Page 6 of Loyalty (The Chaplain’s Legacy #5)

K ent’s good humour was sorely tested by Miss Cathcart’s efforts to engage him in a flirtation. He had no objection to it on principle, but he liked to choose the recipient, and he could not help but despise a woman who clearly saw him as a pigeon ripe for plucking. A woman should surely wait for a man to display some interest in her before launching into quite such a determined effort to ensnare him, in his view.

The hoped-for cake arrived soon afterwards, not cherry, but Olivia fell on it with glee anyway. Happily for Kent, the cake was followed almost at once by Mr Cathcart and his eldest son, and Kent took the opportunity to escape to the relative safety of male company. With a glass of Madeira in his hand and some sensible conversation about horses to sustain him, his mood improved.

From his new vantage point, he could see Miss Parish cowering on a footstool in a corner. No one made any effort to draw her forwards. She jumped up to help when the cake and tea arrived, but Mrs Cathcart waved her away and set Miss Susan Cathcart to handing around plates and cups. Several times Kent was offered a slice of cake, a biscuit or a fruit pastry, but he declared himself content with his Madeira.

On one such circuit, having a view through to the music room window, she glanced out and exclaimed, “Mama! The most peculiar coach is coming up the drive, with luggage all over it. Not from round here, that much is certain. Who are we expecting?”

“No one, dear,” Mrs Cathcart said. “Passing travellers asking directions, perhaps.”

Miss Susan ran through to the music room, which overlooked the turning circle in front of the house. Running back, she cried, “It is stopping, Mama. The footman is getting down. Shall I go and—?”

“By no means, Susan. Davis will deal with it.”

A few moments later, Davis came in bearing a card on a silver salver. Mrs Cathcart read it, gave an exclamation, then firmly shook her head. The butler bowed and withdrew.

Susan called through from the music room. “A lady is getting down, Mama.”

“It is no one we know, dear,” her mother said, rather flustered.

“But her footmen are unstrapping the luggage, Mama. Should we not—?”

Mrs Cathcart reddened, then smiled at Olivia. “Do excuse me a moment, Lady Olivia. I shall be back directly. James, pray ensure that Lady Olivia has another slice of cake.”

Amused, Kent wandered through to the music room. It was indeed a peculiar coach, of a large, old-fashioned style, drawn by four horses, with a liveried coachman and groom on the box. Two footmen, also in livery, were unstrapping a large wrapped item from the roof, while two outriders looked on. As Kent watched, a woman appeared from behind the coach and gave some orders to one of the outriders, who nodded and rode away down the drive.

The woman was elderly, he guessed, from all he could see of her behind her voluminous hat, which might have been fashionable fifteen years ago. She was dressed from head to toe in black, her wide skirts swaying as she moved. Yes, definitely elderly.

But not shy, that much was certain. Davis was on the drive, perhaps remonstrating with her, but she only laughed at him and the footmen continued their work on unfastening the item on the roof. Whatever was it? Not a traveller’s box for luggage, since it was well wrapped against the dust and rain of the road. Now they were gently lifting it down to the ground. Furniture, perhaps? It could be a small writing desk.

Now Mrs Cathcart was out there, flapping her hands ineffectually, but the woman in black roared with laughter. She was nearer now, and her words carried even through the glass.

“I just want to see little Katy, that’s all, ma’am. A small gift for her. No need to get in a pelter over it.”

Little Katy? And the strong Lancashire accent told its own story. Kent laughed, and elbowed his way through the crowd that now thronged the music room, heads craning to see the arrival. Back in the drawing room, Olivia was talking composedly to Miss Cathcart and James, her plate heaped with cake. Miss Parish was still huddled in the corner, a cup of tea balanced on her knees.

“Miss Parish?” Kent said quietly. She started and blushed a fiery red. “I think the visitor is here to see you.”

“Me?”

The cup of tea wobbled precariously. He lifted it from her lap, setting it safely on a side table. “Will you come and see?”

He offered his arm and, still as red as a beetroot, head down, she allowed herself to be led out into the hall and through the front door.

She gasped. “Mrs Vance? Oh, Mrs Vance!”

Tearing down the steps, she hurled herself at the black-clad figure, who scooped her to her ample bosom with cries of delight.

“Katy, dear! Well, now, let me look at you. So thin, but my, how grand you’ve grown, in your fine gown, although the house is not quite what I was expecting. So plain! Why, I declare, the Ridwells’ house is far grander. I like a bit of ornamentation, myself, not so dull as this. But I like to see you dressed up a bit finer than you used to, child. Quite the lady you are now. I wonder you still want to acknowledge a disreputable character like poor Mrs Vance. Now, now, child, no more tears. This lady must be your aunt, I suppose. Do tell her I’ll not be stopping long, for she won’t want the likes of me cluttering up her drive. Is that fine gentleman your uncle?”

She pointed at Davis. Kent could not hear how Miss Parish replied, for her voice was not above a whisper, but the lady in black roared with laughter.

“Well now, fancy me mistaking the butler for a gentleman! Lord, how Mr Vance will laugh when I tell him. There now, child, this is all I came for, to bring you a little present. Couldn’t get here before, what with my Lottie’s confinement, and then Janey’s boys came all over spots, and I couldn’t neglect poor Mr Vance, could I? But I’m here now, aren’t I? There!” She pointed triumphantly to the package now sitting on the drive. “Where do you want it? My men will bring it in to the house.”

“A gift for Katherine? How kind,” Mrs Cathcart said hastily, attempting to wrest control of the situation. “Davis, see to it, will you? Thank you so much, Mrs… er, Vance.” She paused, and even from his vantage point at the top of the steps, Kent could see the struggle on her face between good manners and the burning desire to rid her drive of this vulgar person. In the end, catching sight of Kent’s amused face, she settled for good manners. “Will you step inside, Mrs Vance? While Katherine unwraps her… gift.”

“Well, now, that’s most gracious of you, ma’am. I don’t mind if I do, and a glass of something wouldn’t go amiss. Thirsty work, travelling in the summer. All that dust quite parches a body’s throat. Well, what a narrow hall! I declare, I prefer a larger entrance myself, but there, I expect tastes differ in Yorkshire.”

Mrs Cathcart ushered Mrs Vance and Miss Parish firmly into the front parlour, while Davis and a couple of footmen manoeuvred the large package in there too. Then the door was firmly closed on the little crowd of onlookers.

“Do go back to the drawing room, everyone. Mr Atherton? May I tempt you to a slice of plum cake?”

Kent followed the general drift back to the drawing room, retrieved his glass of Madeira and picked up a second glass. Olivia was still there, still eating, still talking to Miss Cathcart, whose eyes lit up at the sight of Kent. Bending over Olivia, he murmured into her ear, “When the cake runs out, the parlour might be amusing.”

Then, ignoring Mrs Cathcart’s urging him to stay, he set off for the parlour again, opening the door with difficulty, trying not to spill Madeira, and sidling in. Mrs Vance was seated on an overstuffed sofa, looking rather uncomfortable, but her face lit up when Kent handed her the spare glass of Madeira.

“Well now, that’s just the thing to set me straight. Thank you kindly, sir.”

Meanwhile, Miss Parish knelt on the floor, wrestling with the knots securing the mysterious parcel. And talking! She chattered away as if she had not talked for a month and had stored up all her words, while Mrs Vance gave brief answers to the questions that tumbled out one after the other.

“—take the waters, but I am so glad he is somewhat improved. And what of Mrs Silver? Is she better now? She was so poorly when I left. Oh, I am glad to hear it. And did Mr Tiller propose to Miss Berkeley in the end? Oh, no! Poor Miss Berkeley! And how is the new curate working out? Are his sermons less soporific than Mr Tybald’s? Oh, goodness, I—”

Kent watched, mesmerised. This was a side to Miss Parish that he had never suspected. Not only was she talking more than he had ever seen before, but her face was alive with enthusiasm, her eyes sparkling and her lips… such lips! Had they always been so red, so downright enticing? He was aware of a tug of interest that was not merely pity for a lonely, shy girl, and not even the twinge of guilt that he had unburdened himself so disgracefully to a near stranger.

She became aware of him, falling silent as her cheeks took on the familiar fiery hue.

“Are the knots giving you trouble?” he said gently. “Shall I cut the string?”

“No… that would be wasteful,” she murmured, eyes downcast. Then, flushing even more, “But thank you, sir.”

“Then may I try to unpick them?” he said, and when she nodded, he knelt down beside her and set to work. She slid along the rug to put some distance between them, her head still lowered, hands neatly folded in her lap.

When the silence began to feel oppressive, Kent said, “Have you travelled far today, Mrs Vance?”

“Only from Thirsk, sir. I don’t hold with these long days in the carriage, so I never plan more than a stage or two a day. That way, I can keep my own horses and my reliable coachman. I don’t hold with post horses, not when I have my own.”

“Very wise,” Kent said. “And are you staying in these parts long? Miss Parish will not want you to rush away, I am sure.”

“A few days, perhaps. If the inn is to my liking.”

“The White Horse? It is reputed to be a very comfortable establishment. Mrs Haslet’s mutton pie is the best in the North Riding. She tells me so herself, so it must be true. There!” he said triumphantly, as the first knot was teased apart. “One done, only another dozen or so waiting. Your servants wrapped this excessively well, Mrs Vance.”

She chuckled, but said, “You have the advantage of me, sir. Are you one of the Cathcarts?”

Kent jumped to his feet. “I beg your pardon! How rag-mannered of me. Mr Kent Atherton at your service, ma’am.” He made her a respectful bow.

“Oh, Mr Atherton? Mr Kent Atherton? The earl’s youngest son, then. Oh, I’ve heard all about you, and how kind you were to Katy when she first arrived. ‘May you find some small ray of hope every day to enchant you and relieve your sadness for a while.’ That was what you said to her. Oh, don’t colour up like that, Katy dear, that letter’s been read by everyone in Branton. Mrs Tybald was moved to tears by it. All Katy’s letters are read out loud to all our friends, Mr Atherton, and we was all shocked to pieces to hear of the trouble that’s come to your family. A murder! Such wickedness in the world, and now it turns out the clergyman was never ordained, seemingly. Is that so, sir? For Katy won’t talk about that, says it’s all gossip and she don’t like to trade in gossip. But you live in the castle, don’t you? What a fine thing! And here you are, unpicking knots, and you the son of an earl. Well, everyone will be so interested when I tell them back in Branton.”

“Branton… is that where you come from, Miss Parish?”

She nodded.

“Strange. For some reason, I thought it was Lancaster.” In fact, he recalled Mrs Cathcart saying so.

“Near…” she began, her voice a whisper. “Lancaster is the nearest large town.”

He so much wanted to see that animated face again that he said impulsively, “Tell me about Branton, Miss Parish.”

She blushed even more strongly, if such a thing were possible, then gave the tiniest shake of her head.

“A fine town, sir, very fine,” Mrs Vance said robustly. “Very forward looking.”

Amused, Kent’s hands stilled on the current knot and looked up at her. “Forward looking? In what way?”

“Very modern,” she said firmly. “Is there any more of this delicious wine?”

Laughing, he jumped to his feet and took the empty glass from her hand. “Would you like a piece of cake as well?”

“Now, that would be most agreeable, sir.”

He returned to the drawing room, the hum of conversation lapsing into silence as he entered.

“Mr Atherton,” Mrs Cathcart trilled. “So glad you could join us again. Would you care to—?”

“I am only here momentarily,” Kent said smoothly. “I find that in all the excitement, Mrs Vance’s refreshments have been overlooked.”

He filled a plate with an array of cakes and pastries, refilled the glass and then, with some juggling from hand to hand, tucked the decanter under one arm and strode out of the room, trying very hard not to laugh at the shock on Mrs Cathcart’s face.

Reaching the closed parlour door, he stopped, daunted. There was no servant to be seen. Instead, he found Olivia behind him. “You are wicked!” she whispered, grinning at him.

She had remembered to bring her plate with her, he noticed, still laden with cake. “Is that your third slice or fourth?”

“Third… I think. I have lost count rather. It is very good. Is she dreadfully vulgar? Mrs Cathcart looks as if she has eaten a whole lemon.”

“Mrs Cathcart is unspeakably rude to a friend of Miss Parish’s. Sister, are you going to stand there all day, or shall you open this door? My hands are rather full.”

Giggling, she opened it and followed him into the parlour. Mrs Vance’s eyes brightened at the mound of food on the plate and the nearly full decanter.

“Ah, you are a gentleman, sir. How very kind of you. Oh!” Her eye fell on Olivia. “Now let me guess… small, dark, beautifully proportioned and pretty as paint — you must be the Lady Olivia, my dear.”

Olivia actually blushed.

“What a delightful compliment,” Kent said, amused. “I must suppose that is from another of your letters, Miss Parish?”

But that only made Miss Parish blush even harder. While he had been gone, she had loosened several more knots, and as Olivia sat down to discuss the cake with Mrs Vance, as one connoisseur to another, Kent released the final few lengths of cord, and gently unwrapped the gift. It was a small cabinet in the delicate modern style, with two doors that concealed an array of drawers within. Miss Parish uttered a cry of delight.

“My music cabinet… and all the music still within! Oh, Mrs Vance, how came you by it? For the bailiffs took it, I saw them.”

And she burst into tears.

“There was a great auction of all the household items, dearie, and Mr Vance authorised Mr Monteath to buy a few pieces that I’d set my heart on. That lovely black and gold table you had in the hall, and the two vases that always stood there — they are in my hall now, and very much admired, I can tell you. And I bought a silver coffee set that I gave your mama and papa when they married, or at least, it may not be the exact one, but very like it. Mr Monteath bought your pianoforte for Annabelle, so you know that’s gone to a good home. Mr Moreton bought the whole dining set, and some of the pictures, too, and Mr Ridwell bought some paintings, too. Oh, and John Dyson bought the portrait of your mama with Harold as a baby. He always was sweet on her, you know, and now he’s going to have her hanging in his study.”

And all the time Miss Parish was weeping, and pulling out favourite pieces of music, murmuring, “Haydn… Mozart… Boccherini… Bach…”

“There now, I knew you’d be glad to have it back,” Mrs Vance said with a smile of satisfaction. “My, this cake is so good. This will put me on beautifully till dinner, I declare.”

“A little more Madeira, ma’am?”

“I don’t mind if I do. Thirsty work, all this talking, don’t you think?”

Kent agreed to it, and topped up her glass again, and wondered if Miss Parish would ever stop crying. At least she was not blushing any more, and he could admire her smooth cheeks while they were pale, for once. Yes, definitely prettier than the Cathcart girls.