The Bishop's Daughter (21 page)

"Dear boy!" She squeezed his hand. "You shall rival Michelangelo."

"I am now in a position to support a wife," Mr. Crosbie continued eagerly. "Thanks to Sybil's patronage, I have obtained some commissions in Chillingsworth to work on some tombs in the cathedral."

Recalling the memorial Mr. Crosbie had designed for Harry, Kate had a horrifying vision of the future decor of that ancient and venerable church, but she managed to say, "My congratulations, Mr. Crosbie, but I do not understand why you chose to confide in me. The proper person to address would be Lord Harry."

"He will not listen!" Mr. Crosbie said. "At least not to us."

"But to you, my dear—" Lady Sybil began.

"Oh, no. No!" Kate repeated firmly as she realized what they were about to ask her. She started to rise, but this time she was detained by Sybil's plump hand. She angled an arch glance at Mr. Crosbie. "My dear Lucillus, if you could but allow me a moment alone with Miss Towers:"

He looked loath to leave her, but he agreed, his eyes so filled with adoration Kate doubted he would have refused any request of Lady Lytton's. He retreated to the opposite end of the summerhouse, out of earshot.

Kate longed to retreat as well, not sure what was coming next. With her youthful lover gone, Lady Lytton bundled up more sensibly within the folds of her own shawl, abandoning the simper she habitually wore.

"I daresay you think me quite a silly old woman, my dear," she said. Ignoring Kate's mild protest she rushed on, "But I am not so silly I don't know my own mind. I was quite young when I married the first time, Miss Towers. Harry's papa picked me out of the line of debutantes at Almack's in less time than he spent choosing a horse."

She winced. "Such a great booming voice my lord had, but it was a good match. My parents were pleased." Her ladyship's soft chin stiffened with resolution. "This time I am old enough to marry to please myself, and I shall do so. Lucillus is so gentle, so sensitive. I don't want to cause poor Harcourt any sort of scandal, but he is making me quite desperate."

Lady Lytton angled a coy and coaxing glance at Kate, reaching out to pat her hand. "You could avert much of this discord, Miss Towers. I am not such a widgeon that I haven't noticed the way Harcourt looks at you. You could talk him round."

Kate started to deny she had any such power over Harry, but she could not quite manage to do so. For she feared she could persuade Harry if she set herself to the task, and strangely enough she was not unsympathetic to Lady Lytton's cause. The world might raise its eyebrows at such a peculiar match, but Kate detected a genuine vein of affection running beneath all of her ladyship's and Mr. Crosbie's melodramatic protestations.

But to agree to use her influence with Harry in their behalf, the sort of influence a wife might exert upon a husband, why that was tantamount to confirming the tie between her and Harry.

Yet Kate was not proof against the entreaty in Lady Lytton's eyes. "I suppose I could try," she murmured with great reluctance.

 Even this vague promise was enough to set Lady Lytton into transports of delight. She called over Mr. Crosbie and the pair of them overwhelmed Kate with their expressions of gratitude. Kate nodded weakly, inching toward the arch, at last making good her escape. She left them holding hands, whispering tender vows and making all manner of wildly impractical plans.

"Whew!" Kate sighed as she fled back to the house. She must have taken complete leave of her senses. Whatever had induced her to become involved in Lady Lytton's romantic tangle when Kate could not even manage to sort out her own? She regretted the pledge she had given, but it was not in Kate to go back on her word.

She entered the house with a feeling of trepidation, not looking forward to broaching the subject with Harry. She had never seen him quite so fierce about anything as his loathing for Mr. Crosbie.

To her relief, she was granted a temporary reprieve. Harry had ridden out upon some errands and was not expected back until dinner. After the unsettling interview with Harry's stepmama, it was all Kate could do to return to the desk and commence the mundane task of addressing the invitations.

Her promise to Lady Lytton continued to prey upon her mind even as she dipped her quill into the ink. Perhaps with Harry returning so late, she had best wait until tomorrow to approach him. No, tomorrow was Sunday and on Monday, she recalled, he was engaged to attend a horse auction with the squire and after that— By degrees, Kate convinced herself, it might be best to even wait until after the fête.

If the day was the success she hoped, Harry would like be in a most congenial mood and . . . Kate paused in mid-stroke, recollecting that after the fête, Harry had hinted he had strong designs. Might he not likely counter her plea for Lady Lytton with some tender demands of his own? Demands that sent a shiver of anticipation coursing through Kate. Blushing at her own imaginings, Kate nearly knocked over the inkstand as she heard the parlor door creaking open.

“Harry?” She called out, "I am addressing the invitations, my lord. If you have come to torment me, I shall never—"

The half-playful warning died upon her lips as she glanced up. It was not Harry who paused upon the threshold, but Miss Thorpe, the crisp silk of her frock rustling against the frame.

"Oh. Julia," Kate said in flat tones.

Miss Thorpe gave her a brittle smile. Relations between Kate and the vicar's sister had been less than cordial since the eve of the assembly. Kate had not outright accused Julia of lying, but she had made it quite plain she no longer cared to hear anything from Miss Thorpe regarding Harry.

After an awkward pause, Julia said, "I came to call upon Lady Lytton, but when Grayshaw told me you were in here, I could not resist stopping in. I trust you are not still angry with me over that unfortunate misunderstanding about Lytton?" This last was pronounced in a hesitant manner far different from Julia's usual forthright speech.

"No, I am not angry," Kate said quietly, "but I fear I am rather occupied." She bent over the invitations again, hoping that Julia would take the hint and just go away.

Instead Julia glided further into the room to peer over Kate's shoulder. "Oh, dear, I did not realize Lytton had pressed you into service as his secretary." She essayed a light laugh, but it was obvious her amusement was forced.

"I don't mind in the least," Kate said. Her quill spattered some ink upon one of the vellum cards. She sought to blot it, stifling an impatient exclamation. It was impossible to proceed with Julia hovering at her elbow, reading the guest list, her gloved fingers fidgeting with the stack of invitations.

"You have been so occupied of late. I have missed you, Kathryn," she said. "There is a scarcity of congenial company to be found in this wretched village."

Kate doubted Julia would succeed in finding 'congenial company' wherever she might be, but Miss Thorpe's voice held a thread of real unhappiness. Though she hardly knew why, Kate was moved by a feeling of pity for the beautiful, self-possessed woman.

"I shall have more time to spare after the fête," Kate said.

"Will you? Somehow I doubt that." Julia took a restless turn about the room, a moody expression marring the lovely lines of her profile. "I greatly fear that you will soon have less time for me than ever. One would have to be blind not to see what your constant presence at Mapleshade portends. The entire village is preparing to wish you joy."

Kate supposed she should have been disconcerted by Julia's words. Only days ago, she would have been quick to refute them. But now the phrase seemed to stick in her mind, like a most gentle and beguiling melody. Wish you joy—the words conjured up images of church bells and wedding days, images of Harry.

A tiny smile curved Kate's lips, soft with all a young girl's dreams. She had no idea how the expression transformed her features, but Julia noted it—the faraway look that brightened Kate's eyes, the flush that tinted her cheeks.

It was as though Kate hovered on the brink of some great happiness and contentment Julia sensed she would never know. She suddenly felt blighted and far older than her twenty-seven years.

Her own plans had turned to ash. Since Lytton's jealous display at the assembly, Adolphus declared he would not go near Kate except to read the service of her marriage to the earl. And Julia's attempts to discredit Lytton had misfired, what with all those fools like the squire fawning over the improvements his lordship was making at Mapleshade.

Even her effort to remind everyone of Lytton's neglect, taunting him over the abandonment of the estate's ancient customs, had proved a dismal failure. Who would have guessed that Lytton would take up the challenge and the reviving of the fête would draw him closer to Kate than ever?

With Kate's help, the fête would be a success. Wasn't that how things had always gone for Lytton? No matter how undeserving he was, her reckless cousin bore a charmed existence, always emerging the winner. But then he was a man, Julia thought bitterly, able to have whatever he had wanted from life, education, travel, the freedom to do whatever he pleased.

Now Lytton would have the bishop's daughter as well, while Julia remained buried alive to the end of her days in Lytton's Dene with her fool of a brother.

Kate would eventually be sorry. Lytton might be a pattern card of behavior now, letting her arrange the fete to her satisfaction, with her proper list of guests, but wait a month or two. The earl's disreputable companions would once more overrun Mapleshade and—

Yet why did it have to take a month or two? A sudden notion caused Julia to suck in her breath, a wicked notion that should never have occurred to a vicar's sister or to any other lady.

But Julia Thorpe was a most desperate woman. She glanced away from Kate, fearing that her guilty intentions must show upon her face, but Kate had gone back to her work with the invitations and was not even looking at Julia.

Concealing her nervousness, Julia sidled toward the desk.

"I suppose I must leave you to your task. If I linger here too long, Adolphus will be wondering where I am. The poor man cannot even order up his own dinner without me."

As she leaned over the writing table to make her farewells, she quickly palmed several of the blank invitation cards and hid them in the folds of her skirts. She held her breath, but Kate did not notice a thing. Too anxious and relieved to be rid of me, Julia thought with a stab of anger and unexpected hurt.

"After all your hard work," she said to Kate with a glinting smile as she let herself out, "I do trust this fête proves a roaring success."

Safely on the other side of the door, she stuffed the stolen cards into her reticule, her mouth pinching with a hard determination.

"Aye, a great success," she muttered "But not if I can help it."

The day of the fête, Kate peeked out the cottage door and cast an anxious glance toward the skies. But after a week of intermittent rain, it appeared as though the heavens themselves had decided to cooperate. The deep blue soaring above Kate's head looked as though it had been splashed by a painter's brush, the cottony wisps of clouds placed by an artist's hand. The noontide sun warmed her cheeks, promising one of those delicious days when summer seemed to have strayed back into the midst of autumn.

A perfect day . . . what could possibly go wrong? Unfortunately Kate could think of half a dozen things. The chef could burn the sauce for the ducklings, the fiddlers for the dance could forget to come, the fieldhands could consume too much ale and begin a drunken brawl, Lady Lytton could take to her bed with a megrim and not even be there to act as Harry's hostess.

Kate fretted her lip, wishing she could be at his side. But that would have been improper in the extreme, giving rise to even more gossip. All she could do was to take her place among the guests, attempt to smile, while inwardly she would be on pins and needles of apprehension.

Kate had to content herself with arriving at Mapleshade as early as possible. With this view in mind, she ducked back into the house to urge her mother and grandmother to make haste.

Despite the warmth of the day, Kate insisted upon seeing her mother bundled into a woolen shawl.

"I am not a hothouse flower," Mrs. Towers protested, then gave a gentle laugh when Kate foisted a parasol upon her as well to keep off the sun.

"You are not used to being so much out of doors, Mama," Kate said. "But if it becomes too much for you, I daresay you can rest in one of the parlors." She gave her mother's hand a reassuring squeeze. "And you need not fret about the company. I know you are shy of greeting a parcel of strangers. But you are acquainted with the squire's wife and, with his lordship's permission, I invited some of the people from Chillingsworth. Your friend Mrs. Prangle and her daughters will be present."

Mrs. Towers winced and for a moment looked so ill, Kate feared that Mama might not be able to attend after all. But she recovered herself and thanked Kate in a tremulous voice.

Suffused with a warm glow of having done her mother a tremendous kindness, Kate bustled off to see what was keeping Lady Dane. But her ladyship was not to be hurried.

She declared, "I have never been so vulgar as to arrive first at any function, and I do not intend to begin at this time of my life."