Lady Silence (20 page)

“
He did not say. I presumed—which I
should not have done, of course—that I would be allowed access to
the bookroom, the stables, the village. Truly, nothing was said
about my being a prisoner. Only that I was to stay
here.”

“
Very well. If the earl has any other
instructions, I am sure he will write.” Mapes selected a bell rope,
gave it a pull. “You may retire, Snow. I will have Wiggs bring up
your baggage.” He paused, unaccustomed uncertainty crossing his
angular face. “Are we to be given your true name and background,
miss, so we may know how to address you?”

“
I hoped you might still call me
Katy.”

“
Inappropriate,” Mapes returned
gravely. “But if anyone wishes to address you as ‘Miss Katy’ rather
than ‘Miss Snow,’ I shall allow it.”

“
Thank you,” Katy murmured.

“
Surely you do not intend to continue
your deception . . . Miss Snow,” said Mrs. Tyner. “We are—have
been—your friends. How can you still refuse to tell us who you
are?”

“
Please understand that I have very
good reasons why I cannot go back to . . . to the place where I was
living before I came here. It was
not
my home.”

“
Poor lamb,” Cook choked out. “You’ve
had a bad time of it, have you not?”

“
Enough!” Mapes snapped. “You may leave
us, Miss Snow. The kitchen, as you have always known, is not the
place for a lady. No matter how devious and conniving she might
be.”

When Katy reached the haven of her
bedchamber, she knew she could not bear the sight of one more
disapproving face. So she nodded her thanks to Jesse Wiggs and
flashed him the smile he had always seemed to like so much. His
answering grin and words of welcome were a spark of warmth in Farr
Park’s sudden chill. Let him find out from others. She’d suffered
enough from convicting herself with every word out of her own
mouth.

And what now?

Perhaps the vicar would write her a
character? He had known her for years. A good man, surely he would
not hold her deception against her?

Yes . . . she very much feared he would.

The doctor or Mr. Palmer? A character from an
unmarried man was out of the question, as good as a recommendation
to the life proposed by Major Foxbourne and Captain Thayne.

Did she really
wish
to be gone when Damon came home? Was pride
that important? Was fear of being sent back where she came from
enough to send her running from all she loved?

But Farr Park was only a minor property now.
Castle Moretaine was the primary seat of the earls of Moretaine.
Perhaps the Park was to be her prison, after all. She had been
exiled, to grow old here, abandoned to her misery.

She was eighteen! With a whole long life to
live. And live it she would. Though the how of it reminded her
forcibly of that biblical verse about seeing through a glass
darkly.

What about her mother’s family? She was not
destitute now. Other than an occasional ribbon or sweet, she had
had no use for the wages earned at Farr Park. So she had the
wherewithal to go adventuring. Her mother was an Alburton, and
there had once been grandparents who had taken her in, ready to
bring her up as their own. No matter the Bishop of Hulme’s opinion
of their fitness to do so.

Yes, perhaps that was what she should do. In
all honesty, it was, quite possibly, what she should have done long
ago. Except . . . she had not wished to leave Farr Park. Or her
glorious imaginings of the master of Farr Park, who, someday, would
come home.

And now, with those dreams scattered by the
winds of reality, she must face up to the invidiousness of her
position. Yet how did one find a wool merchant, named Alburton, who
was likely long dead?

Katy, resting on her favorite
chintz-covered window seat, broke off her musings, her speculations
suddenly bowled over by the realities of this long, horrid day. Was
it possible she had begun it in eagerness, feeling the wind in her
hair as she rode beside the stream at Castle Moretaine? She had
been so thrilled to be out of the house at last, leaving behind the
oppressiveness of grief, compounded by Drucilla’s dramatic
posturings
.
For a few
fleeting moments, she had been free, the whole world laid out
before her. Free to dream of ways to conquer an earl, now risen so
far above her touch.

And then . . . her whip struck the major’s
face . . . the retaliating sting against her cheek . . . clawing
hands at her breasts . . . skirts up over her head.

The discipline of years broken at last, she
had screamed. And ruined her life.

And now they all hated her. By tomorrow, when
word spread, she would not have a friend left. Worse yet was the
one thing she had not allowed herself to think about. It was too
much, much too much. A problem far too complex to be analyzed in
the strained conditions of a house of mourning. A problem that,
perhaps, defied analysis at any time or place.

For who was Lucinda Challenor? And why had
the Hardcastles claimed her?

Talk about deceit!
For if there was one thing that bold hussy was not, it was
Lucinda Challenor.

For Katy Snow was Lucinda Challenor.

~ * ~

“
Clover!” Katy, catching a glimpse of
her friend disappearing down a side corridor, threw ladylike
behavior to the winds, hiking up her skirts to chase after the Farr
Park maid. But when she turned the corner, the hallway was empty,
every door shut. “Clover,” she called more softly.
“Clover?”

Not Clover
too
.

Already this morning, Katy had
encountered no more than a stiff back and poker face from Jesse
Wiggs. Dear Jesse, who had offered blind adoration for years, not
to mention staunch support whenever her high spirits had forced
Lady Moretaine, Mapes, or Mrs. Tyner to scold her. And now . . .
Clover.
Et tu, Brute?

Katy opened each door in turn. Clover Stiles
was not going to elude her. The fourth door revealed a young woman
in a gray gown with crisp white apron and cap. She was busy,
suspiciously busy, running a feather duster over the high wooden
tester above the bed. She did not look up from her task.

“
Clover . . . please . . . I would like
to explain . . .”

The feather duster paused, descending slowly
as the maid stepped away from the bed. Dropped an exaggerated
curtsy. “Was there something you needed, miss?” she inquired, her
eyes focused somewhere past Katy’s shoulder.

Katy bit her lip, tears threatening. So
far she had managed to endure rejection rather well, she thought,
but Clover . . . the girl so determined to better herself. Surely
she could understand. She
must
!

“
Yes, I need something,” Katy told her.
“I need someone to listen to why I—”

“
Excuse me, miss, but Mrs. Tyner’ll
have my liver and lights if I don’t get this whole corridor done
this morning.”

“
Clover . . . you’re my friend . . .
for years.”

“
Well, that was before, now wasn’t it,
miss? Can’t be friends with a real lady like yourself. Talkin’ so
hoity-toity, words just rollin’ off your tongue. Fooled us all,
didn’t you? Made game of us. Thought we weren’t good enough for the
truth. Friends for years, indeed, miss,” Clover spat. “And not a
drop of trust.”

Katy retreated into the silence that
had been her refuge for so long. She had no rebuttal to Clover’s
words. Guilty as charged. She wanted to try again, to
make
her friend listen, but her
tongue seemed to swell, choking off any possibility of speech. Katy
managed a slight nod. A gesture of apology . . . acceptance of
Clover’s rejection. Good-bye.

Blindly, she stumbled back to her bedchamber
and closed the door on the outside world. She had planned to take
her hoard of coins and go into the village today, to consult Mr.
Trembley, the local solicitor. The one possession remaining from
her childhood was her mother’s bible. And above the names of her
parents, Harold and Belinda, were the names of her maternal
grandparents, Matthias and Emily Alburton. Throwing herself on the
mercy of the lofty and distant connections on her father’s side of
the family, headed by the mighty Duke of Carewe, seemed quite
impossible. But a wool merchant—or son or daughter—might be more
willing to take pity on a long-lost relative.

At this moment, however, her courage failed
her. She must give the villagers time to absorb the news, reel with
the shock . . . and possibly find a modicum of pity, deep down in
their souls, for a poor lost child.

For now, she would ride out on Mehitabel,
dear Mehitabel—very likely her last true friend in all the world.
Katy tore at the buttons of her gown as she rushed to change into
her habit. But when she threw open the wardrobe door and saw the
cavalry blue jacket and white braid she had once adored, the habit
she had worn so proudly into the woods only the morning before, she
cringed. Her old one must be here somewhere . . .

Garbed in the forest green habit that
threatened to burst its seams at any moment, Katy guided Mehitabel
to all her old haunts, making a valiant effort to recapture the joy
she had known here for so long. Inevitably, she and the bay mare
found their way to the fateful hill overlooking Farr Park. Where
Katy suddenly slumped in the saddle and burst into tears.

It was lost to her now, her glorious,
wonderful Farr Park, its beauty and comfort dust without the love
of those within its borders. The only honorable course was to
leave, never darken the doors of Farr Park ever again.

Never see Damon.

Serena, her dear countess.

Mrs. Tyner, Mapes, Cook, Clover, Jesse . . .
all those who had been so dear.

She must let her dreams of Damon go. The Earl
of Moretaine was not for the likes of Katy Snow. Nor for Lucinda
Challenor, overly indulged granddaughter of the Bishop of Hulme.
Not even for the great-granddaughter of the Duke of Carewe. Her
claim to gentle birth—tainted by trade and a shockingly
unconventional upbringing, not to mention deceit—was far too
tenuous.

Two days. She would give the village of High
Henton two days before she drove the gig into town and consulted
Mr. Trembley. If they mocked her, reviled her, so be it.

She could not say she had not earned it.

Katy’s meeting with Mr. Martin Trembley went
well, almost as if he were asked to find long-lost relatives on a
weekly basis. She could only suppose that solicitors encountered a
great many strange things in the course of their profession. Her
lingering hopes of sympathy from the villagers did not fare as
well. Even the vicar’s wife gave her the cut direct.

She was anathema. Cast out.

The eyes of the village boys, now grown to
young men, grew bolder. Narrowed with speculation, their avid gazes
bored into her back as she drove by. She had no protection. The
staff at Farr Park might address her, coldly, as Miss Snow, but to
these ruffians she was the lying chit who’d managed to pull the
wool over the eyes of the gentry, a spirited miss who was likely up
to all the rigs and rows and ready for anything, including a roll
in the hay. Katy shivered, and urged the cart horse into a
trot.

She escaped the village, only to be brought
up short a half mile from the gate to Farr Park when another gig
suddenly swerved across her path.

“
How fortunate we should meet like
this,” declared William Rowley, the doctor, who, as usual, was
dressed in the height of fashion, his burgundy jacket pristine, his
beaver at the perfect tilt in spite of driving on rough roads in an
open carriage . “My dear girl, is it true you have found your voice
at last?”

“
As you may have heard, Mr. Rowley,”
said Katy, very much on her dignity and recalling every grope of
the handsome doctor’s hands, “I have always been able to speak. I
simply did not choose to do so.”

Mr. Rowley did not bother to hide his spark
of anger. “So you include me among your victims, Miss Snow. Did you
think to attach me? I assure you I would never stoop so low as to
pick up vermin off the street.”

“
Back your gig, doctor. I wish to be on
my way.”

“
Home to Farr Park, is it?” he taunted.
“Do they still treat you as a queen then?” Rowley snorted his
disbelief. “By all means, return to your cage, sly weasel. I trust
the earl will see you are properly chastised when he returns.”
After a mocking salute with his whip, the doctor deftly backed his
horse, allowing her to pass.

Katy’s hands were shaking so hard she was
grateful the old cob knew how close she was to a nice sack of oats,
setting off briskly for the turn into Farr Park.

She must leave, she must leave.

A runaway, once again.

No!
This time
she would be running
to
.

Surely, oh surely, the Alburtons would want
her . . .

“
I beg your pardon,” Damon said,
knowing his mouth was agape. Knowing full well he sounded as much
of a fool as he felt.

“
I spoke quite clearly,” declared
Drucilla, the younger Dowager Countess of Moretaine, enthroned in a
gilded chair whose seat and back were upholstered in a heavy satin
brocade only a shade or so brighter than the countess’s
suspiciously red lips. Her gown was a half-dress of black lace
opening over a shimmer of black silk. Diamonds glittered at her
throat and dangled from her ears. She looked magnificent. And knew
it. With a thin smile and a flutter of her long lashes, she purred,
“You cannot possibly have mistaken my meaning.”