The Bishop's Daughter Page 2

  A stunned hush fell over the crowd, then many of the women present let out shocked and delighted shrieks, while the men exclaimed.

  "Damnation," the squire roared.

  "Abomination!" The outraged vicar staggered back as though he had uncovered the devil himself.

  "Exquisite," the Dowager Lady Lytton cooed, dabbing at her plump face with a black-edged handkerchief, taking pains not to mar the layering of paint meant to conceal her fifty-odd years.

  "Ridiculous!" said the squire's thin wife. "It looks nothing like Lord Harry. He was never so thick about the waist, and I am sure he had a much finer set of legs—"

  "Upon my word, madam." The squire leveled his wife an awful stare. "You seem to have made a thorough study of the matter."

  Mrs. Gresham colored. “I am sure that any woman--- er, I mean anyone who knew his lordship would say the same."

  By this time, Harry feared the only mourner present with tears glistening in the eyes was himself as he struggled to contain his mirth. But as his gaze chanced upon his cousin Julia, affecting to look so prim, so disapproving, all the while she kept stealing glances upward at the statue's firmly muscled buttocks, it became entirely too much for Harry's self-control. He burst into a roar of laughter that seemed to ring all the more loudly amid the astonished silence of the crowd.

  Indignant faces turned toward him only to go pale with recognition. Through his peals of mirth, he heard the gasps, his name rippling through the crowd like a rush of wind through the willows. His stepmother let out a piercing cry and clutched at her heart. The Reverend Thorpe so far forgot himself as to take the name of the Lord in vain.

  Harry tried to speak, but couldn't. He could only glance helplessly about him, wishing he could find at least one other kindred spirit to share this moment, someone else who could see the humor of the situation.

  Instead he encountered a face that drove the laughter from his lips, the last face in the world he had expected to encounter. Standing close to his shoulder was a solemn-looking lady garbed in pearl gray, so close that he wondered how he could have missed her before.

  Harry experienced a shock not unlike the one he had felt when blasted from his saddle at Waterloo. He stared into violet eyes that registered a mingling of disbelief, joy, and reproach.

  "Kate!" Harry cried hoarsely.

  Kate's lips attempted to form his name as what little color she possessed drained from her cheeks. Harry retained just enough presence of mind to open his arms wide and catch her as she swayed into a dead faint.

  Chapter Two

  Miss Kathryn Towers had nearly decided not to attend the dedication of Lord Lytton's memorial. An hour before the ceremony was scheduled to begin, she had lingered in the parlor window seat of the cottage she shared with her mother in the village of Lytton's Dene.

  It was unusual for Kate to sit idle for so long, staring vacantly out the window, but that is what she had been doing, her gaze fixing upon the elder bushes growing just beneath the latticed panes, their white blossoms thick among the greenery like a scattering of summer snow.

  Snow . . . Would she ever be able to think of it again without also thinking of Harry? It had been winter when he had first come crashing, quite literally into her life, that last winter when Papa had still been alive. A sad, half smile tipped Kate's lips.

  She had been bundled up in a fur-lined cloak, strolling in the garden of the Episcopal Palace at Chillingsworth, watching the deep blue of twilight fade to darkness. The full moon rose, shining a silvery glow over the snow-shrouded landscape, making the garden sparkle like crystal. The blanket of white had cast a hush over everything, an aura of enchantment, of expectancy as though something was about to happen. Or was that now only her imagination in looking back? For something had happened. . . .

  A curricle had come smashing through the low-lying hedge, finishing up by knocking over the statue of John the Apostle. One wheel of the carriage broke, flinging its driver into what remained of the rose bed.

  With a cry of alarm, Kate rushed forward, but the man was already climbing from the wreckage quite unperturbed, dusting snow from the torn capes of his garrick. As he went round to quiet his horse, he said, "Sorry, miss, but it was either your statue or a little urchin who slipped into the road."

  "It—it was John the Apostle," Kate stammered.

  "Who? The urchin?"

  "No, the statue," she said solemnly.

  For some reason, that made the stranger laugh. "Rather odd place to keep an apostle."

  Secretly Kate agreed with him. She had always said the statue was placed far too close to the hedge, although she would not have expressed her opinion in quite the same manner.

  As the moonlight outlined his profile, the thick waves of coal dark hair, the strong, stubborn jaw-line, she recognized who he was. Kate felt a tingling of alarm as she realized it was a most dangerous man who had invaded her garden. Even she had heard of Hellfire Harry, the wild young Earl of Lytton who frequently drove in from his estates to Chillingsworth. Not to attend services in the cathedral either, but to engage in such vulgar pursuits as attending race meets and prize fights or to carouse with his friends in one of the taverns.

  But when she noticed his forehead was bleeding, all thoughts of Harry's dubious reputation had been swept from her mind. As the bishop's daughter, she had no choice but to invite him into the palace, even though the bishop was gone to read the services at evensong and her mother was away attending the confinement of one of her dearest friends.

  Nor had she any choice but to see to his wound, although he would only permit her to do so after he had made sure that his horse was well cared for. As she had prepared to place sticking plaster on the cut, she found herself studying his lordship's face. He was perhaps more handsome at close range than he had appeared those times she had glimpsed him from a distance, his features, even in the winter, bearing the rugged healthy appearance of a man who spends most of his time out of doors. Kathryn had always supposed that one as reportedly wicked as Lord Lytton would bear some signs of it in his countenance, a hinting of dissipation.

  But there was naught of the hardened roué about Harry's face, only a clean strength in the angular line of his jaw, an almost boyishness in the jet black strand of hair that tumbled across his forehead, mischief lurking in the most vivid green eyes Kate had ever seen.

  With her parents gone, she should never have encouraged him to stay, but how could she turn an injured man from her doorstep? She asked him to partake of tea. She could still remember how awkward his large hands had looked balancing the dainty Sevres cup, heroically screwing up his face with each sip he took. She sat upon the settee, mending the tear in his garrick, the snow softly falling outside the tall windows, the fire blazing on the hearth, the deep sound of Harry's voice rumbling pleasantly in her ears. She could not remember exactly what outrageous things he had said only that she had never smiled and blushed so much in her life.

  From time to time she peeked up from her work to steal glances at him. Her father had raised her to be wary, to place no value on mere handsomeness. It was the beauties of a man's character that mattered. But why had not the bishop seen fit to warn her how dangerous green eyes could be, eyes that crinkled at the corners when a man laughed and a smile that came so warm, so ready, so utterly disarming?

  A smile that Kate could not bring herself to believe she would never see again. . . .

  "Kate?" Her mother's voice had cut through Kate's haze of memories. Rather reluctantly, she turned to face the tiny wisp of a woman who stood regarding her. Although it had been two years since Papa's death, her mother still wore her simple black gowns, the white lace of her widow's cap most becoming to her silvery blond hair and the soft contours of her face. Maisie Towers's plain countenance bore the lines of her years, but her eyes remained the same deep violet shade as Kate's, although Kate often felt that her mother's held more of a sweetness of expression than her own.

  "It is nearly past noon. You have decided not
to attend the dedication after all?" Mrs. Towers asked, a hint of relief in her tones.

  At that moment with Harry's memory so fresh, so poignant in her mind, Kate wished she could cry out, no, she did not wish to go. Her mourning for Harry had been a private matter. Indeed, she almost felt as though she was not entitled to any grief, having turned Harry away. She didn't want to attend the dedication, be expected to admire some horrid memorial. Harry had not been the kind of man whose image could be captured in cold, unfeeling stone.

  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 beaut
y.

  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.