The Bishop's Daughter (3 page)

When Kate took so long about answering, her mother sank down beside her on the window seat. Rather diffidently, she covered one of Kate's hands with her own.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to, Kate," Mrs. Towers said. "I could offer some excuse to the vicar's sister when she comes to call for you."

Gazing into her mother's eyes, Kate found an unexpected amount of sympathy. She wanted to cast herself into her mother's arms and burst into tears. But Mrs. Towers's health had ever been delicate. Even as a child, Kate had known she must not distress Mama with her own miseries. And indeed how could anyone as gentle and uncomplicated as her mother possibly understand the bewildering conflict of Kate's emotions about Harry? She scarce understood them herself. Suppressing a sigh, Kate drew her hand back from her mother's comforting warmth.

"Of course, I must attend the dedication, Mama," she said. "It is my duty."

Mentally Kate scolded herself for forgetting that. She was still the bishop's daughter, and no one knew better than Kate what was expected of one in that role.

"I realize that someone of our family should attend," her mother said, "but perhaps I should go instead."

"Oh, no, Mama. You out in this heat? Unthinkable."

"I am not as fragile as you would suppose, Kate. I should gladly do it to spare you—" Her mother broke off, looking uncomfortable. "Even though we never discussed it, I could not help noticing what passed between you and Lord Harry that winter. I thought you had developed a tendre for—"

"No!" Kate cried. Appalled by her own outburst, she rose to her feet and took a nervous turn about the small, cramped parlor. Forcing a smile to her lips, she said, "You are so romantic, Mama. How could I possibly have fallen in love with a man I knew Papa would strongly disapprove of?"

"I don't suppose you could, Kate." Mrs. Towers sighed. "You were ever the most sensible girl."

Why that pronouncement should make her mother look so melancholy, Kate did not understand. She felt rather relieved when they were interrupted by a light rap on the door. The plump, pretty maid, Mollie, came bouncing into the room, nearly knocking her father's bust of Thomas Becket from its perch atop the pianoforte.

After the spaciousness of the episcopal palace, the Towers family belongings were crowded within the cottage. Kate's pianoforte abutted so close to the bookcase containing the bishop's religious tomes that the glass doors with their elegant tracery could hardly be opened.

As Kate rushed forward in time to save Becket, Mollie dipped into a curtsy, her cap ribbons fluttering saucily behind her.

"Mollie, I have told you to take more care when entering a room," Kate said.

"Sorry, Miss Kate. I was in that much of a hurry to tell you that Miss Thorpe is waiting outside with her carriage."

"Why didn't you show her in?"

Mollie thrust her nose upward in imitation of the vicar's sister. "Miss Thorpe did not deign to come inside, miss."

Kate frowned. But before she could rebuke the girl, Mrs. Towers said gently, "Thank you, Mollie. That will do."

With an unrepentant grin, Mollie ducked back out of the room. Sensing that her mother intended to make one final appeal to change her mind and fearing that she might be weak enough to be persuaded, Kate also made haste. Gathering up her gloves from the window seat, she briskly put them on. Kissing her mother's cheek, she said, "I shall not be gone long, Mama. You must not worry about me."

Her mother's only reply had been a sad, wistful kind of smile.

Bustling out of the parlor, Kate paused before the pier glass in the tiny front vestibule only long enough to don her bonnet. Primping and fussing over one's appearance was the worst sort of vanity.

And it was not as though she had a great deal to fuss about, Kate thought as she began to tie the satin ribbons beneath her chin in a modest bow. She was just passably pretty. Only Harry had ever said she was beautiful, and it had been one of those rare times he had not been teasing her.

Kate's hands had stilled upon the ribbon. Staring at her reflection, she could find no beauty, only a quiet despair in eyes that seemed far too large for the pale oval of her face.

Averting her gaze, Kate forced her fingers back into brisk movement, finishing the bow, smoothing the tendrils of her dark ringlets already damp and curling overmuch from the heat. There was nothing wrong, she assured herself. She had been ill of late with the influenza. That was why she had no color.

Strange that this bout of influenza should have come upon you a month ago, a voice inside her jabbed. About the same time you heard that Harry had been killed.

But Kate chose to ignore the voice. With hands that trembled slightly, she retrieved her parasol from the hall stand and stepped out of the cottage's cool shelter into a hot flood of sunlight. As she trudged down the path toward the garden gate, she stole one glance behind her. Never had the cottage with its ivy-covered walls and roof of bright green tile seemed like such a place of refuge. If only Lady Lytton had not insisted that memorial be erected upon that same hill where she had last seen Harry. How was she ever to face the ordeal ahead of her, the rush of painful memories?

With all the dignity to be expected of the late Bishop of Chillingsworth's daughter, Kate told herself sternly. Squaring her shoulders, she turned, marching onward through the creaking wooden gate.

The Thorpes' barouche awaited her in the lane, the coachman patiently standing at the head of the team of bays. Kate had often heard the more spiteful among the villagers wondering why a country vicar should possess such an equipage, but as Julia Thorpe loftily reminded everyone, she and her brother were first cousins to an earl.

The coachman stepped forward to greet Kate and hand her into the carriage. As Kate blinked, adjusting her eyes to the coach's dark blue velvet interior, she discerned the figure of Miss Julia Thorpe in the opposite corner. A tall, fair-haired woman, Miss Thorpe's blue gray eyes showed signs of annoyance. However, at Kate's entrance, she abandoned the hard expression and summoned a frosty smile.

"Ah, there you are at last, Kathryn." To the coachman, Julia snapped, "Don't dawdle, Smythe. We are already likely to be late."

"Yes, miss."

As the coach door slammed closed, Kate sank down upon the seat opposite Julia. "I am sorry," she said. "I should have been ready when you called. I seem to have spent too much of the morning woolgathering."

"My dear Kathryn, I perfectly understand. Quite frequently, it takes me longer to attire myself than I ever would have anticipated, but the end result is worth it. You look quite charming."

The compliment lost much of its force as Julia arched one pencil-thin brow and eyed Kate's gown in a dubious manner. But Kate's serenity remained unruffled. She apologized to no one for the old-fashioned cut of her gowns. The pearl gray frock suited her with its low waist and soft flowing skirt, a lace-trimmed fichu draped about the shoulders, crossing modestly in the front. Her only ornament was a single red rose pinned at the valley of her breasts. Such a style was far more proper for a bishop's daughter than the latest fashions that clung so shockingly to the figure, leaving little to the imagination. It was Kate's pride that she had never had a gown from a fashionable
modiste
, all her clothing orders going to an impecunious widow with four children to support.  By contrast, Julia's mourning garb of black silk was of the first stare of elegance, the skirt cut on severe straight lines, the matching spencer held closed by braided frogs. The ensemble was set off tastefully by a costly set of pearls and made an excellent foil for Julia's fair-haired beauty.

As the coach lurched into movement, an awkward silence settled over the interior. Kate frequently found herself not knowing what to say to Julia, which was odd, because since Kate had moved to Lytton's Dene six months ago, Miss Thorpe had proclaimed herself to be Kate's dearest friend.

Kate had never had a "dearest friend," but she had difficulty envisioning Julia in the role. Such a cool, elegant woman, nearly seven years Kate's senior, so clever it was almost alarming. Kate wondered why Julia chose to seek out such a dull companion as herself. Yet it seemed ungrateful, almost wicked to question a friendship so freely offered. Perhaps Julia was lonely, too.

But feeling as low as Kate did this morning, she would have preferred to have walked to Mapleshade, seeking a little solitude in which to compose her thoughts. As the carriage lumbered along, Kate stared out the window to avoid Julia's penetrating gaze. The main road through Lytton's Dene passed by in a swirling haze of dust. The village was no more than a small collection of thatch-covered houses, a handful of tiny shops, and a little blue-and-white post office all set around the village green opposite the Tudor-style inn, named the Arundel Arms in honor of Harry's family.

The barouche rattled through the village in a flash. By the time they crossed the hump-backed bridge set over a trickle of stream, the spire of St. Benedict's Church came into view, and Kate became aware that Miss Thorpe was speaking of her brother.

"And Adolphus asked me to convey his apologies. He would so liked to have accompanied you. Lady Lytton expects him to deliver some sort of address at this sorry affair, extolling the virtues of my late cousin. Poor Adolphus was still scrambling to finish it when I left him.

"Rather a task." Julia essayed a laugh. "One does not like to speak ill of the dead, but it is sometimes difficult to speak good of them either."

Kate tensed as though she had received a sharp kick. "I beg your pardon?"

"Ah, I see I have shocked you. Don't misunderstand me. I was fond of Lytton. But it is difficult to eulogize a man whose best points were that he was an excellent whip and a hard rider to hounds."

"I am sure that Ha— I mean Lord Lytton had many other amiable qualities," Kate said stiffly.

"But then you did not know him very well, did you?"

Kate swallowed the urge to hotly refute that. But she remembered Papa had once said the same thing to her when he had feared she might be considering Harry's suit.

"Truly," Julia said, her voice filled with amusement. "What will poor Adolphus say? He can hardly declare that Lytton was a god-fearing man."

No, Kate reluctantly had to agree. Harry had once remarked that even drawing too near the doors of a church was likely to make him break out in hives.

"And one certainly cannot acclaim Lytton as a scholar. I doubt he ever touched a book in his life."

Yes, he had. Despite her mounting irritation, Kate bit back a smile, remembering the rainy afternoon, she had been blue-deviled, and Harry had entertained her by demonstrating what a remarkable tower could be built from her father's heavy religious tomes.

"And," Julia continued, "neither can Lytton be praised as a good landlord. One only has to glance out the window for proof of that."

She nodded toward a distant farm building they were passing, the thatched roof of which showed signs of caving in at one section. Kate recognized the structure as belonging to one of his lordship's tenants.

That she could not deny any of Julia's charges added to Kate's misery and roused an anger within her such as she rarely felt. She suppressed an impulse to snap out in Harry's defense. At least he had been unfailingly tolerant and kind, which was more than could be said of a certain sharp-tongued vicar's sister.

Kate swallowed the remark, clenching her gloved hands in her lap, more than a little appalled by her own ill-nature. She hailed with relief the carriage turning toward the great iron gates of the lodge that led into Mapleshade Park. Hitherto lukewarm in her feelings toward Julia, she had the notion that a moment more spent in her company and Kate would quite learn to hate her "dearest friend."

Kate had not stood more than five minutes upon the hillside when she wished she had listened to her mother. She should not have come. The sun beat down ruthlessly upon her head, yet she did not think to open her parasol. She stood gripping the ivory carved handle, standing a little apart from the others in isolated misery. A hum of bright chatter filled the air as the other ladies and gentlemen present speculated what lay beneath that mysterious mountain of canvas.

Kate realized this was not a funeral service. That had been held in the church for Harry weeks ago. This was only the dedication of his memorial, but everyone did not have to act as though this were some sort of Hyde Park fête, as though Harry had died years ago.

The only one displaying any grief was Harry's stepmama. The Dowager Lady Lytton sniffed in her black-edged handkerchief as she stood conversing with Julia. Kate, who found the old lady with her brassy curls and painted cheeks rather shocking, had been unable to do more than murmur a few polite words to her.

If such a thing had been possible, Kate thought she would far rather have stepped back a few paces and mingled with Harry's servants. From the youngest chambermaid to the stately old butler, Mr. Grayshaw, they remained somberly quiet, their faces a reflection of sorrowful respect. To Kate, there seemed to be more honest emotion in the way one of the stable lads surreptitiously wiped his eyes on his sleeve than all of Lady Lytton's elegant dabbings.

Even more did Kate wish herself far away when she drew too close to Squire Gresham and chanced to overhear some of the remarks he was making to his wife.