Married by Morning (21 page)

Stunned and frozen, Catherine could hear nothing at first but the frantic velocity of her heartbeat. Time seemed to flicker, falter, and resume at a crawl. “…so many questions about you…” he was saying, his voice saturated with contempt. “Everyone wants to know more about Rutledge’s enigmatic sister … is she fair or ill-favored? Accomplished or vulgar? Endowed or destitute? Perhaps I should supply the answers. ‘She’s a beauty,’ I’ll tell my curious friends, ‘trained by an infamous procuress. She’s a fraud. And most of all she’s a whore.—”

Catherine was quiet, breathing through flared nostrils. She couldn’t make a scene during her first public outing as Harry’s sister. Any conflict with Lord Latimer would expose their past connection, and bring about her social ruin that much faster.

“Why don’t you further explain,” she whispered, “that you’re a filthy lecher who tried to rape a fifteen-year-old girl?”

“Tsk, tsk … You should know better, Catherine. People never blame a man for his passions, no matter how perverse. People blame the woman for arousing them. You won’t get far, asking for sympathy. The public despises victimized women, especially attractive ones.”

“Lord Ramsay will—”

“Ramsay will use you and discard you, which is what he does with all women. Surely you’re not so vain or stupid as to think you’re different from the others.”

“What do you want?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“I want what I paid for,” he whispered, “all those years ago. And I’ll have it. There’s no other future for you, my dear. You were never meant for a respectable life. By the time you’ve been run through the rumor mills, you’ll never have a chance of being received anywhere.”

The manacling fingers fell away, and her tormentor disappeared.

Stricken, Catherine stumbled forward to her chair and sat heavily, trying to compose herself. She stared straight ahead, seeing nothing, while the clamor of the theater pressed around her from all sides. She tried to examine her fear objectively, to put a barrier around it. It wasn’t that she actually feared Latimer. She loathed him, but he was certainly not the threat to her now that he once had been. She now had sufficient wealth to live as she pleased. She had Harry and Poppy, and the Hathaways.

But Latimer had identified her legitimate worries with cruel accuracy. One could fight a man, but not a rumor. One could lie about the past, but the truth would eventually surface. One could promise fidelity and commitment, but such promises were often broken.

She felt overwhelmed with melancholy. She felt … stained.

Poppy sat next to her, smiling. “Nearly time for the second act,” she said. “Do you think the peasant will gain revenge against the prince?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Catherine replied, trying to sound light, but her voice was forced.

Poppy’s smile faded, and she looked at her closely. “Do you feel well, dear? You look pale. Did something happen?”

Before Catherine replied, Leo shouldered his way back into the box, accompanied by a steward bearing a tray of champagne. A little bell rang from the orchestra box, signaling that the intermission would soon conclude. To Catherine’s relief, the visitors began to drift out of the box, and the throng in the hallway receded.

“Here we are,” Leo said, handing champagne to Poppy and Catherine. “You may want to drink it quickly.”

“Why?” Catherine asked, forcing a smile.

“The champagne goes flat much faster in these coupe glasses.”

Catherine drained her champagne with unladylike haste, closing her eyes and swallowing against the sparkling burn in her throat.

“I didn’t mean that quickly,” Leo said, viewing her with a faint, concerned smile.

The lights began to dim, and the audience settled.

Catherine glanced at the silver stand where the bottle of chilled champagne had been placed, a white napkin tied neatly at its neck. “May I have another?” she whispered.

“No, you’ll get tipsy if you have it so soon.” Leo took the empty glass from her, set it aside, and took her gloved hand in his. “Tell me,” he said gently. “What are you thinking about?”

“Later,” she whispered back, easing her hand from his. “Please.” She didn’t want the evening to be ruined for everyone, nor did she want to take the chance that Leo might seek out Latimer in the theater and confront him. There was nothing to be gained by saying anything at the moment.

The theater darkened and the play resumed, although the story’s melodramatic charms couldn’t pull Catherine out of her frozen misery. She watched the stage with a fixed gaze, hearing the actors’ dialogue as if it were a foreign language. And all the while her mind kept trying to find a solution to her internal dilemma.

It didn’t seem to matter that she already knew the answers. It had never been her fault, the situation she had once been put in. The blame was Latimer’s, and Althea’s, and her grandmother’s. Catherine could reassure herself of that for the rest of her life, and yet the feelings of guilt, pain, confusion, were still there. How could she rid herself of them? What could possibly free her?

For the next ten minutes, Leo glanced at Catherine repeatedly, perceiving that something was deeply wrong. She was trying very hard to concentrate on the play, but it was clear that her mind was consumed with some overpowering problem. She was distant, unreachable, as if she had been encased in ice. Trying to comfort her, he took her hand once more, and ran his thumb above the edge of her wrist-length glove. The iciness of her skin was startling.

Frowning deeply, Leo leaned toward Poppy. “What the devil happened to Marks?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” she returned helplessly. “Harry and I were talking to Lord and Lady Despencer, and Catherine was off to the side. Then we both sat, and I noticed that she looked ill.”

“I’m taking her back to the hotel,” Leo said.

Harry, who had caught the last of the exchange, frowned and murmured, “We’ll all go.”

“There’s no need for any of us to leave,” Catherine protested.

Ignoring her, Leo stared at Harry. “It would be better if you stayed and watched the rest of the play. And if anyone asks about Marks, say something about the vapours.”

“Don’t tell anyone I had vapours,” Catherine whispered sharply.

“Then say I had them,” Leo told Harry.

That seemed to rouse Catherine from her numbness. Leo was relieved to see a flicker of her usual spirit as she said, “Men can’t have vapours. It’s a female condition.”

“Nevertheless, I do,” Leo said. “I may even swoon.” He helped her from her seat.

Harry rose as well, looking down at his sister with concern. “Is this what you want, Cat?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, looking annoyed. “If I don’t, he’ll be asking for smelling salts.”

Leo escorted Catherine outside and summoned a hackney carriage. It was a two-wheeled, partially open vehicle, with an elevated driver’s seat at the rear. One could speak to the driver through a trapdoor at the top.

As Catherine approached the vehicle with Leo, she had a crawling sensation of being watched. Afraid that Latimer had followed her, she glanced to her left, where a man stood beside one of the theater’s massive portico columns. To her relief, it was not Latimer, but a much younger man. He was tall, rawboned, and dressed in shabby dark clothing and a tattered hat, with the overall effect of a scarecrow. He had the distinctive London pallor common to those who spent most of their time indoors, whose skin was never touched by sun without the filter of polluted city air. His brows were strong black stripes across his gaunt face, his skin creased with lines that he was too young to have.

He was staring at her fixedly.

Catherine paused uncertainly, aware of a vague sense of recognition. Had she seen him somewhere before? She couldn’t fathom where they might have met.

“Come,” Leo said, intending to hand her into the carriage.

But Catherine resisted, caught by the riveted stare of the stranger’s raven-dark eyes.

Leo followed the direction of her gaze. “Who is that?”

The young man came forward, removing his hat to reveal a mop of shaggy black hair. “Miss Catherine?” he said awkwardly.

“William,” she breathed in wonder.

“Yes, miss.” His mouth curled upward in the beginnings of a smile. He took another hesitant step, and bobbed in a sort of clumsy bow.

Leo intruded between them protectively and looked down at Catherine. “Who is he?”

“I think he’s the boy I once told you about … who worked at my grandmother’s house.”

“The errand boy?”

Catherine nodded. “He was the reason I was able to send for Harry … he took my letter to him. My lord, do let me speak to him.”

Leo’s face was implacable. “You would be the first one to tell me that a lady never stands and converses with a man on the street.”

“
Now
you want to pay heed to etiquette?” she asked in annoyance. “I’m going to speak to him.” Seeing the refusal in his face, she softened her voice, and surreptitiously touched his hand. “Please.”

Leo relented. “Two minutes,” he muttered, looking none too happy. He remained right beside her, his eyes ice-blue as he stared at William.

Looking cowed, William obeyed Catherine’s motion to come to them. “You turned into a lady, Miss Catherine,” he said in his thick South London accent. “But I knew it was you—that face, and those same little spectacles. I always hoped you was all right.”

“You’ve changed more than I, William,” she said, trying to summon a smile. “How tall you’ve grown. Are you still … working for my grandmother?”

He shook his head and smiled ruefully. “She passed on two years ago, miss. Doctor said ’er heart gave out, but the girls at the ’ouse said it couldn’t be, she didn’t ’ave one.”

“Oh,” Catherine whispered, her face turning bleached and stiff. It was only to be expected, of course. Her grandmother had suffered from a heart ailment for years. She thought she should feel relieved by the news, but instead she only felt chilled. “And … my aunt? Is Althea still there?”

William cast a guarded glance around them. “She’s the madam now,” he said, his voice low. “I work for her, odd jobs, same as I did for your grandmother. But it’s a different place now, miss. Much worse.”

Compassion stirred inside her. How unfair it was for him to be trapped in such a life, with no training or education to afford him any other choice. Privately she resolved to ask Harry if there might be some kind of employment for William at the hotel, something that would lead him to a decent future. “How is my aunt?” she asked.

“Ailing, miss.” His thin face was sober. “Doctor said she must of got a bawdy-’ouse disease some years back … got in ’er joints and went up to ’er brain. Not well in the ’ead, your aunt. And she can’t see none too good, neither.”

“I’m sorry,” Catherine murmured, trying to feel pity, but instead a mass of fear rose in her throat. She tried to swallow it back, to ask more questions, but Leo interrupted brusquely.

“That’s enough,” he said. “The hackney’s waiting.”

Catherine gave her childhood friend a troubled glance. “Is there something I can do to help you, William? Do you need money?” She instantly regretted the question as she saw the shame and offended pride on his face. Had there been more time, had the circumstances allowed, she would have found a better way to ask.

William gave a stiff shake of his head. “Don’t need noffing, miss.”

“I’m at the Rutledge Hotel. If you wish to see me, if there is something I can—”

“I wouldn’t nivver trouble you, Miss Cathy. You was always kind to me. You brought me medicine once when I was sick, ’member? Came to the kitchen pallet where I slept, and covered me wiv one of the blankets from your bed. You sat on the floor and watched over me—”

“We’re leaving,” Leo said, flipping a coin to William.

William caught it in midair. His fist lowered, and he looked at Leo with a mixture of greed and resentment, his face turning hard. When he spoke, his accent was exaggerated. “Fank you, guvnah.”

Leo guided Catherine away with an uncompromising grasp on her elbow, and helped her into the carriage. By the time she had settled in the narrow seat and looked out again, William was gone.

The passenger seat was so small that the mass of Catherine’s skirts, layers of pink silk arranged like rose petals, spilled over one of Leo’s thighs.

Staring at her profile, Leo thought she looked stern and nettled, like the Marks of old.

“You needn’t have dragged me away like that,” she said. “You were rude to William.”

He gave her an unrepentant glance. “No doubt later, upon reflection, I’ll feel terrible about that.”

“There were some things I still wanted to ask him.”

“Yes, I’m sure there was quite a lot more to be learned about bawdy-house diseases. Forgive me for depriving you of such an enlightening conversation. I should have let the two of you reminisce about the good old times at the brothel while you were standing on a public street.”

“William was the dearest boy,” Catherine said quietly. “He deserved a better lot in life. He had to work from the time he could toddle, cleaning shoes and carrying heavy buckets of water up and down the stairs … he had no family, no education. Have you no sympathy at all for those in unfortunate circumstances?”