She was bewildered by what the woman could want. But Catherine had a good opinion of her and would happily help her with whatever she sought.
“Yes, Mrs. Morrison?” She felt unsettled by the woman’s gaze. It was too insistent, too probing.
“If you think I don’t know who you are,” the older woman said, shaking slightly, “then you must think I am even a bigger fool than you are.”
She drew back at the words. “I beg your pardon?”
“I suspected when I first glimpsed you. But then when I saw you yesterday evening, coming back from God knows where with His Grace, I really knew. I know who you are,Miss Forster.”
Catherine reeled back. She found she couldn’t form words.
“Don’t play dumb with me, girl. My mother was friends of old with your nursemaid, Martha Denney. Besides, I remember you coming here as a little girl. With your aunt.”
Catherine was shocked. She had not thought it really possible for anyone to recognize her. She had been so young when she left.
“I remember His Grace—the former His Grace, Reginald—running around with Mary Forster, oh yes. I know everything that goes on in this place. Those two—” She broke off and Catherine saw a flash of pain in her eyes. She shook her head and it was gone. “Why would you come back here?”
Catherine had no idea how to answer.
Another knock sounded on her door. She turned to open it, praying it was John and not a footman onto their scheme.
Thankfully, it was John. His sinful grin dissipated when he saw Mrs. Morrison standing in the center of her room.
“Mrs. Morrison?”
“She knows, John,” Catherine said and she could hear the quiver in her own voice. “She knows who I am.”
“How in God’s name would you know that?” he said, addressing Mrs. Morrison.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “What do you take me for? Do you think a fake name could truly fool me? I’d know a Forster anywhere—look at her hair, her eyes! I’ve lived here my entire life. I’m not some transient scullery maid. That you would try this sort of shenanigan and not tell me what you are up to—you are a foolhardy boy, just like your father before you.”
Catherine watched as he advanced on the old woman.
“I amnotlike him. That is not what this is.”
“Oh, boy. You aren’t your father, but you aremuchlike him. As if there could be stronger proof than this.”
“You can’t tell anyone that I am here,” Catherine said, coming forward, ready to plead.
“Tellanyone?” Mrs. Morrison said, whirling around on her. “Are you mad? I will not tell a single soul. I am concerned others will find out and we will have another scandal on our hands.What are you two doing?”
“Mrs. Morrison.” John stepped forward. “I appreciate your concern. And I apologize for the subterfuge—you have correctly divined that all is not what it appears.”
Catherine looked up at him. His face was indecipherable. Where was he going with this story?
“And because I trust you,” he said, “and because, as an orphan, you are the closest thing to a parent that I have left, I will tell you the truth.”
He took a step towards Catherine and linked his fingers through hers. “We are secretly engaged.”
“Secretly engaged?” the old woman gasped.
“Yes,” he said, with authority. “We can’t possibly bepubliclyengaged—because of the scandal—until Henrietta has had her season and is married. We don’t want to mar her chances. Once she is married, we will announce our engagement and marry.”
Mrs. Morrison’s mouth moved up and down, eliciting no sound.
“Very well,” she finally managed, “I am sorry to have disturbed you, Your Grace.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Morrison. Though, of course, I would appreciate if you wouldn’t tell anyone about all of this.”
