Little Katy? And the strong Lancashire accent told its own story. Kent laughed, and elbowed his way through the crowd that now thronged the music room, heads craning to see the arrival. Back in the drawing room, Olivia was talking composedly to Miss Cathcart and James, her plate heaped with cake. Miss Parish was still huddled in the corner, a cup of tea balanced on her knees.
“Miss Parish?” Kent said quietly. She started and blushed a fiery red. “I think the visitor is here to see you.”
“Me?”
The cup of tea wobbled precariously. He lifted it from her lap, setting it safely on a side table. “Will you come and see?”
He offered his arm and, still as red as a beetroot, head down, she allowed herself to be led out into the hall and through the front door.
She gasped. “Mrs Vance? Oh, Mrs Vance!”
Tearing down the steps, she hurled herself at the black-clad figure, who scooped her to her ample bosom with cries of delight.
“Katy, dear! Well, now, let me look at you. So thin, but my, how grand you’ve grown, in your fine gown, although the house is not quite what I was expecting. So plain! Why, I declare, the Ridwells’ house is far grander. I like a bit of ornamentation, myself, not so dull as this. But I like to seeyoudressed up a bit finer than you used to, child. Quite the lady you are now. I wonder you still want to acknowledge a disreputable character like poor Mrs Vance. Now, now, child, no more tears. This lady must be your aunt, I suppose. Do tell her I’ll not be stopping long, for she won’t want the likes of me cluttering up her drive. Is that fine gentleman your uncle?”
She pointed at Davis. Kent could not hear how Miss Parish replied, for her voice was not above a whisper, but the lady in black roared with laughter.
“Well now, fancy me mistaking the butler for a gentleman! Lord, how Mr Vance will laugh when I tell him. There now, child, this is all I came for, to bring you a little present. Couldn’t get here before, what with my Lottie’s confinement, and then Janey’s boys came all over spots, and I couldn’t neglect poor Mr Vance, could I? But I’m here now, aren’t I? There!” She pointed triumphantly to the package now sitting on the drive. “Where do you want it? My men will bring it in to the house.”
“A gift for Katherine? How kind,” Mrs Cathcart said hastily, attempting to wrest control of the situation. “Davis, see to it, will you? Thank you so much, Mrs… er, Vance.” She paused, and even from his vantage point at the top of the steps, Kent could see the struggle on her face between good manners and the burning desire to rid her drive of this vulgar person. In the end, catching sight of Kent’s amused face, she settled for good manners. “Will you step inside, Mrs Vance? While Katherine unwraps her… gift.”
“Well, now, that’s most gracious of you, ma’am. I don’t mind if I do, and a glass of something wouldn’t go amiss. Thirsty work, travelling in the summer. All that dust quite parches a body’s throat. Well, what a narrow hall! I declare, I prefer a larger entrance myself, but there, I expect tastes differ in Yorkshire.”
Mrs Cathcart ushered Mrs Vance and Miss Parish firmly into the front parlour, while Davis and a couple of footmen manoeuvred the large package in there too. Then the door was firmly closed on the little crowd of onlookers.
“Do go back to the drawing room, everyone. Mr Atherton? May I tempt you to a slice of plum cake?”
Kent followed the general drift back to the drawing room, retrieved his glass of Madeira and picked up a second glass. Olivia was still there, still eating, still talking to Miss Cathcart, whose eyes lit up at the sight of Kent. Bending over Olivia, he murmured into her ear, “When the cake runs out, the parlour might be amusing.”
Then, ignoring Mrs Cathcart’s urging him to stay, he set off for the parlour again, opening the door with difficulty, trying not to spill Madeira, and sidling in. Mrs Vance was seated on an overstuffed sofa, looking rather uncomfortable, but her face lit up when Kent handed her the spare glass of Madeira.
“Well now, that’s just the thing to set me straight. Thank you kindly, sir.”
Meanwhile, Miss Parish knelt on the floor, wrestling with the knots securing the mysterious parcel. And talking! She chattered away as if she had not talked for a month and had stored up all her words, while Mrs Vance gave brief answers to the questions that tumbled out one after the other.
“—take the waters, but I am so glad he is somewhat improved. And what of Mrs Silver? Is she better now? She was so poorly when I left. Oh, I am glad to hear it. And did Mr Tiller propose to Miss Berkeley in the end? Oh, no! Poor Miss Berkeley! And how is the new curate working out? Are his sermons less soporific than Mr Tybald’s? Oh, goodness, I—”
Kent watched, mesmerised. This was a side to Miss Parish that he had never suspected. Not only was she talking more than he had ever seen before, but her face was alive with enthusiasm, her eyes sparkling and her lips… such lips! Had they always been so red, so downright enticing? He was aware of a tug of interest that was not merely pity for a lonely, shy girl, and not even the twinge of guilt that he had unburdened himself so disgracefully to a near stranger.
She became aware of him, falling silent as her cheeks took on the familiar fiery hue.
“Are the knots giving you trouble?” he said gently. “Shall I cut the string?”
“No… that would be wasteful,” she murmured, eyes downcast. Then, flushing even more, “But thank you, sir.”
“Then may I try to unpick them?” he said, and when she nodded, he knelt down beside her and set to work. She slid along the rug to put some distance between them, her head still lowered, hands neatly folded in her lap.
When the silence began to feel oppressive, Kent said, “Have you travelled far today, Mrs Vance?”
“Only from Thirsk, sir. I don’t hold with these long days in the carriage, so I never plan more than a stage or two a day. That way, I can keep my own horses and my reliable coachman. I don’t hold with post horses, not when I have my own.”
“Very wise,” Kent said. “And are you staying in these parts long? Miss Parish will not want you to rush away, I am sure.”
“A few days, perhaps. If the inn is to my liking.”
“The White Horse? It is reputed to be a very comfortable establishment. Mrs Haslet’s mutton pie is the best in the North Riding. She tells me so herself, so it must be true. There!” he said triumphantly, as the first knot was teased apart. “One done, only another dozen or so waiting. Your servants wrapped this excessively well, Mrs Vance.”
She chuckled, but said, “You have the advantage of me, sir. Are you one of the Cathcarts?”
