Conversation at the luncheon table was almost exclusively male and concerned crops, drainage, enclosures, and other farming matters. Kate listened with half an ear. But Mr. Dalrymple seemed to feel the exclusion of the ladies and introduced a more general topic.
“Well, Clive,” he said to Lord Barton at the head of the table, “It seems that you were quite right in your surmise. Nicholas Seyton has indeed been living close by ever since the death of his grandfather.”
Kate felt her heart and stomach turn over inside her, and became aware of a mouthful of potatoes stranded in her mouth. It was impossible to swallow. The interest of most of those around the table was piqued.
“Indeed?” Lord Barton had himself under control within seconds of his first eager response. He smiled and looked at his sister. “You see, Alice? I knew the poor young man would find it hard to drag himself away from here. Splendid, my dear Charles. Only tell me where I may find him, and I shall ride out to greet him even before attending Thelma’s picnic this afternoon.”
“I am afraid that will be impossible, Clive,” Mr. Dalrymple said. “By some strange irony, Tate and I ran into him in Trecoombe this morning a mere half-hour before he left on the stagecoach.”
“What?” Lord Barton’s hand opened and closed convulsively on the table beside his plate.
“It seems that he lingered here out of nostalgia, as you guessed,” Mr. Dalrymple continued, “and out of some reluctance to face the unknown, I suppose. It seems he has lived very quietly with a fisherman friend of his so that no one in the area seems to have known that he was here. But yesterday, having heard that Tate was asking about him, he decided that it was time to go away and settle on his own estate.”
“I was much impressed by the man’s good sense,” Sir Harry Tate drawled. “He understood, of course, that if his presence here were known, he would hopelessly embarrass both Dalrymple and me as former acquaintances, and ultimately you too, my lord. He realized that he would present you with the dilemma of deciding whether you should receive him or not. And he was quite right, of course. For my part, I felt somewhat uncomfortable at being seen talking to Seyton on the street.”
Kate felt a surge of anger, but she was hanging too closely on every word that passed to pay it any attention.
“But did you not explain to him that I wished to see him, to shake him by the hand, Charles?” Lord Barton asked.
“Assuredly I did,” Mr. Dalrymple assured him. “Did I not, Tate? And I begged him for my sake to stay for a few days at least so that we might renew our friendship. But Seyton was ever stubborn, as I recall. His mind was made up to leave, his box was waiting to be strapped onto the stage, and he would go. We watched him on his way, as did several village folk, all surprised to see him, apparently, when they had assumed that he had left long ago. I do hate to be the bringer of such disappointing news. I know you and Alice truly wished to see him again, Clive.”
“Poor boy!” Lady Toucher said. “And to go away on the stagecoach. What a blessing that you were there, at least, Charles, to assure him of all our good wishes.”
“I shall write to him within the next day or so to satisfy myself that he has arrived safely in Shropshire,” Mr. Dalrymple said.
“Well,” Sir Harry said, leaning to one side so that a footman could place his dessert dish before him, “I will still say that the affair is well-ended, Dalrymple. Just imagine how improper it would be for the ladies to be called upon to rub shoulders with such as he. I am sure Mrs. Mannering agrees with me. Do you not, ma’am?”
He had briefly rubbed shoulders with her as he leaned to one side. She pulled sharply away from him, though the contact was only momentary and accidental. An alarming feeling of physical awareness and hatred made it impossible for her to answer his question. She wanted to turn and scream and pound at him with her fists. She wanted to claw the complacent, bored look from his face, and scream the languid drawl from his voice.
“I quite agree with Sir Harry,” Lady Emma said. “One of the least pleasant aspects of being a person of rank is the way in which one is plagued by one’s inferiors. Do you remember, Gregory, how when poor Grandpapa died, all our poor relations came to call on Papa? I was particularly mortified to be called upon to receive a mere curate and his sister who had come to beg some boon.”
“Clearly,” her brother agreed. “But I think we do not have to concern ourselves about their repeating that visit, Emma. And I congratulate you, my lord, on having rid yourself of an embarrassment with such ease.”
“Well . . .” Lord Barton said doubtfully. “But you are sure, Charles, that he did indeed leave and did not merely pretend to do so in order to set our minds at rest?”
“Oh, no,” Charles Dalrymple assured him. “We even followed the coach along the road for a mile out of town before turning for the Abbey, Clive.”
“You have not touched your dessert, Mrs. Mannering,” Sir Harry said, turning to Kate and fingering the ribbon his quizzing glass. “Perhaps some exercise this morning would have given you more appetite.”
“Perhaps so, sir,” she said stiffly. “I really am not hungry.”
“Would anyone care for a game of billiards before this picnic?” Viscount Stoughton asked, looking around at the men. “The ladies, I suppose, will wish to rest for an hour or so.”
Kate was eternally grateful that the ladies did indeed wish to rest. Lady Thelma usually preferred to relax in her sitting room talking instead of lying down. But on this occasion she dismissed Kate, claiming that the exertions of a picnic would make it necessary for her to sleep first.
“But I will want you to come with us this afternoon, Kate,” she said. “The outing will do you good. I notice that you always stay in the background at all our gatherings, which is quite unnecessary, you know. And I noticed that you retired early last night. It is silly of you to feel inferior. You are not so at all. In fact, I think you are vastly superior to Lady Emma, for all her airs. I do not like her, Kate. Nor do I like her brother. You must make sure that I am not left alone with him for even a minute this afternoon. Will you?”
Kate retired to her own room, scarce knowing how she had got there or what she had said in answer to her employer. She felt as if she were living in the middle of a nightmare from which she would soon awake. Nicholas gone! Without a word to her? The very day after they had become lovers? And to his property in Shropshire, to settle? It could not be possible. He must have pretended to leave merely to throw Lord Barton off his scent. He would return, surely, to the cottage and carry on as before. He would not so easily give up his attempts to find his mother. And he would not give up his leadership of the smugglers. He would not leave her!
She threw herself facedown across her bed. She felt physically sick. She could tell herself over and over again that it was not so, that his leaving was merely a ruse. She could tell herself that in four nights’ time she would slip out to the cottage and he would be there waiting for her, ready to talk to her, to tease away her fears, to love her. She could tell herself these things, but all the time there was a dull certainty inside her that it was true. He had gone away.
It was what she had wanted, of course. It was what she had gone to plead with him to do. And she should be glad that he had finally seen his danger and decided to remove himself to safety. She would not have to worry about him any longer. She should he glad that he had gone. She was glad.
But no, she was not, Kate thought, grabbing a pillow fiercely and propping her chin on it. If he had left by the stage that morning, he must have planned it. He must have known last night that he was going. And he had said nothing to her. He had made love to her, knowing that today he was going away to stay. And he had not told her. That meant that she was nothing to him. She had merely provided a pleasant ending to a busy and exciting evening. He would have treated any woman so who had happened to cross his path. No, she would not believe so. She could not.
What if he had not known the night before that he was leaving? What if he had decided on the spur of the moment? What would have forced such a decision? A careful assessment of the dangers of staying? Possibly. A reaction to what had happened between the two of them? He had not, after all, expected to see her that night. It was very possible that he had reacted unthinkingly to the opportunity to take her. Did he perhaps not want such involvement? Had he taken fright, imagining perhaps that she would make demands on him now that she had given herself to him? Was he imagining that she would demand that he marry her? Was he afraid that perhaps he had impregnated her and would be trapped into marriage? He could not know, as she did, that her month had only just begun and such an outcome was not probable.
Was he running from her? The possibility was dreadfully hurtful. But it seemed so very likely. He must have lived with danger for a long time. Perhaps that danger alone would have sent him away with such little forethought. He did not love her. He had enjoyed her, and then run from the fear of being trapped by her. Kate buried her face in the pillow that she clutched to herself. She had been alone the night before after all. She had only imagined that their lovemaking had been a shared ecstasy. He was worse than Giles. Many times worse. At least Giles had never pretended an interest in her own feelings or pleasure. At least he had always been openly selfish. Nicholas had gained his satisfaction from conquering her heart as well as her body.
