Till Next We Meet Read online

  “When my father passed away, it was a time of sorrow for me. And I still cannot remember his passing without wishing he was here. Every time I look around Colstin Hall, I can imagine what he would say to my renovations of it.”

  “I doubt my father would have noticed something as plebeian as a new banister, or new kitchen quarters.”

  “Then he, too, was every inch the duke, was he not?”

  He smiled, an expression that took her aback. He had a very charming smile, but she wished he would look as somber as he had an instant ago. Surprisingly, that man was more comfortable to be around than this more approachable one.

  “Are you asking, in a roundabout way, if my father would have approved of you? Probably not. My father did not agree with most of what I did. However, over the years I lost the need for his approval.”

  “I am sorry you were estranged at his death.”

  “But we weren’t. He and I had come to an agreement about our natures. We each understood the other. Simply because you’re related to someone doesn’t mean that you have to like him. You tolerate them, you accept.”

  She had a sudden feeling that this was very much as their marriage might be, with him tolerating and her accepting.

  Catherine realized that up until now she’d been very successful at creating a world around her, peopled with those she loved, with her favorite things added for a little comfort. She ate what she wished and accepted calls from whom she wished, and arranged her life to suit her own comfort. Residing at Colstin Hall was like living inside a cocoon, one that had abruptly split open to reveal a new world, a new life, this new man.

  All of which terrified her almost to tears.

  Harry Dunnan was in hell, laughing at him, Moncrief was certain.

  Dear God, why had he ever written her? Why had he ever shared his thoughts with this woman who now sat looking down at the floor as if pretending they weren’t in the same carriage? Why had he ever become fascinated by her thoughts?

  This marriage was doomed to perdition if he didn’t divulge the truth. Yet he doubted she would believe him. Anything that made her beloved Harry less a hero in her eyes she’d immediately reject. Or perhaps she would believe him, and become a raging madwoman. Even worse, she might take another dose of laudanum in her grief.

  “Have you lived all your life at Colstin Hall?” he asked her.

  She glanced at him and nodded. “It was my father’s home, and Harry came to live with us after our marriage.”

  The very last thing he wanted to do was continue to talk about the departed Harry Dunnan. But he found himself led into the conversation all the same. “Did Harry like Colstin Hall?”

  She studied the window, seemingly intent on the curtain of rain. But he allowed the time to stretch between them, wondering if talking of Harry was painful for her.

  “I think he was bored,” she said, surprising him. “When my father offered to help him buy a commission, Harry didn’t hesitate.”

  “But you didn’t approve.”

  Her intense study of the rain ended, but now she regarded her clasped hands as if she had never before seen them. “I had only been wed a month. Of course I didn’t want him to leave me. But sometimes a wife’s opinion does not count for very much.”

  “I shall not leave you, Catherine,” he said.

  Her face abruptly paled.

  He forced a smile to his face and wished he had something in his dispatch case to read or study, some complicated problem to occupy his mind, some puzzle that he might reason out, anything but contemplate how irrational this marriage was and how much a farce it was proving to be.

  He wished he could write her again, tell her his thoughts in words. In his mind, he composed another letter to her.

  There should be no secret thoughts that create chasms between us. But I felt closer to you in Quebec than I do now sitting with such a short distance between us. I want to know what you think but the domain of your thoughts is locked and forbidden me. I have seen your nakedness and touched you in gentleness for all that we’re strangers.

  Harry stands between us, incorporeal, but with as much substance as if he were still alive. I do not doubt that he would have only contempt for your misery, but that is not something I can tell you. Nor can I convince you of his perfidy without revealing my own.

  If he had never written her, he would be spared this purgatory. But he would have never known her either. Only time would tell whether the one was worth the other.

  I married you because you needed rescuing.

  Or he did.

  This woman spoke with such self-possession, but he sensed it was only surface deep. He suspected also, with an insight that disturbed him, that she was trembling, holding herself tight so that he could not witness her discomfiture.

  The carriage slowed, and he hooked a finger behind the leather shade and watched as Balidonough loomed before them. Instantly, he was reminded of a scene from his childhood.

  As a boy, excited about riding his new pony, he’d raced down the stairs to the courtyard, only to be stopped by his father.

  “Restraint is what separates us from the masses,” the tenth Duke of Lymond had said. “If you cannot master your own baser emotions, you will never be better than lowliest peasant.”

  Moncrief had learned, over the years, to mask his emotions, at least in front of his father. He was careful never to show excitement or sadness or any of the riotous feelings a boy would normally demonstrate. That training put him in good stead to be a commander of men, to lead them into battle and never show fear, to send them to their deaths and never reveal regret.

  He was doubly glad of his learned restraint now as he entered the courtyard of Balidonough almost exactly fourteen years after he had left it, returning a more experienced man, a colonel of the Lowland Scots Fusiliers. Inside, however, he felt as if he were ten years old again.

  Moncrief was conscious of the fact that Catherine was watching him carefully, a scrutiny he’d not expected.

  He’d once expressed his grief about his father to her by hiding it behind a very real anguish about his men.

  There are times when I see their fresh faces and want to warn them that youth is not a guarantee of old age. They think themselves immortal, because they don’t feel their bones growing brittle or their muscles aching as they rise in the morning. They don’t realize they can be as easily struck down by disease as by a musket ball, by a fallen tree as quickly as an unexpected flood.

  I see them in their revelry and I want to congratulate them on their wisdom in celebrating every moment of life. But instead of becoming inebriated, I want them to see a sunset or love a woman, or experience life in the very fullness of it. I want each of them to become a father, to greet their own fathers again. Yet I know even as I watch them, that nothing can guarantee that any of them will remain alive for a fortnight or a month. And so I can’t help but distance myself from them, knowing that I will be packing the trunks of those who do not survive and writing final words to a loved one.

  He had the absurd desire to confide in her, to tell her that this homecoming was a difficult one for him, a confession he’d not even made to Peter. Instead, he remained silent, and composed himself to meet what was left of his family.

  Chapter 6

  The outer courtyard was enormous, but it only led to another wall, and a drawbridge over which the carriage thundered. Catherine could feel her heart booming in her chest, and wondered if she looked as afraid as she felt.

  “Balidonough is said to rival Warwick, the great English castle,” Moncrief said.

  “Indeed.” How odd that it was difficult to swallow. Or even to breathe.

  “Originally, the castle was a motte-and-bailey structure, but generations of my ancestors have built up the place. I doubt that we’ll ever need the defenses again, however.” He smiled at her. “After all, the world is much more civilized.”

  “Which is why you’ve spent the last fourteen years of your life fighting wars.”
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  His smile was an acknowledgment of her sarcasm. Moncrief, annoying, was infinitely preferable to Moncrief, charming.

  The carriage stopped midpoint between the inner wall and the imposing steps leading to the arched oak door. She felt as if they were entering a cathedral rather than simply a home, albeit one for the Duke of Lymond.

  The storm had not abated, but he removed his coat and placed it over her head to protect her from the worst of the rain. They left the carriage and raced up the steps.

  “Don’t look so terrified.”

  “I have a reason,” she said, wiping her face with the edge of his cloak. “I’m about to face your family.”

  He smiled once more, a less genial expression than one with a bit of wickedness to it. “So am I,” he said. “And who it will be is a mystery to us both.”

  She sent him an irritated look. “What do you mean, a mystery?”

  “I’ve been away from home for fourteen years, Catherine. I’ve no idea what collection of relatives my brother assembled. If he’d had children, I wouldn’t be here now, but perhaps there is a bevy of aunts, uncles, cousins, and the like behind that door.”

  She had never considered that his welcome might be a strange one.

  He gripped the round ring in the middle of one door, and released it. Could anyone hear its sound over the storm?

  The woman who opened the door held herself straight and tall, her shoulders and lean body forming a perfect “T.” Her face was lean and angular, with surprisingly full lips. Her brown hair had a few traces of gray, as if Nature had not quite decided if she was young or old, or teetering somewhere in between.

  “Yes?” When she spoke, only the lower half of her face moved. Her eyes didn’t blink, her eyebrows remained stationary, and not a hair on her head budged despite the increasing wind.

  Moncrief moved to stand in front of Catherine as if to protect her from such a paltry welcome. Surely, the inhabitants of Balidonough knew he was coming.

  “Hortensia?” he asked.

  “Moncrief? Is it you?” She smiled, mobilizing her face into something warm and welcoming. She stood aside, the sweep of her arm toward the interior an awkward gesture, as if welcoming strangers was a foreign concept to her.

  “We have been awaiting you, Juliana and I.” She peered at Moncrief through the dimness.

  He placed his hand on the small of Catherine’s back and drew her forward. “My wife, Catherine.”

  “I’ll tell Juliana that you’ve arrived,” she said, turning. “In the meantime, please follow me.”

  Moncrief raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond.

  “Who is she?” Catherine whispered.

  “Juliana’s sister. Juliana was Colin’s wife. My sister-in-law.” That was the extent of their conversation as they entered Balidonough and followed Hortensia.

  The entrance hall was, even in the near darkness, magnificent. The tall ceiling culminated in a dome, and surrounding it were twelve colonnades each adorned at the top with acanthus scrolls and the heads of mythical creatures. The staircase was of walnut, each step cantilevered out from the wall, leaving the impression that it floated in midair. The balustrade was of iron, twisted into decorative shapes and supported by sculptures of scantily clad goddesses.

  There were traces of wealth wherever she looked, putting to rest the thought that Moncrief might have married her for her fortune. The floors were inlaid with woods in contrasting colors. Those walls not adorned with gilded mahogany panels were frescoed with scenes of what looked to be Moncrief’s family’s heritage. Barrel-vaulted ceilings gave way to bare timber, then to plaster ceilings where narrow interlaced panels formed small frames for brightly colored paintings.

  The wall coverings varied from large, beautifully rendered tapestries to watered silk or cut velvet, or damask. Once, she peeked into a room to find the walls decked with hand-colored, wood-block-printed paper.

  At the end of several corridors were fitted cabinets that look oriental in design. Catherine would have liked to have admired their contents, but Hortensia looked back impatiently several times as if to hurry them on their way.

  Catherine was overwhelmed by the sheer size of Balidonough. A small village could live comfortably within the castle’s dimensions and rarely need to venture outside.

  But Balidonough had an emptiness about it, a feeling of disuse. She had the novel thought that it felt as if the castle were waiting to come alive, as if it had been placed under a spell of enchantment. The corridors were cold, the smell one of mustiness, and the darkness the result of none of the sconces being lit. If she had truly been the chatelaine of Balidonough, she would have lit the rooms against the oncoming night, caused the fires to blaze in empty rooms, and perfumed the air with dried flowers.

  But it seemed impossible that she might have the power to do any of this, even if she wished it. All she wanted at this moment was to be back at Colstin Hall, the time a week earlier, when all that she had to cope with was her grief.

  Finally, Hortensia entered a large yet welcoming room where a paltry fire blazed in the fireplace. The wall paneling, moldings, and shutters were of a dark cherrywood, heavily carved with cherubs holding garlands. Tall floor-to-ceiling windows that would ordinarily dwarf a smaller room were well proportioned in this chamber.

  In front of the fire were two heavily carved chairs that looked as if they had rested there for generations. A few stubby candles sat in holders, but none of the lanterns had been lit. Hortensia didn’t offer Moncrief any refreshment. Nor did she ask about their journey. She simply showed them the room and vanished, leaving Moncrief and Catherine alone in the empty room.

  “It’s rather gloomy, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a mausoleum,” Moncrief answered. He walked to the windows draped in thick velvet. The storm had settled over them, darkening the sky and making it impossible to tell if it was night or day.

  “Has Balidonough always been this way?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t remember, isn’t that strange? When I think of Balidonough, I think of my father, and he was such a force that he made everything and everyone around him look smaller in comparison.”

  She thought he was the same, but didn’t say it. He looked oddly at home in this room, despite the fact that he’d not been given a welcome befitting the twelfth Duke of Lymond. Not one servant appeared, and after a few moments, Catherine peered out the door. There were no candles lit in the corridors, and they were now black as pitch.

  “Do you think our welcome is so paltry because of the storm?” she asked, struggling to find a reason why no one had come to see to their comfort.

  The appearance of a woman in the doorway interrupted Moncrief’s reply.

  “Juliana.” He left her side and went to greet his sister-in-law.

  The Dowager Duchess of Lymond was wearing paint. Her complexion had been generously dabbed with some concoction that lightened it considerably, but the mixture didn’t cover her face completely. Instead, it looked as if she were wearing a mask, one adorned with two large dots of pink on her cheeks, and lips that were painted in a permanent moue. Her eyebrows arched like flying birds over her forehead, giving her an expression of eternal surprise.

  “Moncrief?” she asked, her voice high-pitched and scratchy. She frowned at Moncrief, then stretched out her hand. “Hortensia said it was you, but I cannot believe my eyes. You don’t look a day older than when I last saw you.”

  In a gesture Catherine would not have expected of him, Moncrief took the woman’s hand and kissed the air above it.

  “And you as well,” he said kindly. “I trust you’re well, Juliana?”

  “How kind of you to ask,” she said, pulling her hand away and gliding to a nearby chair.

  Juliana was shorter than her sister, with blond hair that was interspersed with white. Nevertheless, it was becoming, especially arranged as it was in a severe coronet at the back of her head. If one could ignore the bizarre application of her face paint, Juliana could be co
nsidered an attractive woman.

  “I’d like you to meet my wife, Catherine.”

  The dowager duchess nodded. “Are you from North America as well?”

  “No. My home is Colstin Hall, not far from here.”

  With that, Juliana ignored her, and turned her attention to Moncrief.

  “Your servants?”

  “They will be here shortly,” Moncrief said.

  “I’ll have rooms prepared.” Once more, Juliana glanced at Catherine, but the look was no warmer the second time. “And you, Moncrief? The ducal apartments?”

  He smiled, the expression so unlike his normal one that Catherine realized he played a part the equal of Juliana’s. “Of course. I trust they’re ready?”

  Juliana’s expression didn’t change, but she looked as if she’d drawn up into herself, as if shivering at a frigid gust of wind. Catherine wasn’t surprised. Not only was the atmosphere a chilly one, but the room itself was cold enough for her to see her breath.

  “They have been readied since Colin’s death six months ago. We have, of course, been expecting you.” The inference being that Moncrief would not have voluntarily returned to Balidonough until he was made duke.

  Juliana stood and made her way to the door. Although she hesitated for a moment, she didn’t speak again. When she left, the room felt appreciably warmer, a comment Catherine didn’t make to Moncrief.

  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if there had been antipathy between them for a very long time, or if it had only been prompted by Moncrief’s ascension to the title. If she had known him better, or longer, she might have asked. But his very manner did not encourage questions, so she remained silent.

  A moment later, a young footman appeared at the door, dressed in livery that was too short in the sleeves and was missing a few buttons. His gloves were gray rather than white, and his neckcloth frayed at the edges.

  However, he was tall, with intelligent eyes, and a ready smile. His shock of red hair stuck up this way and that, and as he bowed, he smoothed his hand over it as if to tame it.