The Waltzing Widow (21 page)
Viscountess Catlin seized upon his demand with almost frenzied insistence. She turned to her granddaughter. “Yes, yes! Abigail, you must come with us. Your mother has completely lost her mind, you must see that. I shall not allow you, at least, to fall into the hands of those mad rapining French dogs.'’ Her hands tightened on her granddaughter's arm. “Come with me now and I shall help you to pack your prettiest things."
The viscount stared at his granddaughter, his expression unreadable. “Which is it to be, Abigail? Shall you choose flight to safety with us, or uncertainty, perhaps even death, if you should stay?"
Horrified, Abigail stood rooted to the carpet. Her wide frightened eyes traveled from her grandmother's adamant expression to her grandfather's grim countenance. Her gaze finally came to rest on her mother's calm face. “Mama..."
Lady Mary smiled faintly. She glanced at her father, who met her eyes with something akin to triumph in his cold gaze. “Your grandfather knows me too well, Abigail. I cannot in all conscience make this choice for you. Often enough you have told me that you are a woman grown. Abide by that, Abigail,” she said quietly.
Though her heart was hammering in her ears, she did not allow her feelings to be revealed in her expression. She was not certain how she wished for Abigail to decide. On the one hand, she would bitterly miss her daughter and regret the inevitable strengthening of the viscountess's influence. But if her faith in the Duke of Wellington and the British troops was misplaced, the marauding French would indeed descend on Brussels. She would infinitely prefer that Abigail be spared any such fate.
The vision conjured up by her imagination was so appalling and so frightening that she involuntarily threw up her hand against it. The words to urge her daughter to go trembled upon her lips.
But Abigail, after struggling with her own helplessness and doubt, had already made up her mind. “I shall stay with Mama,” she said, somewhat pale but speaking bravely.
"My darling, you do not know what you are saying!” Viscountess Catlin exclaimed. She captured both of her granddaughter's hands. “Abigail, you must attend to me in this and be guided by one much older and wiser in life!"
Abigail gently disengaged herself. She wore an expression that for all its sweetness bespoke firm determination. “But I do know, Grandmama. I am choosing to be foolish and brave and perhaps a bit mad. So many of us are, I think. I, too, wish to know about William. And there are others.” With the last admission, she suddenly flushed.
The gathering of tears in her grandmother's eyes shook her resolve and she appealed for understanding. “Oh, don't you see, Grandmama? I must stay, or otherwise I should regret it all my life."
But the viscountess was beyond understanding. “You may well regret it, in the very instant of losing your life,” she said bitterly.
Viscount Catlin, on the point of sarcastically congratulating Lady Mary on her victory, was struck to silence when he saw his daughter's closed eyes and pained expression. “My dear Mary!” he exclaimed, alarmed by her uncharacteristic betrayal of weakness.
Lady Mary at once recovered herself. She shook her head against him and she looked somberly at her daughter. “Be very certain of what you do, Abigail. I do not think that the chance to leave Brussels in safety will come again."
"I know, Mama. But I have thought it over and I realize that I must stay,” Abigail said softly.
Mother and daughter exchanged quiet smiles, in that moment their spirits having a full comprehension of one another. When the viscount saw their complete agreement, his shoulders sagged. He was defeated. He had gambled upon his daughter's innate sense of fairness and he had lost both her and his granddaughter. His sense of honor would not allow him to go back upon the lines he had himself drawn. He took hold of his wife's elbow. “Come, my dear. There is nothing more that we can do here,” he said gruffly.
The viscountess stared up at him in bewilderment. Then she glanced at her daughter and her granddaughter. “But we cannot simply
leave
them like this!"
"Of course you cannot. You must stay for tea,” Lady Mary said, deliberately misunderstanding her mother's meaning.
Abigail at once placed a detaining hand on her grandfather's tensely held arm. “Yes, you must stay. I insist upon it. After all, it may be the last time that I ... that we..."
Her voice broke as she choked on sudden tears. With a strangled sound the viscountess fell into her granddaughter's arms and they both started to cry. “Oh, Grandmama! I shall miss you so dreadfully!” Viscountess Catlin but wailed and sobbed harder.
Lady Mary turned away to brush at the tears that were falling down her own cheeks. A handkerchief appeared before her watering sight and she took it, putting it to good use. She turned to look up at her father and tried to smile.
"Somehow I never thought to see you in tears, Mary,” he said.
The lack of his customary sarcasm was obvious. Lady Mary winced. “I am not so unfeeling as that, Papa,” she said quietly. She went to pull the bell, and upon the entrance of a footman, requested that tea be brought to the drawing room. She glanced at the viscount. “I have a favor to ask of you, sir."
Viscount Catlin allowed himself a sardonic smile. He could not banish the sudden leap of his heart as he thought that perhaps she was having second thoughts. “You've the cold nerve of the true aristocrat, daughter. You do not lose your coolness of thought, whatever the moment. What is it you wish of me?"
"I wish you to offer seats to any of our English servants who may wish to leave us to return to England,” Lady Mary said.
After the slightest hesitation as an expression almost of pain crossed his face, the viscount acceded to her request with an abrupt nod. He turned away to stare out of the window, his hands clasped tightly behind him.
Overhearing, Viscountess Catlin exclaimed, “Mary!"
But upon meeting her daughter's cool steady gaze, she said nothing more to urge Lady Mary and Abigail to change their decision, understanding at last that it was useless. She sighed and said only, “We have but the one carriage. How shall we manage it, Victor?"
The viscount did not mm around. He spoke over his shoulder. “I assume since Mary wishes it, she will also turn out another carriage to handle the business."
"Of course. I shall order out the horses at once,” Lady Mary said, going again to the bell rope to call in the footman. She sent a quiet message by the footman to those of the household who had accompanied her and Abigail to the Continent that the opportunity to return to England was available. There was nothing more to say then, and the four waited in awkward silence for the tea tray.
When tea was brought in, Viscountess Catlin at once offered to pour. Lady Mary allowed her to do so, understanding that her mother was desperate for something to occupy herself and even that simple act would be of help to her. She turned her attention to the ritual of a proper tea, calmly offering biscuits to her companions and accepting a cup of tea from her mother's trembling hands.
The half-hour spent over tea was uncommonly subdued, as each was preoccupied with private thoughts. Occasionally one or another would recall his or her social obligations and leap in with some comment or other that would cause a momentary flurry of vivacious speech, which would then wither away as quickly as it had arisen.
After the tea was done there was no more reason to delay. The viscount and viscountess rose to take their leave. It was a painful farewell. Viscountess Catlin clung to her daughter and granddaughter while slow tears slid down her lined face. Even the good-bye said between Lady Mary and Viscount Catlin was a lingering one, punctuated by his clearing of his throat.
As she looked up into her father's face, she was stabbed to the heart by the suddenly haggard look in eyes that she had always thought of as unfathomable. “You must not be anxious on my account. Papa,” she said softly.
Viscount Catlin forced his habitual mocking smile to his lips. “Allow me my moment of fatherly concern, Mary. It is not often that I indulge in such weakness."
Lady Mary and Abigail accompanied the viscount and viscountess from the drawing room. In the entry hall stood those who had traveled with the Spences to the Continent.
Miss Steepleton was dressed in her traveling pelisse and two battered portmanteaus rested beside her feet. She looked at her mistress, her pasty face marked by dull red patches of shame. “I do not know what to say, my lady. It is true. I am deserting you. But the chance to leave this place—not to have that horrible cannonade again pounding away at me or fear the French at the door at any moment ... oh, my lady! Pray say that you forgive me!"
Lady Mary took Miss Steepleton's cold hands in hers. She was not particularly surprised by the woman's decision, since Miss Steepleton had suffered progressively worsening of her nerves from the hour that the cannonade had begun, and at every panic had become visibly fainter at heart and more hysterical. “Nonsense, there is nothing to forgive. You must go back to England and recover from your ordeal here."
"You are too, too kind, my lady!” Miss Steepleton gasped. She disentangled herself from Lady Mary's light hold and fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief, which she used to blow her reddened nose.
Lady Mary's maid came forward to pay her respects to the viscount and viscountess and wish the travelers well. Abigail's maid hovered, looking frightened and confused. She was obviously torn between her duty to her mistress and an evident desire to be able to join Miss Steepleton. The maid, Beatrice, told her gruffly, “Get your things, there's a good girl. No one will be thinking poorly of you, least of all Miss Abigail."
"Indeed not, Molly,” Abigail said immediately. She hooked her hand through the maid's trembling arm. “Come, I shall myself help you to gather your belongings."
Viscount Catlin had observed the proceedings with increasing annoyance. His irascible demand not to be kept standing about hurried the two girls upstairs. He brought out his watch and muttered to himself.
Within a very few minutes all of the travelers were reassembled on the front steps and the good-byes started all over again. The viscount exchanged a hard embrace with his granddaughter. “I am depending upon you to take care of yourself and of your mother, who is an extremely foolish woman,” he said gruffly. Abigail nodded mutely, fearing to trust her voice.
While the viscountess took affectionate and morose leave of Abigail, the viscount turned to his daughter. He raised her cold fingers to his lips. “My dear Mary, I have often been angered by your obstinacy, but perhaps never more than I am today,” he said gratingly.
"I know, my lord. But I shall never be other than I am,” Lady Mary said. She reached up on her toes to kiss his hard cheek. “The grace of God be with you and my mother."
He smiled in a wintry fashion. “Better, perhaps, that He remain here with you and Abigail.” He looked at her a long moment, then said, “I have never told you this before. Though I have often been infuriated by your decisions, I have come to respect and admire your strength of character."
Lady Mary regarded him with genuine surprise. “My dear sir, you astonish me. However, I shall always be careful to recall the stress of the moment under which you confessed such weakness to me, so that I will not hold you to that good opinion."
The viscount smiled faintly, for once completely without mockery. He touched her cheek with a light finger. “My very dear daughter,'’ he said softly. As surprised tears sprang to Lady Mary's eyes, he turned away to sharply remind his wife that time was wasting. “At this rate we shall still be on the road through the night,” he complained.
The Catlin servants, Abigail's maid, and Miss Steepleton got into the carriage that Lady Mary had ordered brought around. The viscountess clung to Abigail and Mary until the last possible moment before the viscount urged her with ungentle hands up into their carriage. The viscount started to follow his wife, but hesitated on the carriage step to look up at Lady Mary standing above him on the town house steps. “Have you got another team of horses, Mary?” he asked harshly.
Lady Mary smiled faintly, and there was a gleam of understanding in her gray eyes. “Yes, my lord. I am not wholly without a sense of preservation."
"I am most happy to hear it,” the viscount said, at his most sarcastic. He swung himself up into the carriage, signaling the driver with a wave of his arm before he firmly shut the door. The carriage started off with a jolt and rattled away. The window was thrown open and the viscountess's head appeared. She waved and blew kisses to Lady Mary and Abigail, only withdrawing back into the carriage as the corner was reached. The carriage carrying Miss Steepleton and the servants followed close after its leader.
Lady Mary and Abigail had stood on the front steps, continuing to wave until both carriages had turned out of la Rue du Musee and become lost to sight.
Lady Mary dropped her hand. She felt at once saddened and content. It had been many years since she had felt so close to her parents, and it had taken a second wrenching separation to bring it about. She touched her daughter's elbow. “Come, Abigail. We should go in out of the rain,” she said quietly.
Still staring down the crowded street, Abigail said in a low voice, “Do you think we shall ever see them again?"
"I hope so. Indeed, I pray so,” Lady Mary said. She put her arm around her daughter's slim waist and an instant later she felt Abigail's arm slide around her. They smiled tremulously at each other. Together, their arms still about each other, they reentered the house.
Before the ladies had a chance to go up and change out of their damp day dresses, the Earl of Kenmare arrived. Lady Mary immediately ushered his lordship into the drawing room and inquired whether he would like refreshment. Abigail quietly joined her mother and the earl, not wanting to miss anything of possible interest.
Lord Kenmare declined Lady Mary's offer. He spent little time on preliminaries, but came straight to the point. “I called on you to tell you what I have learned from an aide-de-camp of the Duke of Wellington's, who left the army at four o'clock to carry news of the action to us here in Brussels."
