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S o abundant was the faith the family placed in Deirdre, no one questioned Catherine’s sudden complacence, and in the few weeks before Catherine was to leave for London, there was much coming and going between Fifefield and Linley House.

While Gwen and Mary were planning morning dresses and ball gowns, Deirdre and Catherine were busily sewing plain gowns and discussing hairstyles and manners.

Deirdre was hard-pressed to contain her mirth throughout those fleeting weeks.

Catherine never considered her looks one way or another and was confident she looked as dowdy as her dress.

Deirdre knew differently. Nothing could hide or mask Catherine’s natural appeal, and those who looked beyond the gown to her face could not fail to see her charm.

Those who did not see beyond outward appearances Deirdre dismissed as of no importance.

Sir Eugene made all the arrangements. Catherine would draw on his account while in London and would journey there in the company of Raymond Dawes and his wife, Maureen.

For an abigail, Deirdre offered the services of Bethie Callahan, the daughter of her housekeeper.

She was the spirited, frizzy-haired strawberry blonde who served Catherine at Fifefield.

She had been married to a young soldier who died in battle the year before, shortly before peace was announced.

So, at twenty, Bethie was back at Fifefield.

Deirdre saw her as young enough to enjoy Catherine’s plans but wise enough to keep her eyes and ears open in order to advise her mistress.

She was a good choice. She entered into their plans eagerly, and with Bethie’s aid, it was no great matter to pack the plain gowns. Catherine wanted to leave all the fancy beautiful dresses at home; however, Deirdre and Bethie forestalled her, saying no one knew when they might be wanted.

If the truth were to be told, by the time the carriage passed by the massive brick columns surmounted by the wrought-iron arch that marked the end of the drive from Linley House, Catherine was in a high gig.

It was a cold yet clear and dry day at the beginning of March.

Perfect weather for leave-taking and starting a long journey, or so Sir Eugene said at breakfast that morning.

Sir Eugene and his lady arrived at Linley House early to be in on the last-minute hustle and bustle of leave-taking.

Deirdre flitted about like a butterfly, her merry laugh tinkling everywhere.

Her high spirits kept a flustered Mary from a fit of vapors, soothed Gwen’s rough snappish manner, and kept Catherine excited about the trip.

In short order, Deirdre had the entire household gathered on the front steps of the rambling red-brick mansion, all eager to see the young miss off. So it was in a flurry of embraces, blessings, exhortations to dress warmly, a few sniffles, lectures, and many smiles, Catherine departed.

When the last glimpse of Linley House and her waving well-wishers were out of sight, Catherine pulled herself in from leaning out the carriage window.

Her cheeks were a bright rosy color from the cold, and her eyes sparkled.

Maureen smiled complacently at her charge, thinking she’d be the rage of London, so lively and pretty was Miss Catherine.

Gentlemen could not fail to be enchanted with her high color and flashing eyes.

A well-set-up young lady she was, to her mind.

Netta Scorby, the seamstress in Umberfife, had spent many a long hour with Lady Burke, poring over the latest ladies’ magazines to get ideas for Catherine’s wardrobe.

They turned out some beautiful dresses, Maureen heard, and well she could believe it, seeing the midnight blue traveling dress with light blue frogs that Catherine wore. It was undoubtedly all the crack.

No, Miss Catherine would not be coming back to Umberfife unbetrothed. Like as not, there’d be a notice in the Morning Gazette before the Season was out.

Maureen Dawes, well satisfied with the start of the journey, leaned contentedly back against the brown velvet squabs and closed her eyes.

While familiar landmarks were still observed out the windows and the skies remained clear, Catherine’s sunny mood prevailed.

But it was not to be expected this fortuitous combination would continue to exist the further south they journeyed.

So it was, as the clouds gathered and the atmosphere became dank and chilly, Catherine’s thoughts clouded.

Catherine had never been farther away from home than York and Harrogate.

She loved her home, village, and surrounding countryside.

She was content with her life. Or so she’d told herself since that assembly in Harrogate four years ago when she overheard three of her dedicated suitors speculating on the size of the dowry that her Uncle was bound to grant.

They further compounded their greed by cold-bloodedly discussing her expectations on his death.

She’d been eighteen at the time and giddy over the attention she received.

At their words, a cold weight settled in her chest. Hurt and confused, she then decided to find fulfillment in life from the horses she rode and schooled.

She still flirted outrageously and danced every dance, but her heart remained safely encased in a cold vault.

In quiet moments, she occasionally discovered herself daydreaming--what if . . . . These dreams she swiftly squelched and denied, even to herself. That was fairy-tale time. She decided that the realities of life in the nineteenth century precluded love.

Love. Instinctively she shied away from the word, strangely afraid of the emotion and its connotations.

Love meant letting go, abandoning oneself to another.

It was a frightening idea. Aunt Deirdre loved her husband, and she knew her mother had loved her father.

They deferred to their husbands’ every wish, and both, though in different ways, were weak, helpless creatures.

Catherine knew it was foolish, but she was afraid that love would rob her of life, would turn her into a meek, placid creature who did nothing in life but live for her husband.

This fear of love warred with her internal confidence to meet any jump straight on, to throw her heart over first. The ambiguity of her situation was not lost on her, and it gnawed at her.

She would like to let go and enjoy herself, to take a risk on finding love, yet pride and shyness prevented her.

She fretted over the duality of her emotions, feeling somehow lesser for her fears yet confident of their nature.

The blacker the sky, the colder the air, the more Catherine’s thoughts spiraled down.

The following day saw neither improvement in the weather nor Catherine’s mood.

As she stood before the looking glass in her chamber at the Rose and Crown, she felt no satisfaction at seeing a reflection of herself in a plain, dun-colored gown, with her hair pulled severely away from her face denying its natural tendency to wave.

She felt she looked like the plain mouse.

However, seeing herself so attired and knowing the masquerade began at that moment, she suffered a strange disquiet.

Catherine stood before the mirror so long without moving or saying a word that Bethie became nervous. “Are you all right, Miss Catherine?” she asked uncertainly.

“What? Oh, yes, thank you, Bethie.” She turned toward her abigail and smiled.

“I must confess our plan for me never seemed real until now.” She faced the mirror once more, turning from side to side to see herself better.

“I am a figure of fun! What do you suppose will be Maureen and Raymond’s reaction? I venture they will not like it.”

Bethie giggled, “No, Miss, but as much as they disapprove, they know they have no say over you.”

Catherine sighed. “True, and how much that knowledge will hurt them. Raymond has never altered the image he has of me as a wild twelve-year-old, following him around the stables. Well, enough. Where is my bonnet, Bethie?” She looked about her.

“Here, Miss. There, now we’re ready.” Bethie said, tying the ribbon under Catherine’s chin.

Catherine turned back to the mirror briefly, her earlier reverie gone and replaced with an objective attitude.

The gown and the bonnet, a washed-out dun color like the dress, served to focus attention on Catherine’s tanned complexion, earned from long hours in the saddle without the benefit of a hat.

Her mother and grandmother had plied her with creams and salves to negate the harsh drying effects of the elements on her complexion.

They’d achieved a modicum of success. She was not an alabaster beauty.

Catherine’s skin was soft and smooth, in perfect condition, save for a golden glow that only served to highlight a speaking pair of dark brown eyes and sun-burnished auburn hair.

Colors looked good on her, but there would be no problem looking plain and unattractive in the white gowns considered de rigueur for the debutante.

“Yes, I’ll do. My gloves? Thank you. You have everything in order now? Good, then run fetch the post boy to carry these boxes down while I confront Mr. and Mrs. Dawes.”

Bethie giggled again. “Well, you can’t blame them if they be upset. If you don’t mind my saying, it be hoydenish, what you’re planning.”

Catherine shrugged slightly and went out the door Bethie held open. She did not again look back in the mirror. The die was cast. She lifted her chin and stood straighter as she sedately descended to the coffee room below.

Much to her relief, Maureen Dawes was its only occupant. An empty plate bore mute testimony to her husband’s earlier presence. Maureen looked up and smiled.

“Good morning, did—” She got no further when her mind registered what her eyes were seeing. She stared at Catherine.