The Bishop's Daughter (16 page)

And after that, her hours had fallen into a routine. Kate winced, seeing clearly now all the little tasks she had manufactured, tasks to give herself some sense of importance, something to do while she waited. She sagged down upon the settee, her struggles against the realization no longer of any avail.

She had spent the last year of her life waiting for Harry to come home.

"No! No, I didn't," Kate said, but the whisper sounded feeble in the room's unrelenting silence. She hugged one of the settee cushions to her breasts as though that soft silk could somehow shield her from the truth.

She had flattered herself that she had been so sensible, sending Harry away, avowing that she could never be his bride. Yet had her foolish heart not always kept on hoping that someday, somehow she would be able to give Harry a different answer?

What had she expected? Kate wondered bitterly. Some sort of a miracle? Harry's return from the dead had indeed seemed like one, but the fates conspired again most cruelly to show her that the bishop's daughter and Hellfire Harry were worlds apart. The neglect of his lands, seeing him in the company of that dreadful Ffolliot man, hearing the tale of how he had gambled his horses away—all of that should have been more than enough to convince Kate that her Papa's warnings against Harry had been justified.

And still she did not want to believe anything bad of Harry. Still she feared that if he gave her that smile that seemed to draw her straight to his heart, if he asked her again to wed him, she would want to fling herself into his arms with a resounding yes.

"What am I going to do, Papa?" Kate murmured. How could she end this torment? Even if she went away from Lytton's Dene, Harry could always follow her. How could she put herself forever beyond temptation?

The answer came to her unbidden with the memory of Lady Dane's harsh words
. It is your duty to marry.
If she were betrothed to another man, Harry could no longer continue to tease her. He could not keep proposing to a woman who was pledged to another.

The thought seemed to settle in her stomach like a lump of cold lead, but Kate had never been shy about embracing her duty, no matter how painful the prospect.

However Lady Dane's suggestion of repairing to London for the Season would not do at all. No, Papa would never have approved of that. He had always said that the city was filled with naught but rackety young men like Harry.

Kate was quick to suppress the unhappy thought, concentrating on the sort of man the bishop would have wished her to wed. A scholar, a man of sound moral principle, sober, steady, a man very like Adolphus Thorpe.

The mere notion of the solemn vicar made Kate quail and long to dive back to her bedchamber and pull the covers up over head. She promptly felt ashamed of herself for this reaction.

Why not Mr. Thorpe? Had not Julia strongly hinted that the vicar harbored an affection for Kate? Kate had never glimpsed any sign of such emotion upon Mr. Thorpe's impassive face, but Julia likely knew her own brother's heart far better than Kate.

Adolphus was so handsome, so virtuous, so worthy. As the vicar's wife, her life would be filled with peace and respectability, fraught with useful purpose. But no love, no laughter, no breathless expectation of something delightful waiting just to happen.

Kate pressed a hand to her brow as though to quell this dampening reflection. She must put all such nonsense out of her head. Her consolation must be that she was at last acting with wisdom.

She knew that Julia and her brother would attend the assembly tomorrow night. Kate would also go, just as she had promised her grandmother. If she discerned any evidence of partiality in Adolphus Thorpe, Kate meant to offer the bashful clergyman every encouragement to ask for her hand.

The resolution brought her little comfort, but at least she felt exhausted enough to return to her bed. Back within the confines of her room, she snuffed out the candle and burrowed wearily beneath the coverlet.

Yet no sooner had she closed her eyes than Harry's face appeared to her with haunting clarity. He seemed to stare at her, but with no reproach, his laughing green eyes merely sad.

"I have made the wisest decision for both of us. Indeed I have," Kate murmured. She rolled over and managed to dispel Harry's image from her mind. But it took her much longer to banish the feeling that her 'wisdom' was somehow betraying them both.

The night seemed spun from black velvet, the moon a silver disk suspended in the sky. The heady scent of the last of the summer roses drifted through the open windows of the assembly rooms that adjoined the Arundel Arms. Scarcely large enough to afford space for more than a dozen couples to stand up in comfort, the hall was thronged with its subscribers, mostly the gentry of the surrounding countryside.

The candlelit scene bore none of the dazzling grandeur of a London ballroom, the gowns worn more often of muslin than silk, wreaths of flowers taking the place of flashing gemstones. Yet what was lacking in grandeur was made up for in enthusiasm as the orchestra began to tune their instruments.

Only Kate was able to keep her toes from tapping at the first scrape of the violins. Never had she felt less like dancing, her dainty kid slippers seeming weighted with lead.

"Smile, child," Lady Dane chided her. "You've come here to enjoy yourself, not pay a visit to the tooth drawer."

Kate made an effort to appear more light of heart, all the while wishing herself at home snug in her bed. It had been one thing to form her noble resolve regarding Adolphus Thorpe in the security of her own parlor, quite another to actually prepare to act upon it.

She felt shamefully relieved to note that the vicar and his sister were not yet present. Kate's gaze constantly strayed toward the arched doorway, her pulses fluttering with trepidation. But it was not the Thorpe's arrival that comprised her chief dread, but the possibility of a certain other gentleman's appearance. She had no reason to suppose Harry ever frequented the assembly, but he had a penchant for doing the unexpected, scattering her best-formed intentions like a hurtling ball toppling ninepins. One smile, one laugh, one touch of his hand and all her wisdom had a way of flying out the window.

But not tonight, Kate promised herself. Even if Harry did come, she would greet him with the distance and decorum Papa would have expected of his daughter. Unconsciously she stiffened her shoulders. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window's night-darkened panes.

Who was that strange young woman that hovered like some unhappy phantom behind the glass? Her grandmother's French maid had fussed and primped, decking Kate out in the new gown with its high waistline emphasizing the soft curve of her breasts. Instead of the simple flowers Kate was accustomed to wear for adornment, Lady Dane's diamond necklet glittered about her throat. Hortense had caught up Kate's hair from its loose flowing style and arranged it in a mass of curls pinned up to form a chignon, a gold diadem banding her forehead after the Greek fashion.

Never had she looked so elegant, so stylish. Never had she felt so miserably self-conscious. But she did her best to smile at the young gentlemen who flocked to her side, begging to lead her into the dance.

Other young ladies might have preened themselves at being so sought after, but Kate accepted the situation with gravity. She was not unused to such attention. She had never wanted for a partner at any of the sedate parties she had attended. But she had oft suspected that all those eager young clergyman had stood up with her out of duty or ambition to please her father. Now she supposed it was her fashionable new gown that attracted the gentlemen.

Only Harry had ever sought her out for herself alone. To him she had not been the bishop's daughter, but simply Kate. And when he had danced with her, the world had seemed to fall by the wayside. Caught up by the night and music—

Kate's fingers tightened about the fan, nearly crushing the delicate silk as she fought off the poignant memory. She needed no such recollections to haunt her for she would not, must not dance with Harry tonight. As though he had indeed risen up before her, reaching for her with that too beguiling smile, Kate began to promise her dances with a recklessness that bordered on panic, even engaging to waltz with Lieutenant Porter, a newly commissioned naval officer she scarcely knew. Should Harry arrive, he would find Kate with every dance already pledged.

Feeling as though she had erected somewhat of a defense, Kate breathed out a deep sigh. She had actually begun to relax when the vicar and his sister arrived. Kate recalled her purpose in coming to the assembly, and her tensions coiled anew.

The Thorpes edged forward into the hall, Julia and Adolphus resembling nothing so much as a magnificent pair of Dresden china figurines with their matching fair hair and celestial blue eyes. While Mr. Thorpe paused to greet the squire and several of the important landowners of the district, Julia's gaze swept the crowded room with icy disdain. When she caught sight of Kate, she bore purposefully down upon her.

"Kathryn Towers! Such an agreeable surprise." Julia extended both her hands, catching up Kate's by way of greeting."You did not tell me you were coming here this evening."

Julia's statement hinted of accusation as though Kate had a duty to keep Miss Thorpe informed of all her movements.

"I did not realize that I would be here myself until the last," Kate said. Carefully she disengaged her hands from Miss Thorpe's possessive grip. Julia's eyes skimmed critically over Kate's attire. For once she nodded with approval.

"You look quite a la mode. Such a pleasant change."

Kate thanked her for the rather dubious compliment. She should respond in kind, but she doubted Julia needed to be told how lovely she looked. She was easily the most beautiful woman present, attired in a gown of mauve and white silk, with a long train that proclaimed she had no intentions of dancing.

"There is nothing more tedious than having one's toes trampled by a parcel of provincial clods," Julia said. "I only attend these dreary assemblies because they seem to amuse Adolphus. I do hope you have saved a dance for him?"

Mindful of her plans regarding Mr. Thorpe, Kate had done just that, but she felt strangely reluctant to tell Julia so. Yet Julia did not wait for her reply. Miss Thorpe turned and beckoned imperiously to where her brother had lingered by the punch bowl to exchange a few words with the squire. "Adolphus, do come here and tell Kate how well she looks."

Kate thought the vicar appeared a trifle vexed by Julia's summons, but if so, he concealed his annoyance behind a polite smile.

As Mr. Thorpe approached, Kate unfurled her fan. She plied it nervously, wishing it were large enough to hide behind. She had never felt flustered in the vicar's presence before, but neither had she ever considered him as a prospective suitor.

"Good evening, Miss Towers," he said.

"Good evening," Kate murmured, at last daring to look up at him. Her pulses immediately stilled. There was nothing in Mr. Thorpe's mild blue eyes to make even the giddiest maiden feel all of a flutter. If the vicar adored her as Julia claimed, Kate thought dubiously, he certainly did not wear his heart on his sleeve.

"Do say something about Kate's gown," Julia prompted her brother, "Does she not look lovely?"

Mr. Thorpe said all that was required of him and Kate thanked him, her somber manner matching his own. The conversation threatened to lag until Julia said, "Adolphus, you must claim Kate's hand for the next dance before all her other admirers descend upon her."

"Well, I—" Mr. Thorpe began.

"And dearest Kate, you must accept him."

"Well, I—" Kate began.

"How charming. Then that is all settled."

And so it seemed to be, although Kate's mind whirled, unsure who actually had made the invitation or who had accepted it. She felt a real sense of relief when Julia moved off to speak to another acquaintance, a relief Kate was astonished to catch reflected in the vicar's own eyes.

They exchanged a half-guilty, half-embarrassed smile that vanished as quickly as the fleeting feeling of kinship. He offered her his arm to lead her to the head of the set that was forming.

The vicar was such a stiff young man, Kate expected his movements to be as wooden as a marionette's. To her surprise, he proved quite a graceful dancer, although he was inclined to apologize for his skill.

"I daresay you are thinking the worst of me," he said as they circled each other, "for taking such pleasure in so worldly an activity."

"Not at all," Kate assured him. "Even my father was fond of an occasional quadrille."

Heartened by receiving the late bishop's approval, Mr. Thorpe abandoned some of his formality. Away from Julia, he appeared to have no difficulty in carrying on a conversation. His manners were unaffected and gentlemanlike, his discourse as serious as Kate could require. Kate tried to listen earnestly, but her thoughts kept straying.

She studied the vicar's face and caught herself looking for some resemblance to Harry. But the cousins could not have been more unlike. Kate supposed Adolphus would be judged the more handsome, his skin smooth and unblemished, yet Kate could not help thinking his face might be much improved by some of those fine lines that laughter had carved about Harry's eyes.