Carola Dunn (25 page)

“Are you going to propose to me?”

“Not until I have your father’s permission.”

“Well! For once I must agree with Angel’s opinion of you: you are shockingly old-fashioned in your notions of propriety. Besides, I am of age and have no need of Papa’s permission.”

“Very well, then,” agreed Sir Gregory amiably. “Madam, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Catherine dimpled. “Thank you, sir, I should like it above all things.’’

“Are you nor supposed to hum and haw a little to make me anxious?”

“Do you wish me to?”

“No, love. ‘Never make denial; I must and will have Katherine to my wife.’”

“And do you want ‘a Kate conformable as other household Kates’?’’

“Not I. I want a tall, teasing bluestocking who makes up her mind for herself and quietly does as she thinks best. Kate . . . Catherine, do you, do you think you might come to love me?”

“Do you think I would marry you if I did not?”

“Come, give me a plain answer!” he said roughly.

“It is very forward in me, I know, but I am afraid I love you already, Gregory. Gregory, gently! Beloved, remember how recently I fell off that cliff!”

“And I have kept you here talking when you should be at home in bed! Sweetheart, I will have to leave you while I fetch Atlas. He is not far off.”

Sitting with her back against the broad trunk of an oak, she watched him stride up the slope. He turned to wave and blow a kiss, then disappeared among the trees. But for her aching body, it might all have been a dream. And for her filthy, torn dress, she amended wryly, for the first time noticing her appearance. She was not precisely in the state in which one might expect to receive an offer. She rather thought that made the moment yet more precious.

The ride back to Barrows End was painful. Even cradled in Sir Gregory’s arms, Catherine felt jolted at every step, though Atlas never moved above a walk. When they reached the vicarage, her betrothed carried her unceremoniously into the house and straight up the stairs to her chamber.

“Go to bed and do not stir before the morning,” he ordered.

“I can see that your approval of independent females is a chancy thing!” she exclaimed with a shaky laugh. “However, this time I’ll obey.”

“‘Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.’ But hurry, for I hear footsteps on the stair.”

Mr Sutton appeared in the doorway.

“I suppose there is a good reason for this,” he remarked with a resigned sigh. “Since Angel has been with us I have grown quite accustomed to a certain disregard for propriety, but I do not remember that she has as yet entertained a gentleman in her bed-chamber.”

“I can explain, sir,” said Sir Gregory, firmly ushering the vicar out of the room. “I shall send Beth to look after you,” he tossed over his shoulder to Catherine, and closed the door before she could protest. “I think we had best retire to your study, sir, if you do not object. I have a great deal to discuss with you, and a great deal to accomplish this afternoon.”

Half an hour later, the two gentlemen emerged from the study well pleased with each other. The baronet had Mr Sutton’s blessing on his betrothal, his approval for his proposed confrontation with Lord Welch, and his promise of support in the coming interview with Lord Grisedale.

The vicar went to speak to his daughter, while Sir Gregory headed for the kitchen to beg a glass of ale from Mrs Applejohn. Then they rode up the lane together to tackle the earl.

Lord Grisedale had thoroughly beaten his daughter at chess, had taken a refreshing nap, and was sitting on his terrace gazing over his domain with a benevolent eye. Having sent Beth off to Barrows End, happy to have a practical occupation, Sir Gregory and Mr Sutton joined him.

“Ah, Vicar!” he boomed in the outsize voice that accorded so ill with his meagre stature. “Glad to see you, sir. And how is your family?”

Before Mr Sutton had to confess that he had not seen his wife in several days and that his daughter had retired to bed bruised from head to toe, Sir Gregory took over.

“It is about Miss Sutton that we wished to speak to you, Uncle. She has done me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage.”

“Splendid, my boy, splendid! Liven up the place a bit, what, and good company for little Beth.”

“I’m afraid I have every intention of installing my bride in Derbyshire, sir. As a married man I shall be unable to continue to oversee your affairs.”

A wary look entered his lordship’s eyes and he produced the expected outburst in a perfunctory way, as if realising that this news was only an introduction to the battle proper.

“What the devil do you mean by it, sir!” he roared. “If ever a man was so plagued by an undutiful family!”

“Sir Gregory is merely your nephew, my lord,” reminded Mr Sutton mildly. “There are other claims upon him. I believe he has exceeded his duty to you for the past few years.”

“I can’t deny he’s made himself useful,” grumbled the earl. “Unlike that harebrained niece of yours, Vicar. Where is the chit? I’ve not seen her in a week.”

“She is staying with my wife at Upthwaite Vicarage. They have been nursing someone who may, I believe, be able to take Sir Gregory’s place in supervising your estates. In time he—”

“Nursing?” the old man croaked, suddenly grey-faced. “I had thought the boy not seriously hurt!”

The sight of their astonishment revived him a little, and he explained that rumour of his son’s return to Westmorland had reached him some two weeks earlier. Then Sir Gregory told him about Dominic’s “accident,” concealing the fact that it had been an attempt on Mr Leigh’s life. Time enough to deal with Beth’s complications when his lordship had recovered from the present predicament.

“I am not certain of his present condition,” he finished, “though he is out of danger at least, is he not, Mr Sutton?”

“So I hear. My lord, as your spiritual counsellor I must ask your intentions. Lord Dominic is your son and heir. He is a brave young man who has been wounded fighting for his country. Can you find it in your heart to forgive his disobedience? Or can you find it in your conscience not to?”

“Gregory, bring the lad home. As soon as it is safe to move him. Devil take it, he is just like his mother! Takes every word a man says literally! Now go away, I want to talk to the vicar.”

Sir Gregory found himself once more on Atlas’s back, heading for Upthwaite. And if he made a detour via Barrows End vicarage neither Beth nor close-mouthed Mrs Applejohn ever gave him away.

Chapter 20

When Sir Gregory rode up to Upthwaite vicarage, Angel was astounded at his effrontery. He asked first to speak to Mrs Sutton, who emerged from the interview looking, Angel thought, like the cat who stole the cream. She went straight to Dominic’s chamber, and Mr Leigh took her place with the baronet.

The gentlemen were closeted for a considerable length of time, and Angel was dying of curiosity by the time they reappeared.

“Do you want to see Dominic now?” enquired Gerald.

“No, I think not. Mrs Sutton is breaking the news to him, and I must be off to Upthwaite Park.”

“You are quite certain you do not wish me to accompany you?”

“I need no assistance,” Sir Gregory said grimly, “nor encouragement. Whatever his intent, as things have turned out my motives for retaliation are greater than yours.”

“If you are not back within the hour, I shall follow you.”

“If you insist. I shall see you shortly then. Your servant, Miss Brand.”

No sooner had the door closed behind him than Angel turned to her host.

“I do not know why I am always the last to be told everything,” she said with injured dignity. “It is excessively unfair. What in the world is going on now?”

“Good news first,” proposed Mr Leigh. “Lord Grisedale is willing, anxious even, to take Dominic back.”

When Angel had recovered from this announcement and been persuaded not to run upstairs immediately to congratulate Dom, he told her the full story of Lord Welch’s nefarious plots, as recounted to him by Sir Gregory.

“Oh, dear,” she said guiltily, “I was quite convinced that he was trying to kill Dom.”

“I’m afraid that I was too,” admitted the vicar, “at least after the business with the boat.”

“I suppose I shall have to apologise to him. How very lowering!”

“Does he know you suspected him?”

“I don’t think so. I never told him as much.”

“Then I believe you should let the matter drop. Confession and apology might serve to relieve your feelings, but what of his?”

“You mean it would hurt him? I daresay you are right,” said Angel thoughtfully. “Only it would be much easier to tell him and forget about it.”

“It is not easy to keep silent, but I hope you will try. Dominic will have a more difficult time of it.”

“Yes, for he has known Sir Gregory all his life, and now has to thank him for interceding with Lord Grisedale!”

“I hope guilt will spur him to make an effort to win his cousin’s friendship. The estrangement was largely on his side in any case. He is going to have a great deal on his mind in the next few days.”

Before Angel could consider whether this might be taken as a friendly warning, her aunt joined them.

“He wants to go home,” she reported. “I think that if it is done carefully, tomorrow we may restore the Prodigal Son to Grisedale Hall!”

An hour later Sir Gregory returned, with a grin on his face and bloody knuckles. A penitent Angel demanded a description of his encounter while she bound them up.

“The best part is not fit for a lady’s ears,” he told her, “but while I was there Lord Welch took a sudden, unaccountable desire to remove from the county. I understand Upthwaite Park will shortly be put up for sale.”

“How very clever of you!” Angel applauded.

“Unfortunately, his lordship will remain our neighbour for at least a week. It will be that long before he is able to appear in public.”

“I think perhaps I will call on him one day, just to say goodbye.”

“You will do nothing of the kind!” forbade Aunt Maria. “Sir Gregory, your cousin will be able to travel to Grisedale tomorrow, if you think it advisable. He is not as fit as one might wish, but he longs to be at home. His spirits have been as much depressed as his health, and I think it wise to accede to his wishes. It is unlikely to do any lasting harm, though it may set back his recovery somewhat.”

“Very well, ma’am. With your permission, I shall call at Barrows End vicarage this evening to say that the Grisedale carriage will bring you home tomorrow morning.”

“Pray do so. You are sure that Catherine does not need me tonight?”

“Unless her condition has materially altered, in which case I shall send someone to fetch you. It is extraordinarily fortunate for a certain person that she was not seriously injured. Beth was planning to spend the night with her, so do not worry.”

“Perhaps I shall ride over beside the carriage after all,” mused Mr Leigh. “I daresay Lady Elizabeth will not leave before Mrs Sutton arrives?”

“You may certainly do so,” agreed Sir Gregory, “but I assure you that you will be welcome to visit at the Hall after tomorrow. Dominic will want to see you, and my uncle can scarcely throw you out when you have been nurturing his lost lamb.”

“Dom is not a lamb!” said Angel indignantly. Everyone laughed.

“No,” admitted the baronet, “it was an ill-chosen metaphor, Miss Brand. I must take my leave now. It has been a busy day.”

To Angel’s surprise, her aunt stood on tiptoe and kissed Sir Gregory’s cheek when she said good night. She nearly asked in her forthright way for an explanation, but she was overcome by a sudden lowness of spirits and it did not seem worth the effort.

The Grisedale carriage arrived at nine the next morning. Lord Dominic was obviously eager to return to his family, yet his mood was more subdued than his illness could account for, seeming closer to melancholy than to content. Whatever blue devils assailed him, he had no thought for them as Forrester carried him down the stair. It took all his concentration not to faint from the pain, and he could not suppress a moan as he was laid on the well-cushioned seat of the coach.

Angel and Mrs Sutton fussed over him, tucking in rugs, rearranging pillows.

“I hope I was right to permit this,” muttered Mrs Sutton, looking at his white face and closed eyes.

He opened them at once. “I am not about to stick my spoon in the wall, ma’am,” he assured her, summoning up a grin. “My pride was hurt more than anything else. It is highly undignified to be carried like an infant!”

The ladies settled themselves opposite him.

“Ye’ll do, Master Dom,” said the coachman, who had been peering at him anxiously, with the typical taciturnity of the mountain folk.

“Home, Jason!” ordered Lord Dominic.

They went very slowly to avoid jolting and swaying, but all too soon for Angel they reached the vicarage. Beth ran out, followed by Catherine with a purple bruise visible on one cheek, and Mr Sutton. In the midst of a hubbub of questions and answers, Lord Dominic hurriedly thanked Mrs Sutton for her care. She stepped down from the carriage, and as Angel followed he took her hand, gripping it so tightly that it hurt. He looked up at her with despair in his eyes, then closed them.

“Good-bye, Linnet,” he murmured, and let her go.

Beth was speaking to her. Her uncle was offering his arm to help her down. She reached towards Dom, but his eyes were still shut, his face rigid. Swallowing hard and blinking, she descended.

Without a word, Catherine put her arms about her and led her into the house. She managed to hold back the tears until they reached the little chamber, then flung herself on her bed and sobbed helplessly. Catherine stroked her back for a few minutes, until the worst was over, and then held her hand comfortingly.

“He just said good-bye,” gasped Angel at last. “He didn’t even ask me to go and see him.”

“He has a great deal on his mind, Angel, returning home after all this time when he left in such a fashion. Think how he must feel to see his father again, and not to see his mother. And then, he is an invalid—”