Lady Silence (26 page)

Fool that he was, he was being shamefully
indulgent. His mother was like to comb his hair with a joint stool.
The chit was definitely a menace. He should breathe a sigh a relief
that she was out of the house and out from under his nose. So why
was he so pleased over an excuse to return to Bath, to question
Katy more closely about the Hardcastles?

He knew damned well why. He was besotted. His
mother’s needs had come in a close second to his desperation to be
rid of Katy Snow so he could get some work done. It was nothing but
lust, instigated solely by propinquity. That was all. He would
recover. Undoubtedly, the blasted minx was already eyeing every
gentleman in the Pump Room, looking for a new man to feather her
nest.

And what about Palmer and the doctor? There
were candidates for her hand close to home as well. All he had to
do was offer a modest dowry . . .

Damned if he would!

“
I beg your pardon!” Disconcerted,
Damon realized Miss Challenor had asked him a question and was now
looking up at him from limpid blue eyes that still managed to
remind him of his last visit to a brothel.

Lucinda Challenor waggled a finger at him and
repeated her question. Damon gathered his wandering wits, though
reserving a deep well of doubt, and replied with the smoothness of
a gentleman to the manner born. Beneath the surface, however, he
determined to cut short his stay at Castle Moretaine. He would
return to Bath as soon as possible. Unfortunately, everything from
a way to avoid spring floods to fixing leaky roofs and making plans
for spring planting must be dealt with before he was free to leave.
Silently, the colonel indulged in a succinct oath that had no place
in a countess’s drawing room.

The third week of February was not,
perhaps, the best time to go for a long walk on the precipitous
streets of Bath, but it had not taken Katy long to discover she
was, at heart, a country girl. Each morning she accompanied the
countess to the Pump Room, dutifully fetching a glass of the
sulphureous water from the hand of the liveried footman attending
the fountain. Each morning she sat and attempted to look interested
as the dowager chatted with friends or joined the parade of elderly
men and women circling the elegant Palladian room with its tall
arched windows and gracefully curved alcove with musicians’ dais
and gallery above. For the first few days, Katy had found it
colorful and exciting, a far cry from their quiet life at Farr
Park. The seamed faces, gouty feet, quavering voices, and shaking
hands had excited her sympathies, even as she had been fascinated
by the colorful, if unfashionable, display of clothing that did not
acknowledge the advent of the nineteenth century. But now, after
nearly three weeks, there was only one word for the Pump Room and
its parade of elderly and infirm.
Stultifying
.

Indeed, as far as she could tell, this dire
situation was true of the entire city. Except for a smattering of
servants, a few clerks in the shops, and a rare glimpse of a smart
dandy driving by in a curricle, she had not seen a single soul less
than a quarter century her senior. Even the companions who attended
the array of invalids were at least twice her age. So Katy escaped
one afternoon, charging down the hill past Queen Square, past the
old city wall all the way to the Avon, just downstream from
Pulteney Bridge, where she leaned over the rail above the river,
enjoying the river’s gentle ripple over the three cascades of the
weir and the elegant Palladian lines of the bridge itself.

But when she finally strolled onto the
bridge, she was amazed to discover it was impossible to tell she
was not simply walking down a street, for Pulteney Bridge was lined
with shops on both sides, with not so much as a shimmer of the
river to be seen. Intent on exploration, Katy passed the shops by.
Perhaps on the way back . . .

And then she was traversing fashionable Laura
Place and, soon, Sydney Gardens lay before her. A pause to find a
coin in her reticule, and then her feet were nearly flying down the
broad gravel path. Past empty tennis courts and a bowling field . .
. past the labyrinth, whose tall, shadow-filled hedges had no
appeal on such a brisk day—and, besides, who wished to be lost, all
alone, in a maze?

She crossed the full width of the gardens
until she came to the banks of the Kennet and Avon canal, which
connected the Thames with the Severn, bringing supplies to Bath
from as close as Bristol to the far-flung corners of the world.
This narrow cut of water, not more than twenty feet across, high on
a hill above the city, was part of a water route that led back to
China, India, or the New World. She had accomplished the long walk
from Brock Street only twice before, but she considered it well
worth the effort. She could sit on her favorite bench beside the
canal and let her imagination soar. What was under the canvas
coverings on those narrow boats designed to fit into locks and pass
each other on England’s intricate network of canals? Clothing
fashioned in London? Silks from China? Lumber from the Canadas? Or
merely a load of coal from Wales?

So in spite of the cold, Katy sat and
watched the needle-thin boats pulled by horses slowly plodding
along the tow path. Ah, yes, this was real life, not the sheltered
paradise of Farr Park, the arrogant pleasures of the London
ton
, or the doddering ancients of
the Pump Room.

Katy’s eyes widened as her thoughts
struck home.
Astonishing!
Was
this her grandfather, the wool merchant, talking? Was her
tradesmen’s blood so hale and hearty that it manifested itself
despite all her efforts to be a lady? Katy grinned, and waved to a
passing boatman. She was forever destined to
see
people, she feared. She could not
look
through
the
less-than-noble, as was the habit of the beau monde. When she
looked at Farr Park’s parlor maid, she saw Clover Stiles. When she
looked at the footman, she saw Jesse Wiggs. She saw Alice Archer,
Millicent Tyner, Humphrey Mapes, and Betty Huggins. She saw people,
not servants.

It was a curse. She would never make a proper
mistress for Farr Park. And, of course, a lifetime as the next
Countess of Moretaine was quite out of the question—even though her
Grandfather Challenor had been a bishop and son of a duke. It was
all very lowering. She was Katy Snow, who held her head high so she
could not see her feet of clay.

Katy lifted her gaze from the traffic on the
canal and took a good look around her. Gray clouds were roiling to
the west. Not only was the winter afternoon turning to early dusk,
but it seemed a storm might be threatening. She was a long way from
Brock Street, which was on the far side of the bowl, requiring her
to go down, then up again.

Katy settled her bonnet more firmly on her
head, stuffed her hands as far into her red fox muff as they would
go. If only her feet were encased in fur as well. The chill from
the gravel path had seeped through her sturdy half-boots until her
ankles seemed frozen in place, reluctant to move.

She had, of course, brought it on herself. No
one had made her walk so far on such a cold day. Wielding a
figurative whip over her reluctant body, Katy set a brisk pace back
toward the gate. Pulteney Street stretched out before her, surely
twice as long as it had been earlier in the day. As she approached
the bridge at last, the sky grew darker, the temperature plunged.
She could almost smell snow in the air. The enticing items in the
shops along the bridge would have to wait.

Ahead of her were several relatively
unchallenging blocks to Gay Street and then the long icy climb to
the Circus and Brock Street. The first snowflake fell, displaying
its crystalline pattern on her forest green pelisse before melting
into the heavy wool.
Snow
.
She had indeed brought this imbroglio on herself.

Snow
. So like
the huge flakes that had fallen the night she arrived at Farr
Park.

Katy Snow
. The
girl the cat dragged in.

Katy took a deep breath, firmed her lips,
straightened her shoulders, and set out for Gay Street. But as she
walked resolutely past what was left of the old Bath wall, she
caught a glimpse of shoppers still thronging Milsom Street. Surely
Milsom was as short as the other . . . and not quite so lonely.
Nor, perhaps, so steep. And with less ice underfoot, as the throng
of shoppers tromped it into shards that soon melted. Head down
against the increasing snowflakes, now great dollops of stinging
wet, Katy started up the slope of Milsom Street.

Chairmen, too, were hunching their shoulders
against the storm, hurrying home with their patrons snug inside
before the snow began to stick to the cobblestones. Wheels rattled
and hoofs clomped, as the few who kept carriages on Bath’s steep
streets, scurried home as well. Katy narrowly avoided slipping on
the slick walkway as she backed away from a lamplighter who
suddenly stopped in front of her, his long pole swinging high to
light a lantern. Muttering one of the colonel’s more meaty
epithets, she hurried on. It was still a long way to Brock
Street.

“
Katy, Katy Snow! Is that you,
girl?”

Katy grabbed for her bonnet as a gust
of wind threatened to send it tumbling back down toward the river.
Peering through the lacy curtain of fat wet crystals, she saw the
outlines of a curricle and four great horses stamping and snorting
their disgust over being brought to a sudden halt when visions of a
nice warm stable must have been dancing through the heads.
Damon!
It had to be Damon. Only a
through traveler would be driving four horses in the heart of Bath.
And Damon, she knew, preferred to drive himself on his frequent
trips between Farr Park and Castle Moretaine.

Crossing the broad expanse of Milsom Street
with her vision obscured by snow and the broad sides of her bonnet
was perhaps not the wisest thing she had ever done, but Katy dashed
forward with enthusiasm, dodging sedan chairs, carriages, and
pedestrians with all the alacrity of a steeplechase. She pulled up,
gasping, at the side of Damon’s sporting vehicle, grinning up at
him with pure joy. A moment to catch her breath before she could
leap up beside him.

“
Of all the lame-brained, tottyheaded,
idiotish nonsense,” the colonel roared. “What in the name of God
and country are you doing out in this weather? And all alone. Are
you mad, woman?”

Her toes were numb, lips blue, her nose
bright red. Katy didn’t need a mirror to tell her it was so. Her
clothing was white with a dusting of snow, her nose was going to
start to drip at any moment, and he wanted to read her a scold! She
gripped the side of the curricle, willed her frozen foot to rise to
the narrow little strip of metal that served as a boost. Damon was
alone and could not leave his horses, of course . . . but, blast it
all, that small foothold was so much higher than it had ever seemed
before. The angle of the hill? Or was it just that she was cold and
tired, and filled with fury?

Her foot found the metal bar. Gritting her
teeth, Katy dragged herself up . . . and up. A strong hand reached
out, hauling her firmly and safely onto the seat. Was that an
echoing sigh of relief she heard from her employer?

“
What are you doing here?” Katy
demanded as soon as she’d caught her breath. Her conscience
niggled. This was not at all the gracious thank-you she should have
been extending.

“
I arrived from Moretaine to discover
you gone out for a walk some hours ago. The entire household was up
in the boughs. Mama had already sent the servants to every nearby
park, the Pump Room, even as far as the Marine Parade. She was
quite beside herself. And Clover was certain you’d been snatched up
by an Abbess.”

“
Oh, dear. I never thought—”

“
You never do,” Damon snapped. “You are
the most outrageous child.”

“
I am nineteen.”

“
Really?” Sarcasm dripped, even as
Colonel Farr neatly turned his horses in the middle of Milsom
Street, bringing all other traffic to an abrupt halt. With a nod of
satisfaction, he urged the perfectly matched animals back up the
hill.

The horses labored. Lady Silence, seething,
lived up to her name as they reached the end of Milsom, turned left
onto George, then right onto Gay Street, leading them straight up
to the graceful curve of the Circus and finally into the narrow
confines of Brock Street.

“
Change your clothes, then meet me in
the bookroom,” Damon ordered curtly as he pulled up in front of the
burgundy red door. “I wish to speak with you.”

“
I do not need your scold,” Katy told
him as she pried her nearly frozen self off the seat and began to
edge over the side.

“
No scold. I daresay you have suffered
enough for your folly. I wish to discuss another matter
entirely.”

Now there he had her. Only slipping on
the ice that lurked beneath the snow and breaking her neck could
keep her from the appointed meeting in the room with a meager
selection of books that passed for a library. Katy tossed a brief
nod of assent and slid down, ostensibly ignoring the colonel’s
admonition to be careful, even as she made certain her boots had a
good grip on the cobbles. Light suddenly pierced the gloom. Jesse
Wiggs rushed out, offering a sturdy arm.
Home.
Whatever Damon had to say, surely it could
not take away this sense of belonging. No matter what the countess
said, this was her family. These were her people.