Shattered Rainbows (25 page)

Catherine sank onto the sofa. Now that she had reached a safe haven, she didn't know if she would ever be able to move again. "Colin is dead."

"Dear God." Anne's eyes widened with shock. "What happened?"

Catherine peeled off her gloves and crumpled them into a ball. "He was murdered."

"Oh, Catherine, how horrible! After he had survived so many battles without a scratch."

"It happened on the street late one night. He had just left a friend's house." Catherine pressed her fingers into her forehead, remembering the horror and disbelief she had experienced when Colin's commanding officer came to break the news. "He was shot in the back. It… it was over in an instant. A violet scarf and a note saying '
Vive le empereur'
were left beside him. Apparently he was killed by a Bonapartist, for no better reason than because he was a British officer."

Wordlessly Anne sat and gathered Catherine into her arms. Her friend's sympathy released the tears that Catherine had been holding back ever since she'd learned of Colin's untimely death. When her tears had finally run dry, she said in a raw whisper, "It almost made me wish he had been killed at Waterloo. That was the death he would have wanted. To die at a coward's hand was damnable."

"He died for his country as much as if he had died in battle," Anne said softly. "At least it was quick. Now he will never grow old. Colin would not have liked aging."

That was true, but little comfort. Colin had been a long way from old age. On the verge of tears again, Catherine sat up and groped for the handkerchief in her reticule.

Anne frowned. "I'm surprised that the news of his death hasn't reached England. Did it just happen?"

Catherine's mouth twisted. "The authorities feared that if his death became widely known, public opinion would be roused against France. As you know, the moderate treaty that came out of last summer's conference was hard won. The British ambassador personally informed me that a public scandal over the murder of a heroic army officer might endanger the peace."

"So Colin's death has been hushed up."

"I wasn't exactly forbidden to speak of it, but there were several earnest requests that I be discreet. Scarcely anyone knows outside of the officers of the regiment."

"I suppose that makes sense. We certainly don't need another war." There was a long silence as each of them remembered the high price of battle. Shaking her head against the thought, Anne asked, "Are you planning to take a house in London, or would you prefer a quiet place like Bath?"

"Neither," Catherine said grimly. "I must find work. I knew that Colin was bad about money, but I didn't realize how serious things were until after his death. My dowry, the income he inherited from his father—everything is gone. Not only that, but he left a mountain of debts. Thankfully, most of his creditors are officers in the regiment. I don't think any of them will try to send Amy and me to debtors' prison."

Shaken, Anne said, "I had no idea." After a long silence, she said, "No, that's not true. I'd almost forgotten that he owed Charles a hundred pounds. We'd given up hope of seeing it."

"Oh, no!" Catherine stared at her friend in dismay. "You, too? I should never have come here."

"Don't be ridiculous. Colin's irresponsibility has nothing to do with you and Amy. Besides, Colin risked his life to save Charles. That's worth infinitely more than a hundred quid."

Comforted by the reminder, Catherine said, "Colin had his failings, but lack of courage wasn't one of them."

"He was a good soldier. But what is this nonsense about looking for work? You shouldn't have to do that." Anne hesitated before adding, "I know it's too soon to be saying this, but you're a beautiful, charming woman. You'll marry again. Any eligible officers in the regiment would marry you in a minute."

In fact, several of them had offered before Catherine had left France. Trying to keep the revulsion from her voice, Catherine said, "I will never remarry."

"I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but… well, Colin was not always an ideal husband," Anne said quietly. "Not all men are like him."

Catherine appreciated her friend's delicacy in not mentioning Colin's affairs, but the issues were far deeper than that. In fact, in his careless way, Colin had been a more tolerable husband than most men would be. But the subject was not one that could be discussed with anyone, ever.

"I will never remarry," she repeated. "Since I have no relatives who can help, that means working for wages. I can be a housekeeper or a nurse companion for an invalid. I'll do anything as long as I can keep Amy with me."

"I suppose you're right," Anne said reluctantly. "And if you change your mind, there will be no shortage of men eager to cherish you for the rest of your life."

Not wanting to discuss the subject further, Catherine glanced around the cramped drawing room. "You had said we could stay here if we ever came to London, but the house is not large. Is there really room? Be honest—I can make other arrangements."

"Don't even think of leaving. We'll be a bit crowded, but there's a nice, sunny little bedroom that you and Amy can share. Charles's mother is a darling—he got his easy disposition from her. She'll be delighted to provide a home for the woman who nursed her only son after Waterloo."

"How are things with you? Has Charles found a position?"

Anne's face tightened. "Not yet. There are not enough jobs, and too many other former officers looking for similar positions. A pity that neither Charles nor I have influential relatives, but he will find something in time."

"How does Charles feel?"

"It's hard on him, of course. He's adjusted to the loss of his arm, but he's used to being busy. Being in this small house with not enough to do, and no good prospects…" Anne turned her palm upward. "He never complains, of course."

Catherine smiled ruefully. "We're in a fine fix, aren't we?"

She had first used the phrase on the Peninsula one night when the baggage mules had escaped, the children were sick with measles, and the mud hut she and Anne were sharing had dissolved in a rainstorm. Ever since then, the words had made them laugh and count their blessings.

Anne's expression eased. "Things will get better—they always do. We won't starve, we have a roof over our heads, and I won't ever have to see another blasted baggage mule in my life!"

Her words triggered a storm of giggles as they traded frightful memories of the Peninsula. Afterward, Catherine felt better. Things would, indeed, improve. All she needed was a decent job and her daughter. Surely that wasn't too much to ask.

Anne leaned back on the sofa. "Lord Michael Kenyon is in town for the Season. I've seen discreet references to him in the society columns. He's staying with Lord and Lady Strathmore and doing the social rounds."

"Really? Then he must be fully recovered. I'm glad." Catherine concentrated on straightening her twisted gloves. "His family certainly has influence. Have you considered going to him? I'm sure he would be happy to help Charles find a position."

"The thought has occurred to me," Anne admitted. "But it would seem dreadfully forward. He's the son of a duke, while Charles and I are the offspring of a barrister and a vicar."

"Michael wouldn't care about that."

"If worse comes to worst, I'd go to him, but we're not that hard up yet." Anne gave her an oblique glance. "Will you let him know you are in town? You and he were such good friends."

An overpowering desire to see Michael lanced through Catherine. To have him hold her comfortingly as he had the night her robe had caught fire. To see the warmth in his eyes, and hear the laughter in his voice…

She looked down and saw that she had crumpled her gloves again. "No, I shan't call on him. It would be hard not to feel like a supplicant."

"He would be happy to help. After all, you did save his life, and he's a generous man."

"No!" Realizing how sharp her tone was, Catherine said more moderately, "Like you, I would call on him in extreme need—I won't let Amy suffer because I have too much pride to beg. But I don't want to presume on a passing wartime friendship."

Particularly not with the man she loved. Would his offer of aid extend to proposing marriage so he could take care of her and Amy? It might. They were friends, he found her attractive, and he felt a strong sense of obligation. The combination might very well elicit an offer if his heart was not engaged elsewhere.

Her lips tightened. She had not thought twice about turning down the other proposals she had received, but with Michael, she might be tempted to accept. And that would be disastrous for both of them.

Catherine found it harder than she had expected to secure work. There were few positions and many applicants.

She went to every respectable employment agency in London and answered advertisements in the newspaper. Having a child disqualified her from some positions, lack of experience from others. Several agencies flatly refused to consider a female who was "a lady," claiming it would make clients uncomfortable to have a servant who was better born than themselves. Apparently they did not realize that even ladies must eat.

Several times she was interviewed by women who looked her up and down, then dismissed her without asking questions. A kindly agency owner explained that few women would want a housekeeper who was beautiful. As Catherine trudged home through Hyde Park one day, she cursed the face that had caused her so many problems. What men considered beauty had been a blight on her life. The only offer of employment she had received had been from a man whose lascivious stares had made it clear what her duties would include.

With a sigh, she decided to stroll around the Serpentine. Looking at the ducks put her in a better mood. Though it was depressing to be turned down for work so often, her situation was not dire. In Paris she had sold the pearls left by her mother. She'd felt a pang, but the money gave her a little security now. Anne and Charles and his mother had been wonderful, and Amy, with the versatility of the young, was perfectly happy to be with her friends. Something would turn up in time.

It was nearing the fashionable hour, so she studied the elegant people riding and driving through the park. She was smiling to herself over the costume of a truly ridiculous dandy when suddenly she saw Lord Michael Kenyon driving toward her in a curricle. Her heart began pounding and her hands clenched spasmodically.

Because the day was fine, he was hatless, and the sun caught russet highlights in his windblown hair. He looked wonderful, with so much vitality that it was hard to remember how weak he had been when they had parted in Brussels. He had written to her from Wales to assure her of his safe arrival and complete recovery, but it was good to see the proof.

He would not notice her in the afternoon crowd. It was all she could do not to wave and call out. She would love to talk with him, but in her present state, she might be unable to conceal her feelings.

She was glad for her restraint when she noticed the young woman sitting beside him in the curricle. The girl was pretty and very appealing, with a slim figure and shining brown hair visible beneath her fashionable hat. Her delicate face showed warmth and wit, and character as well.

Michael glanced at his passenger and made a laughing remark. She joined in and briefly laid her gloved hand on his arm in a gesture of quiet intimacy.

Catherine swallowed hard and slipped into a group of nursemaids and children. The references to Michael in the society columns had hinted that he was looking for a wife. One paper had suggested that an "interesting announcement" was expected soon. From the looks of Michael and his companion, the issue was already settled, if not yet officially announced.

She took one last hungry look as the curricle passed. If she had not known him, that austerely planed face might seem intimidating. As it was, he was simply Michael, whose kindness and understanding had touched hidden places in her heart.

Wearily she made her way from the park. Now that she was a widow, she would be shamelessly throwing herself at Michael—if she were a normal woman. But she wasn't.

She thought of the ruined kaleidoscope buried among her possessions at Anne's house. In Brussels Michael had told her to throw it away. Instead she had kept the twisted silver tube, cherishing it as a memento of what had been between them even though it was useless at the task for which it had been designed. But it was no more useless than she had been as a wife.

She quickened her pace. Another marriage was unthinkable. That being the case, she should be happy that Michael seemed to have found a partner worthy of him. He deserved that.

If she worked at it long enough, perhaps she really would be so generous.

When she reached the Mowbrys' house, Catherine was still debating whether or not to mention that she had seen Michael in the park. She decided against it. Though Anne and Charles would be interested, Catherine would not be able to sound suitably casual.

When she entered the front door, Anne called from the drawing room, "Catherine, is that you? There's a letter for you on the table."

She opened it incuriously, assuming it was another discouraging missive from an employment agency.

It wasn't. In brief, formal terms, the letter stated that if Catherine Penrose Melbourne would call on Mr. Edmund Harwell, solicitor, she would learn something to her advantage.

She reread the note three times, the hair at her nape prickling. It might be nothing. Yet she could not escape the feeling that her luck was about to change.