She’d had to leave Cateril Manor in half mourning or raise suspicion, but what if Lord Dauntry was at the parsonage on her arrival and this was his first impression?
“I have brighter clothing in my trunk.”
Sillikin went to the leather-bound trunk and put her paws up so she could look in, but then sneezed and turned away.
“The brighter stuff is underneath, you silly thing.”
Kitty had never had a personal maid, so she’d been able to pack her trunk herself. She’d put three brightlycolored gowns at the bottom, along with accessories, then placed two darker ones on top. She hadn’t been able to squeeze in her blue fur-lined Russian mantle. It was wonderfully warm and suited her, and she could have worn it over the gray. She could wear the green gown beneath the gray pelisse and let the pelisse hang open on arrival....
Her nerve failed her. Tessa and Mr. Jones would report the transformation to Lady Cateril. Reason said there was nothing her mother-in-law could do, but instinct argued for avoiding the remotest possibility.
“Oh, how I dislike squirming to please! If only I could be comfortably myself, independent of all. Short of winning a lottery, that can never be.” She’d bought shares of lottery tickets in London. Hope had been better than nothing.
Hope.
She flung her gray pelisse over the depressing mirror and went into the private parlor for dinner.
***
The next morning, she hovered again over the idea of dressing in brighter clothing, but it would be reckless and she was determined to be full of reck. She smiled at the memory of how she and Marcus had sometimes played word games. He would describe her neat mending as ept, as opposed to inept. She’d encourage him to be gruntled rather than disgruntled.
Oh, Marcus, if you can see me from heaven, make this work. Please. And make him bearable.
She entered the carriage in gray for the final five hours, hoping she was the very image of sober, sensible reliability. That, after all, was what Viscount Dauntry sought. As if to encourage optimism, the sun broke through, catching the bronze and yellow of lingering leaves and touching bare bark with gold.
They dined just over the border into Gloucestershire, and an hour later turned off the main road, following a fingerpost that readBEECHAM DAB, 3MILES. That shortening of “Dabittot” to “Dab” must be because of lack of space on the sign, but perhaps that was why the village was generally called that. It sounded so playful that she smiled as she waited for her first sight, pressed close to the window.
They passed one cottage on the right, then another, and then there were continuous buildings on either side, including the flaming mouth of a smithy and a substantial farmhouse. A barred gate protected the farmyard, where poultry pecked around and a man was leading two large horses toward an outbuilding. He paused to assess the passing carriage and four, and soon children began to run alongside in excitement. Adults came to their doors or paused in their work to see what was happening. Kitty was tempted to wave, but wasn’t sure if that was appropriate for someone who might soon be the lady of this place. She sensed no hostility to strangers. That was a good sign.
Ruth had described Beecham Dab in her letters, but the village was larger than Kitty expected. It took some minutes to reach the green. She could see the square-towered church to her left, the Abbot’s Arms to her right, and some larger houses among the cottages. They would belong to gentry.
She knew there was a squire, a doctor who served a number of local villages, and a pair of spinster sisters who were daughters of the previous parson. Puslow? She should have gone over Ruth’s letters and made notes.
The carriage halted as the postilions asked the way. Kitty could have told them the parsonage lay behind the church at the end of the tree-lined lane to their left, but she let them find out for themselves.
In the center of the green stood a stone plinth. Thatmust be the memorial to three brothers killed in the Civil War. It had been erected by another grieving mother, the Lady Dauntry of the time, who’d lost all three sons to the cruelest kind of war. Two of the Braydon brothers had fought for the Royalists, but one had sided with Parliament. The recent wars had lasted longer than the Civil War, but had been abroad and less harrowing in that way.
The carriage turned down the lane, and soon the brick house came into view, looking exactly as it had in a sketch Ruth had sent. The chaise turned in front, and she saw Ruth coming out with her little boy by her side—a plumper Ruth but still as pretty, blond hair curling out from beneath her cap, waving and beaming a welcome. As soon as the steps were down, Kitty ran out and into her friend’s arms.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed.
“And I you.”
But Kitty noticed an odd tone. “Is something the matter?”
“No, of course not.” But then Ruth added, “You just seem a little wan.”
“Perhaps that’s because you have bouquets of roses in your cheeks.”
“Country air.” Perhaps Ruth remembered that Kitty had been living in the countryside, for she added, “Gray never suited you. What style you arrive in! Beecham Dab will be all agog.”
“We certainly stirred excitement.”
Ruth turned to her son. “Arthur, dear, be careful with the dog.”
The four-year-old was giggling with delight but also waving his arms about, which Sillikin was taking as invitation to jump.
Kitty scooped up her dog. “She’s very gentle, but I’ll introduce her properly once we’re inside. Good day to you, Arthur.”
