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Chapter Seven
So foul and fair a day I have notseen.
—Shakespeare,Macbeth
Nicholas handed thereins of both horses to the stable boy, then he and Catherine walked slowly along the path to the house. Content in their silence, they’d no need for words. Their bodies had spoken for them at the folly. Her hand comfortably enclosed in his, two had become one. There was no going back. Their joining was for life. He was not sure he’d ever known such satisfaction.
Woodfield Park came into view. In many a horrific moment on the battlefield, he’d thought he’d never see it again. He certainly had not thought he’d return to it as heir. He’d left to make a better life for Catherine, to become someone worthy of her admiration. He had sold his commission at a commendable profit, but it paled in comparison to his father’s wealth. Wealth that would someday become his. The thought was so bittersweet he fought the weight of guilty melancholy. He’d not asked for this. All he desired stood right beside him, and he would never lose sight of that.
Stone crunched beneath his feet as they left the grassy path and stepped onto the drive. Catherine gripped his hand tighter, her tension suddenly palpable, although she did not say a word. She hesitated when they reached the front steps. As she stood in the shade of the great archway, her body was brittle with resistance. Was that panic in her eyes? Ridiculous. They’d grown up together. She had run these halls in her youth, as wild a firebrand as their brothers.
“Come my, love,” he cajoled. “He barks, but he does not actually bite.”
“Oh, he bites. Make no mistake. He wounds severely with those jowls.”
He squeezed her hand in encouragement. What was this? She’d never feared his father before.
“Come. I would have you with me when I tell him our good news.”
“No, I leave it to you to enter the lion’s den.” She raised his gloveless hand to her mouth, kissing him with utmost chivalry. “I will go tell Daniel. He’ll whoop in celebration. I should like to hear it echo off those old stone walls.”
What could he say to that? He watched her leave the sweep and disappear from view. She had loved Daniel too. He sent a small prayer of thanks skyward, grateful Daniel had had someone who loved him these last few years, someone to mourn him when he’d passed from this life.
He took the stairs, shrugging off the draping gloom with each step. He’d dreamed of this day for years, enacted it in his mind during the long, interminable weeks of waiting, during the endless nights and the excruciating days of digging trenches that would, in the end, hold their dead. Today was about living. Today his life began anew.
Fredericks opened the door as he reached it, but Nicholas had nothing to hand him. He’d not worn gloves nor hat nor jacket. He’d never dressed shabbier on the home front, and yet Catherine did not seem to mind at all. He grinned. Fredericks beamed back. The old dog. He’d seen her. Them. Together. What a champion for love was their Fredericks! He clapped the old man on the shoulder.
“You have seen your new mistress in your spying, have you?” His laughter resounded in the vast marble chamber, and the sound further buoyed his spirits.
“A man could not wish for better,” Fredericks responded.
Was he speaking metaphorically, personally, or directly to Nicholas? What did it matter? Nicholas was in perfect accord.
“Father?” he asked.
“In the breakfast room, my lord.”
Nicholas headed past the first column, turning left down into the corridor. He passed the dining and billiards rooms, took a deep breath, and entered the next door. His father sat at the foot of the table, staring toward the window. Nicholas glanced in that direction. Catherine’s gown flitted between trees on the path to the family cemetery.
“Father,” he acknowledged before waving out the attending footmen and moving to the sideboard to fill his plate. The roll top of the silver server slid smoothly back. He dug into the mountain of bacon, shoveling a pile on his plate, and grabbed some rolls. Their fresh scent incited an anticipatory rumbling in his stomach. Beneath another lid, he discovered smoked herring. He could not remember the last time he’d enjoyed such a feast at this hour. He scooped a small bowl of marmalade from the tiered dumbwaiter and headed to the table. It seemed he had worked up an appetite.
“Wipe that grin off your face, lad. You are no pimpled youth in the bloom of first love. You cannot choose the first chit who crosses your path.”
The verbal slap smarted as much as any physical one Nicholas had ever received from the man. “You are out of bounds, sir!” Nicholas slammed his plate on the table. He was not about to stay and let him denigrate Catherine.
His father merely gestured in dismissal. “Sit down. Sit down, boy, and eat.”
Nicholas stared at the mound of food, his appetite deserting him.
“Surely an old man’s words are not so distressing that you are unable to enjoy a meal?” His father tore at a roll and returned his attention back to his own plate.
Nicholas pulled out the chair with reluctance and sat down, a glimpse out the window showing no further movement. Catherine must be at the graveyard. What did it matter what his father said? His life was waiting. Waiting for him up on that hill.
He speared a piece of herring, chewing ferociously, taking out his frustration on the dead fish. His father said nothing as he worked aggressively through the entire plate. When he was finished, he placed his napkin on the table and swiveled to face his sire. It was best to be done with it, regardless of the old man’s opinion.
“Catherine has agreed to be my wife.”
His father patted his lips and laid the linen to the side. “It has been four years,” his father began, but Nicholas cut him off.
