An Unlikely Countess (9 page)

“I don’t understand you, Prudence,” Susan said. “Does he not offer you the respectable status of a well-married woman?”

“Yes.”

“A prominent position in local society?”

“Yes.”

“A home under your governance, and a family to cherish?”

“Yes.”

“And the likelihood of a country estate?”

“Yes . . .”

“Then why do you hesitate?”

Prudence knew why. Because Cate Burgoyne shimmered in her mind, dazzling her to reality and good sense.

What a fool she was! Even if they were to meet again he’d have no interest in her. And if he did, she wouldn’t want to marry him—a wild, penniless drunkard. Henry Draydale was sober, rich, and steady.

And, she must accept, no other suitor had come forward.

She’d attended tea parties, soirees, dances, and the theater. She’d met a number of eligible men and some had seemed to enjoy her company, but none had approached Aaron with an offer of marriage. She understood why. Even well fed and groomed, she was no beauty, and her height was off-putting to shorter men. Draydale topped her by an inch or two.

Cate Burgoyne by—

No, she would not think of him, though she did wish there were another suitor.

The portion Aaron—or rather Mr. Tallbridge—had provided was small. She’d thought that perhaps the connection to Tallbridge would attract some merchants, but that seemed not to be the case. Perhaps the sister of a son-in-law—an impecunious and dependent son-in-law—was not of value.

She’d been paraded in the Darlington marriage market and there had been only one bid. If she refused, her options were not attractive. Susan and Aaron would have to continue to house her, but they’d have no obligation to be so generous. She’d dwindle into being the sort of poor relation she’d resolved not to be.

Mr. Draydale did seem to be attracted to her, which had to weigh in the balance. It showed in the way he looked at her, and even in things he said. His attention and words sometimes embarrassed her, but she was just being missish there. She knew what marriage involved and would do her part.

Yes, as Susan said, Henry Draydale, esquire, of a respectable Yorkshire family and wealthy through his own endeavors, was precisely the sort of husband she’d bargained for.

“Very well,” she said. “If Mr. Draydale offers for me, I will accept.”

“T
he old stone cross,” Cate said. “Whe I was returning from school, that was always the marker. Keynings would soon be in sight.”

“And a blessing be upon us all,” Perry said. “Civilization, a decent bed, and an end to this incessant banging about.”

“You insisted on coming.”

“I never imagined the roads could be so atrocious, even in the north.”

Cate was still looking outside. “Ah, there it is.”

On this southern approach, Keynings showed itself on its rise unveiled by trees. When one was traveling from the north, it appeared slowly, as if the trees drew back bit by bit.

“A handsome house,” Perry said, “though plain. A modern hand would add pillars and Palladian villas.”

Roe had spoken of such things. Cate had hated the idea.

He let down the window so he could see more clearly. It looked well with the lake visible and wildflowers around. The complexity of birdsong made him smile, for it was the music of Keynings.

But then he remembered. How dared he smile? How dared nature celebrate life in the midst of death?

Tears stung his eyes, and not for the first time. He forced them back. Tears might serve him well, persuading others that he grieved rather than gloated, but he’d be damned if he’d weep to meet expectations. In any case, his tears would be over a week too late. The earth must already be settling over Roe’s grave.

Perhaps his rush to get here had been a mistake. Given that he could never have made the funeral, he could have lingered a day or two in Town and found some sort of mourning clothes. He could have slept longer on the journey so that his thinking wasn’t so fuzzy. He could have eaten with more leisure so that his innards weren’t in such turmoil.

All for what?

In an attempt to balance a lack that was no fault of his.

“A pleasant park,” Perry said. “Though I dislike the taste for dark trees.”

Cate knew he was referring to the dark beech, with its purple-black leaves—one of Roe’s prize additions. He, too, thought it jarred with the natural foliage, but he couldn’t say that now.

“Suitably funereal. Roe has—had—an interest in exotic trees. We’re about to pass some of his more successful imports. Gingko trees, from Japan.”

“Charming,” Perry said, but perhaps without enthusiasm. Did he, like Cate, think the foreign foliage just a little too bright? While people like his brother imported and pampered gingkoes, good old English oak, necessary for shipbuilding, was in short supply.

Unpatriotic. He remembered saying that to Roe when he’d been here last, but now the thought seemed a betrayal.

But he didn’t like the unnatural darkness of that damned mournful beech.

Cate looked the other way, but that showed him the lake and the willow tree, weeping.
Salix babylonica
. He remembered that name because Roe had quoted from the Bible.
By the waters of Babylon, we sat down and wept. . ..

Damnation
. He blinked back tears.

The willow was struggling to live, not being well suited to the northern climate.
I’ll keep it alive for you, Roe.

That was his responsibility, now, either as owner or guardian, to care for all of this—for the lake, the trees both native and imported, the grazing deer, the carefully planned gardens, and every damn blade of grass.

And Keynings, a long dun-brown stone building of simplicity and dignity set amid gardens in full spring charm. For the first time Cate realized that the sun shone in a clear blue sky. Nature never mourned, a fact made brutally clear in war, but he wished for rain.

“How old?” Perry asked.

Yes, he did need to talk of ordinary things. “Most of it, seventy years. The fountain garden was constructed to celebrate Roe’s birth.”

Perhaps that was why no water flowed. Might it not have been more suitable for Neptune and his twining fish to weep?

The fountain was surrounded by a circular knot garden, and the graveled drive curved around it. The coach followed that route and drew up at the base of the wide steps that led up to the tall front doors, upon each of which hung the Earl of Malzard’s escutcheon, draped with black.

He’d not seen those before. He’d been too far away and too engaged in action to return when his father died.

With precise timing, the doors opened and four footmen marched out in the green Malzard livery, all with black armbands and wearing black gloves and stockings. Too many footmen for the simple tasks of opening the chaise door and receiving Cate’s and Perry’s valises, or dealing with the two small trunks in the boot.

Did that mean he was considered the earl? Or was everything in abeyance, awaiting Artemis’s word? As he’d hastily packed in London, Perry’s footman had taken a letter to the House of Lords. It had informed the officials there of the death, and asked for clarification of inheritance law. The answer had come that it was for the peer’s widow to declare that she was, or might be, with child. Barring that, the title and all appertaining to it passed to the heir assumptive.

So what had Artemis said or not said?

One footman opened the door. Another pulled down the steps. Cate felt a shameful temptation to huddle inside, almost as if he faced the gallows. Noblesse obliged, however, with the relentless force of a millstone driven by a river in flood. He climbed down.

Immediately, a gentleman in sober dress stepped forward to bow. “Welcome home, sir.”

So all was still uncertain.

The speaker was the house steward, ruler of the domain, but what the devil was the man’s name? Not Threaves, the one Cate had known as a boy, and who now lived in comfortable retirement in rooms in the north wing. This brisk, fortyish man had been here during his visit two months ago, but now he couldn’t remember the name.

Grief should excuse the lapse.

“Thank you,” Cate said. “My friend Mr. Perriam accompanies me.”

He made himself walk up the steps without a backward look. No need to pay the postilions. The steward would take care of that. No need to carry his possessions. More than enough willing footmen.

No need to worry about Perry, who could always take care of himself.

Relieved of all burdens except the most onerous, he need only walk and talk and be . . . what? How did he balance the possibilities that he was the earl, or guardian to a future baby earl?

He passed through the hatchmented doors and into the entrance hall. It might have been comforting if it reminded him of his boyhood. He’d been happy then. During Roe’s reign, however, he’d refurbished this space in the modern style. The oak paneling had been stripped out and replaced with pale gray walls, faux-marble pillars, and reproductions of Grecian statues in blue niches.

That and other changes had come as a shock two months ago, though Cate hoped he’d hidden it. He’d been able to honestly say that all was elegant and the equal of anywhere, but he’d mourned the old Keynings. During his years away the idea of cozy, old-fashioned Keynings, dark with paneling and alive with his father’s dogs, had been a comfort in a chaotic world.

His mother wasn’t here to greet him, but he hadn’t expected that. No unseemly displays in front of the domestics. She’d be in the drawing room upstairs. Cate turned to Perry and the steward, whose name still eluded him. That seemed an ominous beginning.

“I’ll leave you in good hands, Perry. Kindly see to everything,” he added vaguely to the steward, and set off up the solid right-angled stairs, savagely pleased that Roe hadn’t had time to rip them out and put in a lighter curved design that he’d spoken of.

In fact, nothing had changed in the two months since he’d been here last.

Except everything.

If only he hadn’t left in anger.

The drawing room door was closed, but a footman stood nearby and moved to open it. Cate went through and heard it close behind him.

This room, too, had been brought into modern style, but here it was a happier result. Pale walls and bright upholstery caught the light of the three long windows hung with ivory curtains. The lighter wood of modern furniture suited the new design.

His mother sat on one yellow-upholstered settee near the central window, a book in her hands. Roe’s widow, Artemis, sat on another at a right angle to it; she was engaged in stitchery, the piece of white cloth stark against black. Both were in deep mourning clothes, their faces etched by their recent loss.

He was etched, too. Did it show as clearly?

On the journey he’d struggled to find the right words for this impossible situation. To offer condolences would imply that he didn’t feel the same degree of grief. To express his regret at the possibility of inheriting the earldom would put them in an awkward situation. How could they respond? To ask whether Artemis might be with child was impossible.

He bowed. “Mother, Artemis, this is a sorry matter.”

His plump mother responded with a sad smile—and perhaps a wince at his garb—and extended a hand. “Indeed it is, Catesby, but we both know you will do your best.”

If only she didn’t sound as if his best could not possibly be good enough.

He took her hand. “I’ve come with all speed, Mother.”
Dammit, apologizing already?

“It happened without warning,” Artemis said quietly. “I, too, could have been away. I took the children to Galgarth Hall last month. . ..”

He turned to her gratefully. “There truly was no warning?” Devil take it, tears swelled in her eyes. “My apologies. I’m sure you don’t want to speak of it.”

“No, it’s all right,” she said, and blew her nose with a black-edged handkerchief. “But please sit, Catesby. You’re so tall. Just like . . .”

“Malzard” hovered in the air. Artemis had always called her husband Malzard in public. He and Roe had been close in height, though Roe had always been less broad. In truth, he’d been thin despite a healthy appetite.

Cate moved a chair and sat between them, perhaps hit hardest by Artemis’s deep, quiet grief. Whatever trials she might have expected in life, her husband’s death so young could not have been one of them.

Roe had chosen the perfect wife—not a beauty, but a woman of pleasing appearance and kind heart who possessed all the grace and poise necessary for her position. She was a Howard, from that powerful Yorkshire family, though quite far on the family tree from the Earl of Carlisle.

She was also—or had been—a good-humored woman, perfect foil to Roe’s sober side. That glow had been extinguished. Though she seemed calm she was drained of lightness, and despite her assurances it seemed she couldn’t speak of the death.

“Something in his head,” said his mother harshly. “We should have sent for the doctor sooner, but it was only headaches.”

“There was nothing to be done.” Artemis looked at Cate. “He complained of the headaches only in the last days, though I suspect he’d suffered in silence for a while. They grew in intensity, defying even opium, which is when we grew alarmed. But by the time Dr. Selby arrived . . .” She inhaled and controlled herself. “A blood vessel burst in his brain. There was nothing anyone could have done.”

“I wish it had been me.”

Cate regretted the words immediately. They must agree, but could hardly say so.

“It was God’s will,” Artemis said, setting another stitch, “and He will support you in your new burdens. We sent word to you immediately.”