The Bishop's Daughter (7 page)

"Ooh!"

Mrs. Towers was startled from her thoughts by a squeal of delight from the youngest Miss Prangle. "Can that be Miss Towers coming home now? What an elegant coach!"

Mrs. Towers had allowed her mind to wander so far, that she had been unaware that a conveyance had pulled her up before the gate, but not the one she looked for. Before she could obtain a clearer view, the other three women joined her at the window, and she was nigh suffocated by a profusion of bouncing curls and muslin gowns.

Managing to peer past Mrs. Prangle's feathers, Mrs. Towers determined that it was not the vicar's smart barouche, but a much more impressive coach, fit to have been a state carriage for royalty.

"Look at the coat of arms on the door," Miss Prangle exclaimed. "Would that be the Arundel family crest?"

"No," Mrs. Towers said, a chill of recognition coursing through her. "It-it is . . ."

The Prangles regarded her breathlessly.

"It is my mother-in-law," Mrs. Towers said faintly.

The sight of the grande dame being handed from the coach by a bewigged footman in scarlet and gold livery caused the Prangles to shiver with excitement but Mrs. Towers's heart sank in dismay. Winifred Aldarcie Towers, the Lady Dane, had been widowed for many years now. One of her chief forms of amusement was to descend unexpectedly upon the families of her numerous offspring. With the bishop in his grave, Mrs. Towers had considered herself safe from any more such visitations. How disconcerting to discover she was wrong.

As Mrs. Prangle and her tittering daughters fussed, smoothing out their gowns and hair, Mrs. Towers rose to her feet with all the resignation of a condemned prisoner. All too soon the door to the parlor opened, the pert Mollie entering the room in subdued fashion.

"Lady Dane," Mollie announced in awed accents.

She flattened herself against the door as her ladyship swept past. Lady Dane stalked into the parlor with all the majesty of a queen, leaning upon a silver-handled cane she in nowise needed, her bearing still upright, her step unhampered despite her advancing years. Her figure had lost none of its statuesque proportions, her eye none of its keenness. The only signs of age were the lovely waves of white hair flowing back from her brow, the feathering of lines upon her skin, which only seemed to draw attention to the aristocratic fineness of her bone structure.

Even in her youth something in Winifred Towers's countenance had made all the young men tremble in her presence, address her as madam. Only one had ever been privileged to see the softness of her smiles and that had been the bandy-legged little Baron of Dane whom she had chosen to marry.

No hint of that smile now transformed Lady Dane's features as she crossed the threshold of the tiny parlor, her hawklike gaze taking in both the chamber and its occupants. Mrs. Towers forced herself forward to greet her ladyship.

"Mother Towers. What a surprise."

"Maisie." Lady Dane unbent enough to offer her cheek, which Mrs. Towers dutifully saluted. She had then no choice but to present Mrs. Prangle and her daughters, who embarked upon a frenzied round of curtsying.

After subjecting the Prangles to a glacial stare, Lady Dane condescended to extend two fingers by way of greeting.

"I had the privilege of meeting your ladyship before at Chillingsworth," Mrs. Prangle gushed, "though I daresay my lady has forgotten."

"I daresay that I have.”

As abashed as Mrs. Prangle appeared by this remark, she was fully prepared to renew the acquaintance and made a movement to herd her daughters back to the settee.

"You must not think of staying upon my account," Lady Dane said in arctic accents. "I fear Maisie has already kept you beyond the time considered civil for an afternoon call."

Mrs. Prangle flushed a bright red but for once was unable to find anything to say. With scarce more than the raising of an eyebrow, Lady Dane sent the archdeacon's wife and daughters bustling toward the door.

This high-handed maneuver almost put Mrs. Towers in charity with her ladyship. Returning from seeing the Prangles to their coach, a gentle laugh escaped her as she asked Lady Dane, "However did you guess that woman had outstayed her welcome?"

"It required no great perspicacity. A most vulgar female," her ladyship pronounced. "I should have told my maid to deny that I was at home."

Mrs. Towers felt certain that her ladyship would, but she was not made of such stern stuff. Despite Lady Dane's masterly disposal of the Prangles, Mrs. Towers's smile vanished when she saw the footman dragging into the hall several large trunks to say nothing of a dressing case. Her ladyship's maid followed, her arms full of a supply of her ladyship's own bed linens.

 "I trust you have a chamber available for me?" Lady Dane asked.

 "Yes, of course," Mrs. Towers said, considerably daunted by this invasion. She retained enough presence of mind to direct the footman and lady's maid upstairs to the guest bedchamber before inviting Lady Dane to be seated in the parlor.

"I shall have Mollie bring in some tea."

"I prefer lemonade," said her ladyship.

Mrs. Towers did not believe they had lemons in the kitchen, but she knew her small household held Lady Dane in such awe that her housekeeper would procure some forthwith.

Having given her instructions, by the time Mrs. Towers returned to the parlor, she discovered that Lady Dane had eschewed the settee vacated by the Prangles and had enthroned herself upon a stiff-backed chair.

Seating herself upon the settee, Mrs. Towers nervously inquired after her ladyship's health. She had heard that Lady Dane had gone to take the waters in Bath. Had her ladyship just returned from there?

Lady Dane returned a brief answer. Never one to engage in idle chatter, she demanded abruptly, "Where is Kathryn?"

"She is gone to attend the dedication of poor Lord Lytton's memorial. I expect her home at anytime."

Her ladyship offered no comment, scowling at the information. "I saw Kathryn briefly in London a fortnight ago. Did she tell you?"

"She mentioned it." Mrs. Towers had encouraged Kate to visit her cousin in the hopes that a little varied society might improve her spirits. "Kate only stayed a week. I suppose summer is not the best time to be in the city."

"The child looked positively haggard," Lady Dane said.

"She had been ill with a severe bout of influenza."

"Stuff! She is pining away for that young man, Lord Harry."

"I fear you are mistaken, my lady," Mrs. Towers said."Kate insists she did not love him."

Lady Dane gave her that look that always made Mrs. Towers feel like a perfect widgeon.

"Humph! The girl might be able to throw dust in your eyes, Maisie, but—"

Her ladyship broke off at the sound of another carriage arriving. Mrs. Towers glanced toward the window and saw her daughter alighting and coming up the walk at last. She thought she would have done anything to spare Kate her ladyship's overwhelming presence at this moment. She wished that Lady Dane would be kind enough not to mention Lord Harry, but one did not dare tell her ladyship to mind her tongue. Mrs. Towers took a hesitant step forward,, thinking that at least she might warn Kate of her grandmother's arrival.

But it was already too late, for the parlor door came flying open. Mrs. Towers was not prepared for the flushed young woman who bolted into the chamber, her bonnet missing, her eyes sparkling with indignation.

"Mama, you will never guess what—" Kate stopped, in midsentence at the sight of Lady Dane. "Grandmother!" Kate's greeting betokened surprise and a hint of wariness.

She recovered enough to kiss her ladyship's upturned cheek. Kate cast a doubtful glance toward her mother as though seeking an explanation for Lady Dane's presence. Miss Towers could only respond by a bewildered shake of her head.

Lady Dane rapped her cane upon the carpet. "Don't keep us in suspense, miss. I gather something untoward happened at the dedication? Likely Sybil Arundel made a spectacle of herself as usual."

Lady Dane's remark snapped Kate's attention back to the original source of her agitation. She remained silent a moment, then burst out, "It has nothing to do with Lady Lytton. It's Lord Harry. He's still alive."

"What!" Mrs. Towers exclaimed in the same breath as Lady Dane.

"He arrived at his own dedication," Kate cried. "He had just been pretending to be dead all this time."

Mrs. Towers was as shocked and aggrieved by such conduct as her daughter, but Lady Dane broke into one of her rare trills of laughter.

"The rogue! I wish I had been there to see it. He must have made you all look like a parcel of fools, standing about in this blazing heat to gape at some ridiculous memorial."

"I didn't find it so amusing, Grandmama," Kate said in a taut voice.

"Of course. You wouldn't." Although still chuckling, her ladyship's eyes held a gleam of sympathy. "It is most understandable you should be somewhat distressed, considering you are not exactly indifferent to the young man."

Somewhat distressed! This seemed such a callous way of describing Kate's distraught state that Mrs. Towers cast a reproachful glance at her mother-in-law. She moved closer to Kate, intending to slip a comforting arm about her daughter's waist, but Kate did not notice the gesture.

"I was indifferent to Lord Lytton before, Grandmama," Kate said drawing herself up proudly, "but now I quite despise the man. If you will excuse me, I must go and change before tea."

"Kate!" But Mrs. Towers's gentle protest was lost as Kate dashed out of the room. She longed to go after her daughter, but past experience had taught her it would do little good. Sagging down upon the settee, her head spun with the shock of the tidings. Lord Lytton still alive . . .

Only Lady Dane appeared quite unperturbed.

"I told you the girl was in love with him."

Kate fled upstairs. She had been longing for the sanctuary of her own room ever since her flustered exit from Mapleshade Hall and Harry's disturbing presence. Stepping inside the small bedchamber, Kate closed the door behind her and leaned upon against it with a tremulous sigh.

The room's walls were painted green, a soothing shade that captured the softer hues of the forest. The only furnishings were the four-poster bed, the wardrobe, a washstand, a dressing table, and a chair, all carved of satinwood, all of the utmost simplicity appropriate to a clergyman's daughter, except for a few touches of lace here and there that her feminine heart would crave.

Yet for once the room's sylvan peacefulness was little balm to Kate's troubled spirits. She stalked away from the door, trying to draw rein upon her emotions, flattering herself that in some measure she had begun to do so.

The delusion lasted until she got a glimpse of herself in the mirror affixed to the dressing table. She all but shrank from the hoyden staring back at her, a hectic flush coloring her face, her dark curls in a tangle. Kate pressed her hands to her cheeks in dismay. She looked like a wild woman, and to think that she had appeared thus before Lady Dane of all people. Kate had the feeling her grandmother did not approve of her in any case—a most novel and disturbing sensation to one accustomed to always meeting with approbation.

Lowering herself onto the chair, Kate started to snatch up a pearl-handled brush and then froze. Leaning closer to the mirror, her eyes widened in horror. Her mouth! She touched one trembling fingertip to lips that to her mind appeared swollen and bruised. She groaned. All the world must guess how she had been kissing Harry Arundel.

Kate's gaze strayed to the miniature of her father upon the dressing table, the bishop's stern eyes regarding her from the silver frame. With a guilty start, Kate laid the portrait face down.

It was bad enough that she had embraced Harry in such wanton fashion, but she had actually struck him in a fit of temper like some brawling tavern wench. She had had every provocation to do so, but it was not the icily bred reaction to be expected of a lady, let alone the propriety demanded of a bishop's daughter.

Utterly sunk in her own esteem, Kate rested her arms upon the dressing table. Laying her head down, she finally gave vent to the stormy bout of tears that had been brewing for hours. She cried like an overtired child who had too many events crammed in one day, weeping out her shame over her own conduct.

It was some time before her sobs ceased. When she at last raised her head, she felt drained but somehow the better for it. She trudged over to the washstand and poured water from the pitcher into the basin. Splashing the cold liquid over her face, she cleansed away the ravages of her tears.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she straightened, feeling more able to face the future . . . a future that now included a Harry very much alive, who had come crashing back into her life once more. Whatever was she going to do?

For a moment, she harbored a cowardly wish to be far from Lytton's Dene. It would not be easy to confront Harry again, especially knowing his feelings toward her remained the same. He still wanted her. As gratifying as that was, she could no more accept Harry now than two years ago. If anything the case was more impossible now that the bishop was dead. It would be as though she had waited until poor Papa was in his grave to seek out the man he would not have wished her to marry.