Page 76 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

Chapter Twenty-Three

London, England

February 1844

Kate stood at the raindrop-streaked window of the confectioner’s shop, a velvet embossed mantle cloak over her shoulders and a velvet muff dangling from one hand. She gazed out at the flooded street. “Rain, rain, go away,” she murmured. “Don’t come again until Lady Day.”

Christine set a hand at Kate’s waist, ushering her to a table in the corner. “It always rains in London in February. One of the hazards of returning to town before the spring.” She glanced back at her lady’s maid. “Plum? Go to the livery stable and tell Driscoll to bring the carriage round. He may collect us in half an hour.”

“Yes, Miss Mattingly.” Plum bobbed a curtsy before hurrying out into the storm, armed with a sturdy black umbrella.

The sky had been clear enough when Kate and Christine had left the Mattinglys’ townhouse this morning for a final fitting on their ball gowns, but the moment they’d emerged from the modiste’s shop in Bruton Street, the heavens had opened up. Ducking into the confectioner’s for a hot cup of tea and a warm bun while they awaited the carriage had been Christine’s idea.

“It always rains in London full stop.” Kate sat down at the table. “At least in the country, one can be out of doors in the mud and muck. Here, we’re obliged to remain inside, perfectly tidy at all times.”

Christine joined her. “I thought you enjoyed the elegance of town life.”

“I do,” Kate said. “But things were just starting to get interesting in the country.”

Christine’s lips thinned. “With Lieutenant Heywood, I presume.”

Kate remained silent while the shop’s proprietor served them a pot of tea and a plate of currant buns. On returning to London, she’d confided in Christine about her various encounters with Charles in Somersetshire, sharing all the details of what proved to be the beginning of Kate’s first serious romance.

Well…perhaps not all the details.

Kate had left out the bit about her pretending to be Charles’s wife in Devonshire. And she’d refrained from sharing anything to do with the kiss she and Charles had shared at Beasley Park. Some things were too private to share, even with one’s dearest friends.

“Why must you sound so disapproving whenever you mention him?” Kate asked when she and Christine were alone again.

“How can I sound otherwise?” Christine poured out their tea. “He made a less than favorable impression on our first meeting.”

“That’s long past.”

“It was less than two months ago.”

“Yes, quite so. An absolute age.” Kate took a bite of her currant bun. “He improves greatly on acquaintance. You’ll see for yourself when he arrives.”

Christine refrained from replying as she sipped her tea. Her silence spoke volumes.

“He is coming,” Kate said.

Christine lowered her teacup. “Did he say he would?”

“No. Not in so many words. But—”

“Then you can’t know.”

“I know,” Kate said firmly.

She hoped, anyway.

What was the point of it otherwise? Of attending Lady Chesham’s ball on Wednesday? Of wearing her spectacular new silver-blue silk gauze ball gown? Kate was no longer looking for a suitable gentleman to wed. She’d already found one. No other man could compare.

She prayed she hadn’t put Charles off by issuing what was, undeniably, an ultimatum. Goodness, she’d told him it was his turn to pursue her! It had seemed a good idea at the time. But now…

Here she was in London, waiting on him to act instead of acting herself. An uneasy state of affairs. She wasn’t accustomed to doing nothing.

“Even if he does come,” Christine said, “it doesn’t follow that he’ll attend the ball. Invitations were sent weeks ago and Lady Chesham wasn’t inclined to hand them out to just anybody.”