Till Next We Meet Read online

  All in all, it was a very disturbing week, and it was no wonder that she was at her wit’s end come Saturday. She ordered a hot and relaxing bath and even that was interrupted by Juliana complaining about the time it took two of the maids and two of the footmen to fill the tub, and the cost of the bath salts she had used, and the twice-milled soap from France.

  So on this night, exactly a week after the Dunnans had arrived with the vicar, she was annoyed, tired, and feeling entirely inhospitable.

  The men had rejoined them from their time of smoking cigars and drinking their after-dinner whiskey. The air of conviviality among the three was annoying, to say the least. The vicar had not, as he was wont to do with her, brought up one single scripture in the time he’d been at Balidonough. He didn’t seem entirely like the vicar at all, but a portly replica of himself, a man who insisted upon being called Thomas, and one who spent entirely too much time smiling. He and Moncrief seem to get along well, as did Mr. Dunnan.

  The ladies were not nearly as amenable.

  Hortensia sat, as she usually did, to the right of Juliana. She had retrieved her needlepoint and now sat demure as a mouse. But Catherine knew Hortensia listened avidly to any conversation around her, and she didn’t doubt that the older woman was the source of much of the servants’ gossip about the family.

  “I do think it’s very pleasant in here, Catherine.” Hortensia smiled timidly at her.

  “It’s too warm. We’re burning too much coal.”

  Catherine didn’t bother responding to Juliana.

  Mrs. Dunnan took a chair by the fire. “I think we should indulge in creature comforts as long as possible. Who knows how long we have before Death himself visits us?”

  “I agree,” Hortensia said, turning and facing the older woman. “One never knows how long one has to live.” She placed her needlework on her lap and devoted her entire attention to Mrs. Dunnan.

  Mrs. Dunnan shot Catherine a look, one that managed to be both accusatory and pitiful. “My dearest son died too young. He had the whole of his life before him. He might have been a father if he survived. I can see his children in my mind.” She began to weep into her handkerchief. “But I shall never see them in the flesh now.”

  Moncrief poured himself more whiskey and sat back in his chair contemplating it.

  Mr. Dunnan and the vicar were discussing the weather. The clouds promised snow, and Catherine fervently hoped the weather would hold since icy roads would be an excuse for the Dunnans to remain at Balidonough. As for the vicar, shouldn’t he be missing his church, and shouldn’t his congregation be missing him?

  “What was that wonderful beef dish we had at dinner?” Hortensia asked. “It was very tasty. And that sauce was so rich that I can still taste it now.”

  “It contained too much cream, and the beef was too expensive.”

  Catherine sighed. “I will not charge you for the dinner, Juliana.”

  In the silence that reigned over the next few moments, Catherine had ample opportunity to chastise herself for her rudeness. The fact was, however, that she didn’t feel the least remorseful about what she’d said. Instead, she fixed a stare on Juliana that dared her to comment. Mrs. Dunnan looked down at her hands, an identical pose to the one Hortensia had instantaneously assumed.

  “I don’t know what’s come over you, Catherine,” Mrs. Dunnan whispered. “You were never so rude when you were married to Harry. He would have been mortified at your behavior.”

  Catherine kept silent, but only for a moment. “I cannot remember a time when Harry was alive that you were so solicitous of his well-being.”

  Mr. Dunnan stood, moving toward his wife as if to protect her.

  “In fact, I do not believe I have ever seen you at Colstin Hall since Harry died,” she said, unable to halt her own words. It was as if some demon inside her was speaking despite her will. She looked helplessly at Moncrief but he, that fiend, was smiling.

  The vicar strode forward, one hand outstretched as if to physically place a hand over her mouth. But she ignored him.

  “I’m sorry to be so outspoken, but it is nothing more than any of you have subjected me to over this past week. I have been regaled with tale after tale after tale of Harry as if he were an angel.” She heard Moncrief mutter something beside her and vowed to ask him what he said later. For now, she was facing a group of people who were staring at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “Hortensia,” she said, addressing her comments to that woman, “I beg of you, do not tell me another tale of woe. I do not want to hear of your lumbago or your arthritis, or any disease of the blood you suspect you might have. And please, I beg of you. I do not want to hear of your rash.

  “Juliana, I have had enough of your eternal carping. I suggest you take up residence in a nunnery and give up all your worldly goods and spend each day in prayer. The vicar can no doubt help you find a place that needs your talents in thrift.”

  Juliana blessedly did not say anything in response, merely fixed a look of such animosity on her that might, at any other time, singe her to the floor. At this particular moment, however, Catherine was too angry with the whole lot of them.

  Everyone but Mr. Dunnan. Poor man, he had done nothing but accompany his wife to Balidonough.

  “Mr. Dunnan,” she said softly, “do you not think it is time you and your wife go home?”

  He looked rather shamefaced at her words, but remained silent, only placing his hand on his wife’s shoulder as if to restrain her.

  “Catherine,” Moncrief said softly in remonstration.

  She glanced over at Moncrief. He was still smiling, but his eyes looked wary now. He should count himself fortunate that she only sent him an annoyed look before leaving the room.

  Catherine made it up the stairs and to her room with some difficulty and Wallace’s help. The young man held her left elbow while she gripped the banister and took one halting step after another. All in all, it was easier to have Moncrief carry her, but she would die before admitting that.

  She thanked Wallace and closed the door behind her with relief. If Moncrief knew what was good for him, he would avoid her this evening. She was in no mood for smoldering glances or confusing conversation. She wanted to be left alone, not to think on her sins as the vicar might suggest, but to simply be free of thoughts. Tonight she didn’t even want Harry’s letters.

  She was heartily tired of everyone, living or dead.

  A timid knock made her sigh with exasperation. She made it back to the door and opened it only to find Mary standing there.

  “Wallace told me you had retired, Your Grace. I was wondering if you needed help with your gown.”

  Of course she did, and how foolish of her not to have thought of it. She opened the door to the maid. “If you would just unfasten me in the back, please Mary, that will be all.”

  She turned to allow Mary to unlace her.

  “What about your hair, Your Grace?”

  “I’ll brush it myself,” she said.

  “If you’re certain, Your Grace.”

  “I am not good company right now. I am, in fact, likely to snap at anyone who is unfortunate enough to cross my path.”

  “Should I arm myself with one of the shields from the Great Hall?”

  Catherine closed her eyes and let out a sigh. “Moncrief, go away.”

  “You have a penchant for telling me that, Catherine.”

  “You have a penchant for ignoring me.”

  “Perhaps if you gave me another type of order?”

  “I feel compelled, in this instance, to repeat the one I already gave you. Go away.”

  Mary made a small sound behind her, and Catherine gritted her teeth. She had never before spoken to him in such a way in front of the servants, but it could not be helped.

  “That will be all, Mary,” he said kindly, and the young maid escaped through the door faster than lightning.

  “I take it you are still annoyed?”

  “Tonight is not a good ni
ght for any kind of confrontation.”

  “Why should we confront each other? I thought we had become friends, if nothing else.”

  “Friends? Do friends glower at each other the way you do at me?” She whirled, forgetting about her ankle, and let out of gasp of pain.

  He came to her side, but she pointed one arm imperiously at him, a forefinger digging into his chest. “Stay where you are, Moncrief. I can deal quite well with such a simple injury. I need no cosseting, and I certainly don’t need you to pick me up and carry me somewhere. Just leave me alone.”

  His smile slipped a little, and his eyes grew harder. She might have realized what his next words would be if she had been paying more attention to his mood rather than to her own.

  “What are you going to do, Catherine? Retire to your bed with one of Harry’s letters?”

  She pressed her fingers over her eyes and wished him away. But Moncrief was a stubborn, intractable, obtuse, annoying man who never left when she wanted him gone.

  “Leave Harry out of this,” she said, annoyed with everyone who had mentioned his name in the last week. It was one thing to mourn her husband, quite enough to hear his praises sung at least a thousand times by his mother.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t asked for me to unearth his coffin and have it buried here at Balidonough. Better yet, why not inter him in the chapel? That way you can go and visit him every day without having to expose yourself to the elements.”

  When she didn’t respond, he continued, his tone leaving no doubt of his anger. “Shall we have a ceremony? Unearth the bastard, and have him laid out on the dining room table? All of you can wail and gnash your teeth and rend your garments for the hallowed Harry.”

  She should have told him, perhaps, that she was as heartily tired of hearing Harry’s name as he was, but something about that last comment made her glance at him curiously.

  “You didn’t like Harry, did you?”

  When he simply stood there, his intense blue eyes unreadable, she knew she was right.

  She moved a few feet away, drawing closer to the fire. Moncrief, she was grateful to note, remained where he was.

  “If you disliked him so much, why did you call upon me? Wasn’t that carrying your sense of duty a bit far?”

  Moncrief didn’t answer.

  “Peter didn’t like Harry either. Why?”

  “There wasn’t much about Harry to like,” Moncrief said, before turning and striding toward his door.

  “You can’t leave now,” she said. “You can’t simply say something like that and then just leave.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “I never took you for a coward, Moncrief.”

  He stopped where he was, his back rigid.

  “Why didn’t you like Harry?”

  “Don’t ask me, Catherine, unless you’re prepared to hear the answer.”

  She balanced herself against the mantel, holding on to it with one hand and the crutch with the other, as if it were a weapon that she needed to protect her right at this moment. A premonition, as strident as Juliana’s voice, warned her that she shouldn’t ask him, shouldn’t listen. They had gone too far, however, to stop now.

  “Tell me.” To soften the edge of the demand she added, “Please.”

  He turned and faced her, his face carefully wiped of any expression. “He was a womanizer, a liar, and he enjoyed killing.”

  She held on to the crutch so tightly that she could feel the wood soften in her grip.

  “If he hadn’t been at war, I’m sure he would have murdered someone sooner or later. He had a bloodlust that was unnatural. Harry never took a man prisoner when he could just as easily kill him.”

  “A womanizer?”

  Moncrief looked straight at her, his face somber. “He bedded half of Quebec. If a woman wasn’t willing, it really didn’t matter to Harry.”

  At her silence, he continued. “He never told the truth when a lie could suffice.”

  “How did he die?” She wasn’t the least surprised that the words came slowly. She was surprised that she could speak at all.

  Instead of answering, he turned his head and stared out the window, retreating into silence with such alacrity that she couldn’t help but wonder if it was a place of refuge for him.

  “Why did you come to see me? Duty? Guilt?”

  He still didn’t speak.

  “Did you kill him? Was your hatred of him so great that you killed him?”

  Could a heart stop? She felt as if hers had while she waited for him to answer her.

  Finally, he spoke. “I didn’t like him, but I didn’t kill him.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was shot by his lover’s husband. In the man’s bed.”

  Silence ticked between them, measured by the absurdly loud sound from the mantel clock. Why had she never before noticed how annoying it was?

  “Thank you,” she said, finally.

  He studied her, and for the length of his perusal, she stood upright and tall forgetting about the pain in her ankle or the pain in her heart. What was important at this moment was her dignity. Somehow, it was vital that she face down Moncrief with all the resolve she had.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  She couldn’t. If she did, her entire life had been a lie, or at least the best and most precious parts of it.

  “I should not have spoken.”

  She shook her head, the effort nearly beyond her.

  His blue eyes were softened by concern. The moments slowed as she wanted to shout for him not to reveal the depth of his compassion, because it proved his words true. As the silence lengthened she felt as if it were a signal, ending something, like the last tick of a failing clock or a final lamp being extinguished.

  Her chest hurt, and felt heavy, as if an hour or two of unwept tears lay there waiting.

  Moncrief had to go, and now. Her composure was tenuous and not long-lived.

  “Please leave,” she said, trying to couch the request is politely as possible. It was not, after all, his fault that she simply wanted to die at this moment.

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “But you must.”

  He strode to her side and cupped her face. “I should not have said anything.”

  “Why did you not, before?” she asked, looking up at him. She felt only pain seeing the kindness in his eyes. “How foolish I must seem to you.”

  “Why is it foolish to love someone? Regardless of Harry’s sins, you loved him.”

  She pulled away and faced the fire. In this room, Juliana’s thriftiness had not won out. Catherine had a fire lit against the winter chill, but right now it was unable to warm the cold she felt inside.

  “May I tell you something strange?” His hand on her shoulder was a comfort and encouragement enough to continue. “I fell in love with Harry through his letters.”

  His hand moved, his fingers stroking the back of her neck softly, so softly it elicited a chill. But she didn’t tell him to cease. Her connection to the world seemed to be from that single touch. If he moved away, she would lose herself in a maelstrom of pain and regret.

  “I loved what he wrote, and the depth of his thoughts, and his ideas. I could read his descriptions of North America and Quebec over and over again and it felt as if I was there beside him. I realized that I didn’t know him well when he went off to join the regiment, you see. But I grew to know and love him through his letters.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. His hand had fallen to rest at his side. She turned and touched his arm, needing that connection.

  “That’s why I hold them in such high esteem. Because they are Harry to me. I sought his counsel when things became difficult at Colstin Hall, and he never once failed to offer me good advice. I told him things that I had never told another living soul, and I thought he treated those confidences as if they were treasures.”

  “A man is more than what he writes. Words are only a measurement of minutes, a way of
holding a thought, a question.”

  She looked up at him. “But how could he have been both thoughtful and horrid? How can you love someone you don’t even know?”

  He didn’t answer her. What could he have said, after all?

  “Please,” she said, exhaling deeply. “Please go.”

  She heard the door close behind her and wanted to call him back again. She’d never felt so desperately alone.

  Chapter 18

  Moncrief stood at the window, his fist clenched, knuckles pressing hard against the pane. Without too much effort, he could have shattered the glass. What would that prove? That there were other things in the world as brittle as his mood, perhaps?

  She’d fallen in love with a man through his letters, a bittersweet revelation that was surprisingly painful.

  I am your ghost, Catherine. Words he should have said. Words that would have also been profoundly unwise. She needed time between her disillusion and the realization that love waited for her, patient and unceasing. Or perhaps not so patient.

  He heard the door open and didn’t bother to turn, since he’d been waiting for her. He probably would’ve done exactly what she was going to do now. Upon reflection, she’d decided not to believe him. Harry would remain a gilded saint, and Moncrief the usurper.

  “You didn’t lie to me, did you, Moncrief?”

  He didn’t turn, speaking to his night darkened reflection instead. “No, I didn’t lie.”

  “Did he love her? The woman he died with?”

  He closed his eyes, unprepared for that question. What a fool he’d been. Of course she would want to know.

  “I don’t know,” he said, then recalled the conversation he and Harry had at Pointe Levis.

  They were sitting on a hill waiting for darkness when they would, along with the whole of the regiment, ascend the sheer cliffs surrounding Quebec. Major General Wolfe’s audacious plan might very well lead to his death, but Moncrief had faced that thought on more than one occasion.