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Catherine Tatton. Her Diary. 1809.
That was her name and for the first time it felt real, as though it belonged to her. This was the diary she had been given by her godmother for the Christmas before she made her come-out and the others had arrived every year since.
Rose piled the volumes on her writing desk, set the room to rights and rang for her maid.
Jane came in and began to gather up her discarded bonnet, gloves and parasol. ‘Was there anything else, Miss Catherine?’
‘Should my mother enquire, please tell her I am reading quietly in my room.’ With any luck, given that it was Sunday, her mother would assume she was perusing the book of sermons she had left rather obviously on top of the dresser the day before. ‘I will take a light luncheon on a tray, here.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Jane draped the pelisse over her arm. ‘I’ll tell the kitchen.’
As soon as she was alone Rose took the first volume and curled up in the armchair. There were the details of six years of her life to restore. Perhaps when she had reached the end she would know what had made her the woman who had so recklessly run away with Gerald, the woman who found it so difficult to trust even the man she was almost certain she loved.
*
‘Ah, there you are.’ Lady Thetford looked up from her embroidery as Rose entered the drawing room. ‘That is a pretty gown, I knew I was right about the floss trim at the hem.’ She regarded the evening dress with approval. ‘Your papa will be down shortly. And how was your walk with Major Flint this morning?’
‘It was very pleasant, Mama. We met a number of ladies of our acquaintance.’ And two of his. She found her own sewing box and took out the handkerchief she had been decorating with a monogram. She had gon
e to the box without having to think about it, another sign that her memory was returning, and bending over the intricate white work was as good a way to shield her face and her emotions as any.
‘And so did we.’ Lady Thetford held up several strands of pink silk to the light and regarded them dubiously. ‘The salmon or the blush pink? The blush, I think. What was I saying? Ah, yes. I had several useful encounters and have three invitations to show for it.
‘Lady Hemmingford is holding a small soirée tomorrow night and invites all of us, including the major. She says it is quite impromptu as she was seeing who was in town first. Then Mrs Grace tells me that the dinner party she had invited us to several weeks ago is still to go ahead. She has had to revise the table somewhat as her nephew was injured, but that means she can fit in the major. And Lady Anderson is having an afternoon tea party in her garden on Thursday, provided the weather holds. And of course I secured an invitation for Major Flint.’
‘Thank you, Mama.’ A pinprick of blood welled up on her finger. How had that happened? ‘Everyone we met was friendly. It seems no one suspects anything even though I have not been seen for several days.’
‘Such a relief. Are you still feeling very low about all of this, Catherine, dear? I think I may become resigned to your major, you know. His behaviour and appearance this morning were beyond reproach and your papa has told me he is impressed with his straightforward manner.’ She threaded her needle with bright green and began to attack a pattern of trailing vines.
‘His birth is highly regrettable, naturally, but then, if you will go refusing a succession of perfectly eligible gentlemen, Season after Season, and crown it all by running off with a penniless lieutenant, we must be grateful for a good-looking man with manners and money in the funds.’
‘Funds?’ Adam had no money, surely? He seemed to have his uniform, half a dozen shirts, a horse and dog to his name.
‘Of course he has, dearest. And letters from his bankers to prove it. I must admit that was when I began to think more positively of him, for I can acquit him of fortune hunting. Your papa says he seems to have simply saved everything he has earned for years and invested it very wisely. Which is particularly gratifying because it does demonstrate that he is not given to expensive vices like gaming or…er…’
‘Loose women?’ Rose enquired. Adam didn’t need to pay for them, it seemed—they lined up for admission to his bed.
‘Really, dear! A lady does not acknowledge such creatures. We have discussed that before.’
‘How is one to know whether a prospective husband indulges in vice in that case?’ Other than overhearing him bragging to his friends. That was what had saved her from her first mistake when, halfway through her debut Season, she had found herself outside the library door at a ball and heard Lord Philip Weston informing his brother that not only had he found himself a well-bred heiress, but the silly little peahen believed herself in love with him.
The peahen in question had cried herself to sleep for a week and then cut Lord Philip dead when she next encountered him. The diary had charted the heartache of a wiser and more cautious Miss Tatton. Handsome young lords were obviously not to be trusted, but older, more sober gentlemen could not be so two-faced, surely? The Earl of Harwich had seemed perfect. His respectful courtship, his manly declaration of love, his respectable way of life all convinced her that she was safe to give him her heart. It was his—until her best friend Miss Winstanley whispered that there had been the most terrible scene outside White’s the night before when the discarded, pregnant mistress of the earl had waylaid him on the steps and demanded he provide for the babe.
And so it continued for Season after Season. Miss Tatton learned to investigate her suitors with great care and all of them proved to have feet of clay in one way or another. They harassed female servants at house parties, they gambled excessively, they were cruel to their horses or they lied about their wealth. Her judgement of men was obviously completely awry, she had confided to her diary on the third of March last year. Either she could not bring herself to trust or she could not fall in love with the right man.
Love was important, Rose thought now. Mutual love, or how could men resist the lures of other women? Even honourable men seemed to find it acceptable to keep mistresses. It was an impossible situation, she pondered, sucking her sore fingertip. If she allowed herself to love and was betrayed, then her heart would be broken and she would be tied to the man who broke it. If she made a marriage without love then she might as well resign herself to betrayal from the start. Adam would never deliberately hurt her, she was certain, but it would be a cold thing to marry a husband you loved but who did not love you.
When she had cautiously probed the subject with Mama months ago she had been told merely that a lady did not even think about husbands straying. Such things were below her notice and one ignored them as loftily as one did when one’s carriage horse passed water in the middle of Rotten Row.
That had chilled her. What if Papa…? she had begun in her diary that night and then hastily crossed it through. Every man who courted her had some flaw in his character which meant she could not give him her respect, let alone her heart. In March she had begun to worry that the fault lay with her. Was she attractive only to fortune hunters or cynical rakes? Or was she, in turn, only attracted to that sort of man?
Which was why, she now realised, she had talked herself into love with Gerald. He was good-looking, he was kind and, as an officer, he was surely courageous. He was not, she confided in her diary, exactly intellectual. But then a kind heart was far better than a cutting wit. Even her most exacting enquiries had revealed nothing to his discredit and perilously eavesdropping outside the billiards room at a party had caught him confessing to nothing more wicked than attending a prize fight.
It had been a shock when Papa had refused his suit on her behalf, but to Gerald’s credit he had not suggested the elopement. That had been her idea.
‘Why are you moping?’ Mama demanded, jerking her back to the present.
‘Am I?’ She supposed she was. Reading six years of romantic disillusionment in one sitting was enough to make one positively blue deviled. But at least she now knew what her instincts had been trying to tell her. She was a dreadful judge of men. ‘I was thinking about poor Gerald.’ The anxiety that she had used him for her own purposes was weighing on her conscience. Was she no better than the men she despised for deceiving her?
