Elizabeth Mansfield (23 page)

Isabel had to screw up her courage to bring up the subject with her daughter. She waited until the next morning, after Kate had returned, rosy-cheeked and invigorated, from a brisk canter on her favorite mare.

Isabel read the invitation aloud, putting into her tone of voice all the enthusiasm she could muster. But it was to no avail. Kate didn't even let her finish. "Surely, Mama, you don't expect me to go!" she said at once.

"You
must
go," Isabel insisted. "Lady Ainsworth would be dreadfully offended if you refused. Your aunt and uncle are surely counting on our presence, and Deirdre would be devastated if you were absent."

"I don't care. My aunt and uncle won't miss me, and as for Deirdre, she will have a great deal to make her happy. If she feels any disappointment about my not being there, it will be too small a pain to be noticed amid all that joy."

"Kate Rendell!" her mother scolded. "I've never known you to be so... so unfeeling!"

"I'm a sour old maid, just as you said," the daughter retorted, "and as such, I'm entitled to my crotchets."

"No, you're not. There is no entitlement to selfishness!"

Kate was taken aback. "Selfishness? Is it selfish to wish to protect myself against the pain I will surely suffer if I attend?" She turned her back on her mother and strode angrily toward the door. "One would think my own mother would concern herself with her daughter's feelings instead of her niece's."

"But what about my feelings?" Isabel asked.

Kate paused. "Yours?"

"Yes, mine. Edward will be there, you know. And I have every reason to believe he plans to use that occasion to make me an offer."

"Mama!" Kate flew back across the room and gave her mother an ecstatic embrace. "How wonderful! I've been hoping it would happen."

"Really, Kate?" She backed away in order to search her daughter's face. "Do you like him? Truly?"

"Like him? I adore him! He's perfect for you."

"I'm so glad." She was indeed glad that her daughter approved of Edward, but this was not the time to celebrate. She had to convince her daughter to accept the invitation by any means she could devise. Therefore, she let her face fall and her shoulders droop. "I suppose there'll be some other occasion for Edward to declare himself," she said with a melodramatic tremor.

Kate was not fooled. "Oh, very well, Mama," she said, elbows akimbo. "You needn't overdo it. You've won me over. I'll go."

Isabel smiled in triumph. "Thank you, my love," she sighed in relief, and she placed a kiss on Kate's cheek.

"But not for the entire week," Kate bargained. “Tell her ladyship we'll arrive only the day before the ball. Two days will be torture enough for me."

Isabel, grateful for that much, quickly agreed.

Kate started out of the room again. "One more thing," she said over her shoulder. "I shan't bother about a costume. A half-mask will be enough for me."

"Don't be silly," Isabel said. "I've been making something for you for months. It's the perfect costume." She went to the sofa and pulled her embroidery cart forward. "Come and see."

"Something you've embroidered?" Kate asked, coming back into the room. "Are you planning to costume me as a sofa cushion?"

Isabel didn't deign to reply. She merely took some pins from the finished part of her work that was rolled at the bottom of the embroidery frame and let it fall free. Kate gasped. It was an exact copy of the shawl in the painting. Every detail—the rich blue background; the silver, red, and green leaves, striated with lines of orange and purple; the filigreed design of the border—all perfectly replicated in a work of stunning richness. "Oh, Mama!" Kate breathed, almost speechless.

Isabel beamed. "There's your costume, my love. You shall go as the girl in the Persian shawl."

THIRTY-NINE

Kate had to hold herself back from hanging out the window of the carriage as it rode up the tree-lined approach to Ainsworth Park. She wanted to see everything. Her first view of the estate was breathtaking. There was an air of spaciousness and timelessness about the place, and when she compared it with Rendell Hall it made her sigh. The Hall was old and dark, like an old abbey. Here the grounds were sunny and well-kept, and the sweep of lawn drew one's eyes to the house itself, a beautiful white building with a high, pedimented entrance at the center of a wide façade, its extended line broken by tall, symmetrically spaced, sparkling windows. Even Claydon Castle, large and impressive as it was, could not compare to the gracious Palladian elegance of this.

As soon as the carriage drew to a stop, two footmen came running down the stone staircase to help the ladies alight. They were immediately followed by Lady Ainsworth and Harry. Lady Ainsworth gave Kate a warm embrace and an enthusiastic welcome, while Harry did the same to Isabel. Kate grew tense as Harry turned to her, but the awkwardness of facing him was eased by a shout from the top of the stairs. "Kate, Kate, you're here!" It was Benjy. He came hurtling down the steps, and, with boyish eagerness, thrust himself in front of his brother and enveloped Kate in an affectionate hug.

"Benjy! Your arm!" Kate cautioned, laughing.

"His arm is quite healthy," Harry said, drily. "I wish I could say the same about his manners."

Lady Ainsworth took Isabel's arm and started up the steps that led to the colonnaded landing in front of the entrance. Harry was about to do the same for Kate, but his brother was quicker. Benjy took hold of her arm and led her toward the steps. "Because of you, I've learned to dance," he confided to her, ignoring his brother who was helplessly following them, "so I want you to promise to let me stand up with you at the dance tomorrow."

Kate, wondering if Harry was still concerned about his brother's youthful infatuation with her, cast him a questioning glance over her shoulder. Harry, with an amused smile, merely shrugged. "I'd be delighted to dance with you," she told Benjy.

"Splendid," the boy crowed. "For the quadrille? I know the steps. And for a country dance, too?"

"No," Harry said, raffling the boy's hair, "I draw the line at country dances. One dance is all I'll permit, even if the lady is willing. Even one is more than an unmannerly schoolboy deserves."

"Speaking of school," Kate observed as they reached the landing, "shouldn't you be there?"

"Harry let me come home for this occasion," the boy explained.

"And this is the thanks I get," Harry put in. "You haven't let me get in a word of greeting to our guest."

"Never mind," Benjy retorted. "You'll have plenty of time to speak to her later. I want to ask her to let me escort her in to dinner tonight."

"Now, that, Benjamin Gerard," his brother said with mock severity, "is the outside of enough. We have a houseful of guests, all of whom have a greater right to that honor than you."

"Oh, pooh!" Kate laughed. "Of course you may escort me, Benjy."

Harry gave her a glinting look before turning to his brother. "Very well, you've won that point," he said, giving him a light shove in the direction of the door. "Now take yourself off and don't let me see that grinning face of yours until dinnertime."

Benjy threw Kate a triumphant wave and ran off. Harry, with a sigh of relief, took her hands in his. "At last I can have a moment to speak to—"

A cry from just inside the door stopped him. "Kate, my dearest, I've been waiting and waiting!" cried Deirdre, who, with her skirts lifted, came running toward them.

"Blast!" Harry cursed under his breath. "Not another intermption."

Deirdre took no notice. She embraced her cousin with breathless eagerness. "You've no idea how long I've been waiting at the window for you," she exclaimed. "I don't see why you couldn't come days ago!"

"Well, you see, I—" Kate began.

"Never mind. You're here now. Come and take a walk with me, dearest. I must talk to you."

Harry felt he had to interfere, if only as a good host. "Don't you think you might wait until Kate has had a moment to refresh herself?" he asked.

Deirdre would not be deterred. "You can spare me a few moments, can't you, Kate?" And without waiting for an answer, she drew her cousin toward the staircase. "You needn't wait for us, Harry," she threw back over her shoulder. "As soon as we've talked, I'll show Kate to her room myself."

Keeping a close grip on Kate's arm, Deirdre pulled her cousin down the steps and along the path that edged the house until they were hidden behind a patch of shrubbery. "You've got to help me, Kate," she said, her voice trembling.

Kate, who'd found Deirdre's greeting irksome enough, was quite out of patience. "What is it now, Deirdre?" she asked, trying to curb her irritation.

"It's this betrothal," Deirdre said. "I don't want to go through with it."

"
What?
"
Kate could not believe her ears. "Why ever not?"

"Because I don't love Harry after all."

"Don't love him?" Kate glared at her in disgust.

"Didn't you tell me he was the most handsome and the most charming and the most witty and all the other 'mosts' of all the men you'd ever met?"

Deirdre wrung her hands. "I might have done. But I'm afraid I've... I've changed my mind."

"How can you possibly have changed your mind?"

"Because he's a bore!"

"A bore?
Harry?"
Kate rolled her eyes heavenward. "You've lost your rnind!"

"You don't know him as I do. All he likes to do is play chess or read the
Times
or ride about in his stodgy old curricle that doesn't even have a high perch!"

"If it's high-perched vehicles you wanted, you should have stayed betrothed to Percy," Kate snapped. At the thought of Percy, suddenly the purpose of this conversation burst upon her. "There's someone else, isn't there?" she asked in revulsion. "You've taken a fancy to someone new!"

Deirdre dropped her eyes. "Not exactly."

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"

"It's not someone new. It's Leonard. He's the one I truly love."

"Are you telling me," Kate demanded furiously, "that you want to jilt Harry for Leonard?"

Deirdre tried not to be frightened by Kate's fury. "Yes, I do," she said, putting up her chin bravely. "And I want you to tell Harry for me."

Kate stared at her for a few moments, openmouthed. Then she grasped her cousin by the shoulders and gave her a shaking. "Listen to me, Deirdre, and listen well. You will
not
jilt Harry! You made a promise to him, and you're going to keep it! He cares for you, and I will not have him hurt, do you hear me?
I
will not have him hurt!
"

"Kate!" Deirdre gaped at her hitherto-affectionate cousin in alarmed amazement. "What's wrong with you?"

"Never mind what's wrong with me," Kate said between clenched teeth. "I'm warning you, Deirdre, that if you so much as
hint
to anyone that you are not delighted to become Harry's bride, I will tell Leonard and every man you meet what a capricious, faithless, rattlepate you are, and I shall never,
never
speak to you again as long as I live!" And, shoving the astounded Deirdre away from her, she turned and stalked off.

On the landing directly above them, Harry wanted to dance a jig in glee. He'd been eavesdropping, and every word he'd overheard had pleased him. The words couldn't have been more perfect for his plans if he'd composed those speeches himself.

FORTY

As soon as Kate had settled into her room and changed from her traveling clothes, she came downstairs to look for Lady Ainsworth. She found her hostess in one of the sitting rooms, drinking tea with Madge, Charles, and Sir Edward. "Come in, Kate, and join us," Lady Ainsworth said. "I've asked the younger set to join us for tea, but they seem to be scattered all about, doing whatever you young people like to do. If you'd like to be with them, you'll probably find them wandering about the grounds or at the stable arranging for riding. Would you like to take tea with us or go searching for them?"

"What I'd really like to do, your ladyship," Kate admitted, "is to find my way to the library to see that painting you told me of."

"Is that the painting Harry was seeking when he first appeared at Rendell Hall?" Madge asked. "If it is, I, too, should like to see it."

"Then why don't we all go," Lady Ainsworth suggested. "I'd be delighted to show it to you all. I'm so very proud of it."

They all very willingly got to their feet and followed their hostess down the hall. The library was so large a room that it required three chandeliers to hang from its high ceiling. Four tall windows filled the south-facing wall. The walls to the right and left of it were completely covered with shelves filled with books, and the wall opposite held an enormous stone fireplace. Over it, in a place of honor, hung the portrait in an elaborate gilded frame. The late-afternoon sunlight, slanting in from the windows, threw its rays just where they were wanted—right on the portrait. Lady Ainsworth led her guests to the center of the room. “There she is," she announced, pointing.
"The Girl in White."

There was a large chorus of
aaaahs.
"Lovely," Sir Edward said.

"A charming piece of work," Charles agreed.

Kate, though saying nothing, couldn't help studying the painting more critically than the others. She was comparing it to that other painting she knew so well—
Girl with Persian Shawl.
The subject matter of the two paintings was indeed similar—a smiling girl in a white dress against a background of greenery—but the quality of the work was very different. This girl wore a light pelisse of a simple blue satin rather than a shawl, for one thing, and it had nothing like the subtlety of detail and the glowing colors of the Persian shawl. But there were other differences, too. Where the artist of the Persian shawl painting had, with a firm hand, made a brave show of contrasts, this artist seemed somewhat timid. The colors were pale, and the brush strokes wavered. Even in the fabric of the gowns, the difference was apparent. One could almost touch the fabric of the first, whereas in the second, the gown was a white blur. But what was most fascinating to Kate were the faces.
The Girl in White
was apparently posing for the artist with a forced smile, whereas the
Girl with Persian Shawl
looked as if she'd been caught unawares. That detail alone made Kate believe that the painter of this portrait was an amateur. He had not the confidence and talent that were apparent in the Persian shawl work.