Someone was playing the pianoforte in the music room next door, someone far more competent than the Cathcart daughters. Miss Parish, undoubtedly. Kent saw Mrs Cathcart glance in that direction, open her mouth to speak and then think better of it. Was she wondering whether to summon Miss Parish? Yet she did not. As she directed the ladies to chairs, he wondered if perhaps Miss Parish, so much prettier than her cousins, was seen as a threat to their prospects?
So much prettier?Where had that thought come from? Miss Cathcart and her younger sisters were generally accounted pretty girls. Not beauties, but few women could bear comparison with his own sisters. Izzy, in particular, was beyond compare, and Olivia was very like her. But Miss Cathcart… surely she was prettier than Miss Parish?
Perhaps she was, but the way she eyed him speculatively and tried her hardest to attract his attention was deplorable. The younger girls were no better. But Miss Parish, with her guileless eyes and her ready blush… yes, she was much prettier.
Even if she had been a positive antidote, he did not like to see her pushed aside in favour of her cousins, and perhaps there was a niggle of guilt at the back of his mind for pushing all his worries onto Miss Parish that day in the church. It would please him now to make amends to some degree by giving her the proper notice that her aunt seemed disinclined to ensure.
Ignoring the smiles of the Cathcart ladies, therefore, and the sofa where Miss Cathcart sat expectantly, Kent strolled through the open door into the music room. Miss Parish was seated at the instrument, facing him but entirely oblivious of her surroundings. All her focus was on her music, her hands flying over the keys. How wonderful to have that intensity, to lose oneself so completely in an activity that one noticed nothing else. The roof could fall in, and he doubted Miss Parish would notice.
The roof did not fall in, but the effect was the same, for Mrs Cathcart appeared at Kent’s side.
“Katherine, dear, we have callers. Pray come and be sociable for a little while.Katherine!”
The music stopped abruptly, a jangle of discordant notes bereft of their fellows to make them harmonious. Miss Parish looked up with a gasp of dismay, her cheeks bright red.
“So sorry! I did not— I had not— Beg pardon, aunt.”
Jumping to her feet, she scurried round the instrument and rushed past Kent into the other room.
“Mr Atherton?” Mrs Cathcart said, with that wide smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Do have a seat.”
Suppressing a sigh, Kent allowed himself to be ushered back into the drawing room, dutifully settling beside the triumphant Miss Cathcart and preparing himself to be bored. No matter how good the cherry cake, he was not sure it was adequate compensation for such tedium.
5: A Visitor From Branton
Kent’sgoodhumourwassorely tested by Miss Cathcart’s efforts to engage him in a flirtation. He had no objection to it on principle, but he liked to choose the recipient, and he could not help but despise a woman who clearly saw him as a pigeon ripe for plucking. A woman should surely wait for a man to display some interest in her before launching into quite such a determined effort to ensnare him, in his view.
The hoped-for cake arrived soon afterwards, not cherry, but Olivia fell on it with glee anyway. Happily for Kent, the cake was followed almost at once by Mr Cathcart and his eldest son, and Kent took the opportunity to escape to the relative safety of male company. With a glass of Madeira in his hand and some sensible conversation about horses to sustain him, his mood improved.
From his new vantage point, he could see Miss Parish cowering on a footstool in a corner. No one made any effort to draw her forwards. She jumped up to help when the cake and tea arrived, but Mrs Cathcart waved her away and set Miss Susan Cathcart to handing around plates and cups. Several times Kent was offered a slice of cake, a biscuit or a fruit pastry, but he declared himself content with his Madeira.
On one such circuit, having a view through to the music room window, she glanced out and exclaimed, “Mama! The most peculiar coach is coming up the drive, with luggage all over it. Not from round here, that much is certain. Who are we expecting?”
“No one, dear,” Mrs Cathcart said. “Passing travellers asking directions, perhaps.”
Miss Susan ran through to the music room, which overlooked the turning circle in front of the house. Running back, she cried, “It is stopping, Mama. The footman is getting down. Shall I go and—?”
“By no means, Susan. Davis will deal with it.”
A few moments later, Davis came in bearing a card on a silver salver. Mrs Cathcart read it, gave an exclamation, then firmly shook her head. The butler bowed and withdrew.
Susan called through from the music room. “A lady is getting down, Mama.”
“It is no one we know, dear,” her mother said, rather flustered.
“But her footmen are unstrapping the luggage, Mama. Should we not—?”
Mrs Cathcart reddened, then smiled at Olivia. “Do excuse me a moment, Lady Olivia. I shall be back directly. James, pray ensure that Lady Olivia has another slice of cake.”
Amused, Kent wandered through to the music room. It was indeed a peculiar coach, of a large, old-fashioned style, drawn by four horses, with a liveried coachman and groom on the box. Two footmen, also in livery, were unstrapping a large wrapped item from the roof, while two outriders looked on. As Kent watched, a woman appeared from behind the coach and gave some orders to one of the outriders, who nodded and rode away down the drive.
The woman was elderly, he guessed, from all he could see of her behind her voluminous hat, which might have been fashionable fifteen years ago. She was dressed from head to toe in black, her wide skirts swaying as she moved. Yes, definitely elderly.
But not shy, that much was certain. Davis was on the drive, perhaps remonstrating with her, but she only laughed at him and the footmen continued their work on unfastening the item on the roof. Whatever was it? Not a traveller’s box for luggage, since it was well wrapped against the dust and rain of the road. Now they were gently lifting it down to the ground. Furniture, perhaps? It could be a small writing desk.
Now Mrs Cathcart was out there, flapping her hands ineffectually, but the woman in black roared with laughter. She was nearer now, and her words carried even through the glass.
“I just want to see little Katy, that’s all, ma’am. A small gift for her. No need to get in a pelter over it.”
