Page 5 of Loyalty (The Chaplain’s Legacy #5)

K atherine hastened after the twins, through another saloon, decorated in shades of pale green and white, although with as much gold paint as the previous room. A line of footmen stood to attention across the room, marking the way to the dining room, where there was a great bustle of seats pulled out and pushed in, as everyone settled in their proper places.

Katherine waited until only one seat was left, then slipped silently into it, her cheeks scarlet with shame to be the last. An unseen footman behind her pushed her chair forwards as she sat, catching the back of her legs so that she half fell into it. Then she had to shuffle the chair nearer to the table herself, the footman attempting to help and only making the whole manoeuvre more difficult. Around the table, silence fell as everyone’s gaze was upon her, the last to be settled. She blushed and blushed again from mortification. When finally she was in position, Mr Franklyn said grace and the meal began.

However, Katherine found herself awkwardly placed, for she had Miss Bridget Dewar on one side of her, and Aveline on the other, and Aunt Cathcart had given her clear instructions not to reach across the table for a dish, as she had been accustomed to do at home, but to wait for a gentleman to fetch it for her. The soup presented no difficulty, for the footmen handed round the bowls, and after that there was fish, again distributed from the head and foot of the table. But when those items were removed and the first course laid out on the table, Katherine had no idea what to do, with no gentleman to enquire what she would like to eat and to stretch across the table to the right dish.

So she sat, her plate empty, paralysed with fear of a wrong move. Once a footman leaned over her shoulder and murmured, “May I fetch something for you, madam?” but Katherine whispered, “No… no, thank you.” Only when the second course was set out and she saw that many of the ladies reached for nearby dishes without hesitation did she dare to take a couple of spoonfuls from the nearest dish, but so hastily, to escape notice, that she dripped gravy on the immaculate white cloth.

It was a relief when the ladies rose to leave. She rather liked the ceremony of their departure, as all the gentlemen stood also, and bowed as the ladies filed past. Mr Kent Atherton rushed to the door to hold it open, smiling to every lady who passed him. Katherine blushed and lowered her head, lacking the courage to look at him.

She followed the straggling procession, last, of course, for she was painfully aware of her place in this august company, into another magnificent apartment, the walls lined with paintings of stern-faced men in huge wigs and a few unsmiling females in the ornate clothes of half a century ago.

“My Bucknell ancestors,” their hostess was saying as a footman closed the door behind Katherine. “Copies of the portraits at Marshfields, the principal seat of my father, the Duke of Camberley.”

Aunt Cathcart was standing near the door. “Ah, Katherine, come and sit beside me… over here, I think.” She chose a small sofa some distance from the rest of the guests gathered about their hostess. “Now then, my dear, I did not quite like to see you draw attention to yourself at dinner.”

Katherine blushed for shame at the reprimand, but could not help saying, “Me, aunt? What did I do?”

“You ate nothing, child! Such an insult to Lady Esther. She was so concerned she sent a footman to attend to you. But perhaps you are unwell?”

“No… no, but I thought… there was no gentleman. You told me… I must wait for a gentleman to offer me a dish.”

Aunt Cathcart sighed. “But you were not seated beside a gentleman, were you? Not that it was your fault in the slightest. I was very cross with Alex and Neil for neglecting to look after you, but there, they are still young and thoughtless. I will have a word with them tomorrow. One of them should have stayed with you, but there are more ladies than gentlemen tonight, so there are bound to be one or two ladies left to fend for themselves. You are not expected to starve, my dear! One does not quite like to see ladies standing to stretch the full width of the table, as Miss Franklyn did tonight, but you may always ask a neighbour to pass you a dish, be it a lady or a gentleman, or you may summon a footman. There are so many footmen here tonight so it is no imposition. You will get into the way of it very soon, I am sure. Oh, I must just have a word with Kitty Strong.”

Kitty Strong… but surely she was Lady Strong? Or should that be Lady Kitty Strong? It was too confusing for words.

Aunt Cathcart bustled away, leaving Katherine alone in her quiet corner. The ladies settled into groups, the younger ones around the noisy Miss Franklyn, who never seemed to stop chattering and laughing loudly, and the older ones clustered more quietly near Lady Esther — or was it Lady Franklyn? Another lady, whose name Katherine could not quite remember, was engaged in chasing everyone away from the open windows and adjuring them to keep their shawls tightly drawn about their persons.

After a while, a little train of footmen came in to roll up the carpets ready for dancing. It was clear that this was not an impromptu event, however, for the chairs had already been pushed towards the walls, and a couple of extra chairs placed beside the pianoforte, waiting for the fiddlers who now crept in. Bowing low to the ladies, they took their places and began to tune their instruments. Mrs Dewar, the rector’s wife, took her place at the pianoforte.

This was more like it! Katherine could not dance or make conversation, but music, any music, lifted her spirits enormously. Soon, the gentlemen arrived from the dining room, and the dancing began. In her quiet corner, she had a fine view of the dancers, admiring once again the elegance of their movements and the precision with which they positioned arms and legs and even fingers. So graceful! And the gentlemen just as agile and precise as the ladies. It was nothing at all like the style of dancing she had seen at Branton, entered into there with more enthusiasm than grace, on the whole, but enjoyed by young and old alike, even the children joining in.

After a while, one of the young men discovered her in her secluded spot.

“Well, Miss Parish,” he said, taking the seat beside her, “what do you think of the dancing so far? Are we not an energetic lot?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, blushing violently. What was his name? He was one of the Athertons, a son of Mr George Atherton, the earl’s brother… was it Bertram? She thought it was.

“Who do you think is the best dancer?”

“I… I cannot say.”

“Very diplomatic. I would say my cousin Olivia is the most graceful of the ladies, but for the gentlemen, and it pains me to say so, the palm must go to Mr Franklyn. I never saw a man of his age dance so well. He quite outshines the rest of us.” He paused, but when she said nothing, he went on, “I know you are still in black gloves for your father, but in a setting such as this, amongst friends, it would not be improper for you to dance, surely? May I have the honour?”

“Oh… no, no! Indeed, no.” Then, remembering her manners, she added, “Thank you.”

“Then I shall stay and enjoy your company, Miss Parish.”

How kind he was! But Aveline was watching them closely from not far away. “No, no, you must not… look there, Aveline… Miss Cathcart…”

His smile never faltered. He rose, bowed, and went straight to Aveline, who bore him into the next set triumphantly. However, his partner did not seem to please him much, for after a brief exchange, they remained silent for the rest of the dance, and then separated at once. A few moments later, however, Katherine saw the same man approaching her again. Surely he would not—? But he had a young lady with him, who smiled at her shyly.

“Miss Parish, since you are not dancing this evening, would you be so good as to bear my sister company? Emily does not wish to dance, either, and it seems to me that you would both derive more pleasure in the evening by having a companion to talk to. You have chosen a wonderful vantage point, ma’am, from which you may admire whatever is admirable in the dancing and deplore whatever is deplorable, and such thoughts are best shared with a like-minded friend, are they not?”

And with a bow, he was gone.

“You do not mind?” Emily said in a soft voice that Katherine liked at once. “I am too terrified to dance, and it would be so lovely to have a friend to sit with… if… if you have no objection?”

“No, indeed,” Katherine said very readily.

A friend! Yes, that would be lovely indeed. So she patted the seat beside her, Emily sat down and they smiled at each other with genuine pleasure.

***

K atherine soon found that, although Emily Atherton was only eighteen, she was exactly the friend she needed to guide her through the shoals of the society in which she now found herself. Not only did Emily know precisely how to address the daughter of a duke or the wife of a baronet, but she could explain the distinction easily.

“The daughter of a duke, marquess or earl has a title from her father, and keeps it for life, so if she marries a commoner like Mr Franklyn she becomes Lady Esther Franklyn. If she had married a lord, she would take his title over her own, like every other lady. Lady Rennington, for instance. Or a baronet, like Sir Hubert Strong — his wife is Lady Strong.”

“So… I would address them as Lady Esther and Lady Strong?” Katherine said hesitantly.

“Yes! Although Mama says that if one is feeling particularly deferential, one may address Lady Esther as ‘my lady’ , as a sign of respect. She is quite the grandest lady for miles around. Lady Rennington is much easier to talk to.”

That was a point where Katherine could not quite agree. To her, everyone in this new world she now inhabited was difficult to talk to. Emily’s problem was more modest — she could talk comfortably to ladies, or to older gentlemen, but a young man, particularly a handsome and amiable one, rendered her mute and covered in confusion. She was not one to put herself forward, however, so even with ladies, she tended to creep into corners, just as Katherine did. Now they could creep together, and it was a very comfortable thing, Katherine found, to have someone with whom to hide away.

Within a week of Lady Esther’s evening party, the two had fallen into the habit of meeting almost every day. If Emily did not walk down the hill to Cathcart House, Katherine would walk up to Westwick Heights. Then there would be long walks in the garden, or visits to Birchall village, and on wet days they sat companionably indoors with a handkerchief apiece to be embroidered, and whispered together.

Like the Cathcarts, Emily was one of six, having two sisters and three brothers. Julia was Katherine’s age, but seemed very grown up, for she was betrothed already, and Penelope was barely out but had all the confidence in society that Emily lacked. The two older brothers were distant creatures, seldom seen, Bertram because he spent all day in the library with his books and Lucas because he was constantly in the stables or out riding, like his father. The youngest child, Philip, was still confined to the nursery on the uppermost floor.

Emily’s mother, Mrs Atherton, was a kindly soul who fretted perpetually over the health of her family. Whenever Katherine visited, this solicitude extended to her, too, and she found herself exhorted to borrow one of the many thick shawls left in every room, or draw her chair nearer to the blazing fire. At all costs she must not venture near the windows, in case of stray draughts which would invariably settle on the chest, become a putrid fever and carry the sufferer off within days. Katherine quickly learnt to swathe herself in a shawl when advised, relinquishing its suffocating embrace as soon as Mrs Atherton had left the room.

Somehow, she felt far more at home at Westwick Heights than at Cathcart House. Even though Emily’s father was the younger brother of the Earl of Rennington, and now the heir to the title and estates, and even though the whole family was indubitably aristocratic, there was an ease and friendliness about them that was most agreeable to a rather lonely girl. If she had to be part of a large family, she mused to herself sometimes on the walks up or down the hill, she had far sooner be part of the relaxed Athertons than suffering the supercilious Aveline, or Aunt Cathcart’s constant worries about appearances, and the possible humiliation that might result if it became known that Katherine was the daughter of a mill owner.

The Athertons were not even perturbed by her father’s occupation. Mr Atherton came into the parlour one day, a folded newspaper in his hand.

“Miss Parish, I noticed this piece in one of the Manchester newspapers. It will interest you, I believe.”

Surprised, she took the newspaper from him and read where he indicated. It was about Branton! At first, it merely described the opening of a new, modern mill, but then—

“Longfarley!” she cried. Her father’s mill!

“You know it, then?”

“Oh, yes, for it is—” She clamped one hand over her mouth, recalling that she was not supposed to mention such things. Then, she slowly said, “I am glad to hear that it has reopened. There were many workers laid off when… when it closed.”

“Last year,” Mr Atherton said gently. “Just before Christmas, so the newspaper says. Is that correct?”

Wordlessly, she nodded, feeling tears pricking, and hoping she would not disgrace herself by crying openly. Not in front of the earl’s brother. How embarrassing that would be!

“Do you know the new owner? This… Mr Ridwell?”

She nodded again. “He has other mills. Cragforth is his biggest, but Longfarley is bigger… it has the very latest type of— Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. This is of no interest to you.”

“On the contrary, Miss Parish. I deduce this is… was your father’s mill, which was lost after he died? Then I am very glad to hear that it has reopened and given employment to so many men. There is much in the article about the significant improvements to the manufacture of beam engines that make this particular mill of such interest to our men of industry.”

She read the article avidly, and although her father’s name was not mentioned anywhere, and all the praise instead went to Mr Ridwell for his forward thinking in the new mill, she knew the credit was all to her father.

When she left that day, Mr Atherton emerged from his study to push into her hand a folded paper — the article, cut from the newspaper.

But a few days later, Katherine’s old and new lives clashed in a most unexpected fashion.

***

“B ut Kent, you would not have me imprisoned here, would you?” Olivia wheedled as they sat at breakfast. “I have to escape, and with Mama gone, who better to escort me than my own brother?”

“You escaped only yesterday, as I recall, and with my escort,” Kent said but without heat, for when Olivia had set her mind on something, she was quite unstoppable. Besides, with Walter gone to London and Eustace busy about his own affairs, Kent was the only one left. He sipped his coffee and watched her marshal her arguments.

In truth, he felt sorry for his youngest sister. She was eighteen now, an age at which both Josie and Izzy had made their come-outs in town, but the Dowager Countess’s lingering illness had sunk poor Olivia’s chance of a season this year. Yet Grandmama still clung to life, and now Nicholson’s deceit had ruined Olivia’s future even more. With her pretty face and lively nature, not to mention a substantial dowry, she would still make a good match, but as an illegitimate daughter of an earl, her possibilities were reduced. Not for her the marriage to a peer or future peer, as both Josie and Izzy had achieved. The best she could hope for was a country gentleman of means, and that would be such a waste. So he was not unwilling to squire her about.

“Oh, pooh, yesterday was only Aunt Jane. That hardly counts.”

“And the Strongs, and the Franklyns the day before. Who else would you call upon?”

“The Cathcarts.”

“Really? Mama is not keen on Mrs Cathcart.”

“Lord, no, she is quite encroaching , and the daughters are just as bad, but their cook makes the most delicious cherry cake… so moist and sticky! And she does not fuss if one has a second or third slice, the way Aunt Jane does. ‘So sweet and bad for the digestion’,” she added in a passable imitation of her aunt’s voice. “ ‘Do have a dry biscuit, dear, and wrap yourself in this horrid scratchy shawl, and at all costs keep away from the nasty draughty windows.’ Her drawing room is always so overpoweringly hot. ”

Kent chuckled. “Aunt Jane means well, and she has good reason, for she was very sick when she first came here, Mother said, and is still prone to illness. Naturally, she is concerned for the health of others. But by all means let us sample the Cathcarts’ cherry cake, if you wish. Cathcart keeps an excellent cellar, so at least I will be offered something more interesting than tea. But I depend upon you to rescue me if Miss Cathcart sidles up to me batting her eyelashes.”

Olivia giggled. “She is such a flirt! Very well, we need not stay long.”

“Only three slices of cherry cake, then,” he murmured.

“Hmm, shall we say four?”

He laughed and rang the bell to order the carriage.

The Cathcarts were at home, and although the ladies were sitting in the small parlour just off the hall, the drawing room was hastily opened up for the distinguished visitors from the castle. A footman was still wrestling with shutters when Mrs Cathcart led Olivia in, while the daughters clustered around Kent, smiling hopefully up at him.

Someone was playing the pianoforte in the music room next door, someone far more competent than the Cathcart daughters. Miss Parish, undoubtedly. Kent saw Mrs Cathcart glance in that direction, open her mouth to speak and then think better of it. Was she wondering whether to summon Miss Parish? Yet she did not. As she directed the ladies to chairs, he wondered if perhaps Miss Parish, so much prettier than her cousins, was seen as a threat to their prospects?

So much prettier? Where had that thought come from? Miss Cathcart and her younger sisters were generally accounted pretty girls. Not beauties, but few women could bear comparison with his own sisters. Izzy, in particular, was beyond compare, and Olivia was very like her. But Miss Cathcart… surely she was prettier than Miss Parish?

Perhaps she was, but the way she eyed him speculatively and tried her hardest to attract his attention was deplorable. The younger girls were no better. But Miss Parish, with her guileless eyes and her ready blush… yes, she was much prettier.

Even if she had been a positive antidote, he did not like to see her pushed aside in favour of her cousins, and perhaps there was a niggle of guilt at the back of his mind for pushing all his worries onto Miss Parish that day in the church. It would please him now to make amends to some degree by giving her the proper notice that her aunt seemed disinclined to ensure.

Ignoring the smiles of the Cathcart ladies, therefore, and the sofa where Miss Cathcart sat expectantly, Kent strolled through the open door into the music room. Miss Parish was seated at the instrument, facing him but entirely oblivious of her surroundings. All her focus was on her music, her hands flying over the keys. How wonderful to have that intensity, to lose oneself so completely in an activity that one noticed nothing else. The roof could fall in, and he doubted Miss Parish would notice.

The roof did not fall in, but the effect was the same, for Mrs Cathcart appeared at Kent’s side.

“Katherine, dear, we have callers. Pray come and be sociable for a little while. Katherine!”

The music stopped abruptly, a jangle of discordant notes bereft of their fellows to make them harmonious. Miss Parish looked up with a gasp of dismay, her cheeks bright red.

“So sorry! I did not— I had not— Beg pardon, aunt.”

Jumping to her feet, she scurried round the instrument and rushed past Kent into the other room.

“Mr Atherton?” Mrs Cathcart said, with that wide smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Do have a seat.”

Suppressing a sigh, Kent allowed himself to be ushered back into the drawing room, dutifully settling beside the triumphant Miss Cathcart and preparing himself to be bored. No matter how good the cherry cake, he was not sure it was adequate compensation for such tedium.