Louise M. Gouge (10 page)

Chapter Ten

C
atherine read the first scene of
Much Ado About Nothing
for the third time, making notes on a small sheet of paper to use in her arguments with Lord Winston. She was not yet persuaded by his denunciation of Shakespeare’s popular comedy, which she had recently viewed at the Royal Olympic Theatre and found quite amusing.

Lady Blakemore had released her for the evening while she and Lord Blakemore attended an important function, leaving Catherine free to read a book from the earl’s vast library. The countess suggested the latest writings of Hannah More or the poetry of Sir Philip Sidney for the improvement of her mind. Instead, Catherine selected a volume of the Bard’s works in the hope that she could win a duel of wits with Lord Winston upon their next meeting. Surely the verbal jousting between Beatrice and Benedick served a deeper purpose than that of simple insults intended to generate laughter from the audience. Shakespeare’s insights into human behavior were renowned, and Catherine had no doubt he was revealing some useful piece of wisdom in this play.

With each reading, however, she grew more dismayed and more in concurrence with Lord Winston. She could not agree with Beatrice’s declaration that “I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.” Unlike this disdainful maiden, Catherine did long to be loved one day by someone as handsome and charming as Lord Winston—but without his lies. Nor could Benedick be called a good choice for a husband, for he proclaimed all ladies to be faithless.

Yet even as she tried to contradict his assertion, Catherine’s conscience would give her no peace. Was she not attempting to beguile Lord Winston into loving her so that she could expose his lies? She had always tried to be utterly truthful and above reproach, yet now she was one of those very females whom Benedick scorned as untrustworthy.

But Lord Winston’s offense was even greater than that of Benedick, who had apparently broken Beatrice’s heart prior to the play’s opening scene. Catherine would gladly suffer a broken heart rather than see Papa punished for a crime he had not committed. Lord Winston deserved her deception
and
her revenge.

Weary of her inner conflict, she closed the leather-bound volume and returned it to the bookshelf. Better to spend the evening in her chambers practicing her swordsmanship than to waste time planning to fence with Lord Winston using mere words.

* * *

Winston chided himself for imagining his cousin might open his desk drawer. Even if he did, his search would no doubt be harmless and his discovery of the documents accidental. Edgar was Blakemore’s secretary and saw many such important papers and could certainly be trusted with state secrets. Perhaps he had even written those confidential letters for the earl. Winston dismissed the matter without another thought.

To the waiting butler, he said, “Send in Mr. Grenville and bring tea.”

“Of course, my lord.” As he strode from the room, Llewellyn lifted his chin and sniffed, clearly offended.

Despite his insolence, Winston could not fault him. As Father’s butler for more than twenty years, Llewellyn knew to bring tea for guests without being told. Winston would have to show him due consideration in the future.

He met Mr. Grenville at the door and shook his hand. “Welcome, sir. I have been looking forward to your visit.” He waved him toward two chairs near the back corner of the room, where they could talk without being overheard by the footman now in attendance.

“As have I,” his guest said as they walked across the room. The tall, well-formed gentleman looked very much like his brother, Lord Greystone, except that his hair was lighter brown. He wore a dark blue jacket and gray trousers, not the usual somber black attire worn by men of God. The minister had no more than eight and twenty years on him, yet his blue eyes exuded a mature intensity that suggested he could search the very depths of a man’s soul. Winston valued that same quality in his vicar at home. Perhaps that was why he felt so drawn to Mr. Grenville.

After they discussed the usual pleasantries about the weather and the newly won war against Napoleon, the minister accepted a cup of tea from Llewellyn and focused his gaze on Winston. “Would I be correct in assuming you invited me to call so that we could discuss the young lady who accompanied you the other day?” His tone held only interest, no insinuations, as Edgar’s had.

Relaxing at last with his cup of tea, Winston stirred in his usual three lumps of sugar. “An hour ago you would have been correct in that assumption.” He prayed it was not a mistake to confide in this gentleman. If he was as upstanding as his brothers, surely he could be trusted. With that thought—and a sip of hot tea—a warm peace flooded his spirit, and his concerns seemed to wash away. “However, just before you came, my mother arrived unexpectedly, and at the moment, she is my main concern.”

He proceeded to explain how Father had decided years ago that Mother could no longer come to London and how he’d not yet had time to investigate the reasons. With some hesitation, he also told the minister about Edgar’s implied accusations, although he did not name his cousin. Even as he spoke the words, deep emotion welled up inside him, and he choked out, “It is no small thing to doubt my mother’s—” Virtue. Morality. His sister’s paternity.

Mr. Grenville reached out and gripped his shoulder. “I can well imagine that it causes you great pain.”

“Yes.” Winston expected immediate advice, but none was forthcoming. Yet Mr. Grenville’s presence in itself gave him comfort, not to mention a desire to purge his soul of many troubling issues. He would begin with one that had distressed him for some time. “In addition to that concern, I find my responsibilities weighing heavy upon my shoulders. I have been Lord Winston for just over a year and have been in London since late January. Yet I can find no firm footing on this road. How did your elder brother learn to manage his duties to both king and family? Did your father guide him?”

“My brother was elevated to his title at the age of six, upon our father’s death.” A sad smile graced Grenville’s lips. “Our mother taught Greystone—in fact, taught the three of us our responsibilities. She was assisted by Lord Blakemore and the late Mr. Parton.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Winston should have remembered that. “I fear my father’s lengthy final illness left him little energy to teach me many of the required lessons.” Regret was quickly displaced by a realization. “Blakemore does excel in mentoring younger peers. I am fortunate to have his direction and his interest in my political ambitions.”

“I would say so.” Mr. Grenville nodded agreeably, then grew silent again, a silence that nonetheless invited confidence.

“One thing Father did advise was that I should marry as soon as I found a suitable lady.” Winston frowned and shook his head over the enormity of such a decision. “Blakemore says a diplomat must have a wife.”

“I fully understand. It is the same for a minister of God.” Mr. Grenville’s expression grew tender. “I am blessed with a godly wife and an infant daughter, so I understand the value of a happy marriage.” He focused again on Winston. “When I saw you at the flower shop on Wednesday, you appeared to be enjoying the lovely Miss Hart’s company.” Again, no insinuation tainted his tone. “Do I sense a hesitation on your part in regard to her?”

“I have known her but a few days, yet I find her company agreeable.” More than agreeable. “Yet I cannot help but wonder why she is employed as a mere companion. I know nothing about her family, which must be entirely unimpeachable if I am to pursue her. Marriage to the wrong lady could destroy my career.”

“Ah, yes.” While Mr. Grenville seemed to understand, a question remained in his eyes.

“Tell me what you are thinking.”

“Only that my brother would have missed his greatest happiness if he had permitted Lord Melton’s reputation to prevent his marriage to Melton’s sister.” He took a moment to sip his tea. “Sometimes the Lord surprises us. Why not ask Lady Blakemore who the young lady is? If her pedigree is unsuitable, do not see her again. If you find her family acceptable—” he leaned forward “—begin your pursuit.”

Winston chuckled. “You, sir, are a romantic.”

“Guilty as charged,” he said with a laugh. “I cannot deny the truth. After watching my two brothers agonize over their choices, I would wish for less drama for every gentleman seeking a wife.” He sobered. “Do you desire my counsel regarding your mother, as well?”

“I do.” Winston held his breath, fearing the worst.

“First, if Lady Winston bears any guilt in the matter you mentioned, remember that we have
all
sinned and come short of the glory of God.” Mr. Grenville recited one of Father’s favorite passages of Scripture in a conversational manner, not at all like Father’s somber, warning tone that often crushed Winston’s spirit, even when he had done nothing wrong. “Yet through Christ, our heavenly Father has forgiven us, as Scripture tells us. And of course that means we must forgive one another.” He gave Winston a reassuring smile. “Perhaps Lady Winston is faultless in regard to the rumors you have heard. You must confront her in love and discover the truth about why the late Lord Winston required her to remain in Surrey all these years.”

This was exactly the advice he had feared. How could he manage such an encounter? Did he even want to know the answer? “Pray I will have the courage to do it.” He could imagine the pain in Mother’s eyes if he misspoke and she was entirely innocent. “And pray that my words will not wound her.”

“Gladly.”

To Winston’s surprise, Mr. Grenville slipped down to his knees by his chair in the posture of prayer. He found himself following suit while the minister voiced his petitions.

When they had reclaimed their seats, Winston persuaded his guest to have another cup of tea. They chatted about inconsequential matters, the sort of things that nonetheless increased their friendship and understanding. At last, claiming the late hour, the minister stood to take his leave.

“And I shall ask Mrs. Grenville to call upon Lady Winston early next week. That is, if it will please you.”

“Indeed it will.” Winston had not thought of the advantages of having Mother with him. With a lady in the house, he could also invite Miss Hart to call. The thought stirred a feeling of hope and anticipation. And in preparation for his own next encounter with the young lady, he would send a footman to purchase a copy of
Sense and Sensibility
first thing Monday morning.

As they walked from the drawing room to the staircase, Winston glanced back down the hall, where Edgar appeared to be exiting the same room through the side door. He could only wonder whether his cousin had come looking for him or had been listening to the conversation with the minister the entire time. And if so, why?

* * *

Catherine had always enjoyed the services in the village church near her home, but today she could barely keep from squirming like a child in Lord Blakemore’s box pew in St. George’s Church. Vicar Hodgson, robed in ecclesiastical splendor, stood in his exquisitely carved and canopied pulpit high above the congregation. He preached on the text “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” Halfway into his sermon, Catherine relaxed, for his examples made clear that his message was meant not for her, but for those who wished to see Napoleon executed rather than exiled to the island of Elba.

She permitted her gaze to wander from Mr. Hodgson to the brightly lit church’s beautiful furnishings: the glowing candelabra, the stained-glass windows, the double-decked reading desk to the left of the altar and the enormous Holy Bible thereon. She especially admired the painting above the altar. Surrounded by a finely carved mahogany frame, it depicted the Last Supper in brilliant colors and detail. In the center, Christ glowed with holiness, while his disciples gazed at him with adoration. On the left, the artist had added the shadowy figure of Judas making his escape through a side door to complete his evil deed.

Thoughts of Judas brought Lord Winston to mind. Just as Catherine could never understand how a disciple who had walked with Jesus could betray him, she could not comprehend why the baron would falsely accuse a gentleman he did not even know.

“‘Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him,’” the vicar read from the smaller Bible in front of him. “‘If he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.’”

Lord Winston is my enemy, but this does not apply to me.
No, her enemy was more like the dragon slain by the patron saint of this church and all of England, and she was St. George, wielding the avenging sword. Yet the more she tried to convince herself, the more her stomach ached from her inner battle. The only thought that could soothe her was the memory of Mama’s terror when Papa had been forced to flee.

The service ended, and the congregation began to file out of their pews and toward the rear of the church, accompanied by a thunderous Handel composition played on the fifteen-hundred-pipe organ in the western gallery. At the door, Mr. Hodgson greeted his parishioners, the Geneva bands of his clerical collar rippling in the wind. He modestly deflected compliments about his sermon and kindly spoke to even the humblest of congregants. Of late, Catherine had taken to hiding behind Lady Blakemore or one of the white columns of the portico to escape his notice. Unfortunately, her height equaled her employer’s, and the vicar always found her out.

“Miss Hart, I hope you are well.” He extended his hand, and she had no choice but to curtsy and reach out to shake it. Of modest height and graying at the temples, the minister extended kindness even to a companion.

“I am, sir.” To her relief, he released her and turned to the person behind her.

“Lord Winston, I am pleased to see you attending St. George’s.”

Catherine whipped around to see the baron shake hands with the vicar. To her knowledge, he had never before attended this church. Why was he here?

“It is my pleasure, vicar. I have been advised by my mother that St. George’s is the parish church for all of Mayfair, so it should have been my choice all along.”