But before the countess could complete her complaint, new voices were heard approaching the parlor. Katharine recognized Eliza's, and sighed with relief.

But Eliza was evidently not alone, for as she entered the outer room, she was saying, “I believe I saw them come in here. Yes, here they are, Tom. And if you will excuse me, I must check on the ices. I hope they are not spoiled in this heat.”

There was a silence. Katharine sat frozen with astonishment. Eliza knew she was in here! Why had she abandoned her in this horribly embarrassing position?

Beyond the curtain, Tom Marchington said, “So!”

“Very dramatic,” replied Lord Stonenden approvingly. “You know, Marchington, you really belong on the stage.”

“You…you blackguard,” retorted Tom. “You have lured the countess in here alone, but I shall—”

“Hardly lured. Eh, Elise? But the countess has something to say to you, Marchington. Go ahead, Elise.”

There was a silence. Katharine could imagine the expressions on the faces of the three in the other room. The countess was obviously still reluctant to speak. Finally she said, “Tom, I believe we have made a mistake. I think the…the feeling we imagined we had for one another—”

“Imagined?” roared Tom so loudly that Katharine worried he might be heard in the drawing room.

“The countess of course speaks for herself,” offered Stonenden helpfully. Katharine bit her lip to keep from giggling. This situation, though intolerable, had its elements of farce. How
could
Stonenden talk in that mocking way, under the circumstances?

“You keep out of this,” growled Tom.

“The truth is,” put in the countess, “that I wish you would leave me alone, Tom. I was mistaken.”

“You deny all the things you said to me?”

“Well, really, Tom, I never promised anything. We had a charming flirtation; we both enjoyed it, but it was no more than that. And these things must come to an end.”

Though this was remarkably like something Katharine remembered Tom saying, he responded with an inarticulate growl of rage. “
He
is making you say this,” he said. “He has some sort of hold over you, and he is forcing you to give me up. But I won't let it happen.”