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Chapter Fifteen
Things without all remedy should be without regard: what’s done isdone.
—Shakespeare,Macbeth
Catherine took thelaneway to the gatehouse. It was shorter to go via the stables and around the larger of the two lakes, but she wanted no reminders of that day at the folly. She’d thought she would treasure the memory forever, but instead it taunted her with what could have been—what should have been.
No one was around as she turned from the gatehouse onto the path that led through the woods. She had spent more of her youth among its flora than she’d ever spent behind the walls of Stratton Hall, chasing the three boys endlessly and always fighting to join in their games. Sometimes they would allow it. Sometimes she’d spent her days trying to seek them out. Either way, she had loved being outside, adored the smell of fresh air and the crunch beneath her feet.
She kicked at the ground and loosened some pebbles, sorting through them quickly before deciding which one to take. Reaching the small lake, she took the footbridge, pausing to stare at the trout. The earl kept the water well stocked. When she’d first realized she loved Nicholas, she would come and sit beside him for hours while he fished. He would say little, but it hadn’t mattered. In the throes of love, she’d been content to just sit and stare at him. Daniel and Laurence would inevitably show up and ruin her romantic idyll.
It was tradition to pick up a stone on the path and toss it into the lake with a wish. She fisted the one she’d snagged and held it close to her lips. “This is for you, Laurence. It may be too late for the rest of us, but you have a fresh start. May love find you again,” she whispered, then kissed her fingers before throwing the stone into the lake, watching the ripples, imagining them undulating until they reached Laurence. Wherever he was.
She dawdled, not quite ready for another confrontation. Lovely crimson dianthuses were in full bloom, and she picked some, tempering the royal display with a spray of the gentler version, Sweet William. She loved to see vases throughout Stratton Hall. They brought a joy to the dark rooms. Finally, emerging from the woods, she stared at her old home.
Stratton’s architecture may have dictated gloom, but only love and laughter filled its halls. It was a stark contrast to Woodfield Park, built to let in sunshine but mired in darkness. She had always hoped she and Nicholas would find a place of their own, something that reflected their abiding love. She grunted at the thought. She was here to speak with her father about the dinner gathering, to ensure it got canceled. Abiding love indeed.
The door opened before she reached the threshold.
“Miss Baring!” Edwards beamed, his dark eyes twinkling whiskey in the sunlight.
“Lady Walford now,” she teased, patting his arm and handing him the flowers as she strode by.
“Ah, yes, I do apologize.”
“No need to, Edwards. I am not used to it myself.” She pulled sharply at her ribbon, released the bow, and tossed the hat on the table. “Do you hang about the door, waiting for new arrivals now?”
He laughed. “I was about to take in a breath of fresh air on the steps.”
“Is Papa about?”
“He’s in the library.” He took her shawl. “I will let him know you are here.”
While she would not normally hesitate to intrude on his privacy, she no longer lived here, and he would not be expecting her. She had no doubt of her welcome, but the man deserved warning. She walked over to the buck mounted on the wall.
“Well, old man. What think you of all this? You warned me to be careful of what I wished for.”
“Still talking to stuffed animals?” Her father stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk on his face.
“Quite frankly, I find it far easier than talking to some men.”
He laughed and held out his hand. “Come, kitten. Sit with me and have some tea. Let us pretend you are ten once again and that your father knows everything.”
They each took a chair by the empty fireplace. It was a fair day, and though the hall remained damp throughout the year, her father was always hesitant to waste. Yet if she were in residence, he would have a small fire burning for her comfort because she would inevitably curl up and read in this chair.
As they waited for tea, her father talked of his trip to Worcestershire, regaling her with tales of his friends’ follies. She laughed until she cried. And once started, she could not seem to stop.
Her father leaned forward in his chair. “Kitten?”
“Sir?”
She lifted her head as her father waved Edwards away. Her father rose, gave her his handkerchief, then returned to his chair. Eventually the tumult slowed.
She crumpled the cloth in her hands, holding it toward him. “It seems I am forever soiling your handkerchief.”
Leaning forward, he folded her hand over the cloth. “You keep that. In case I am not around when you need it next.” He squeezed her fist. “Although, I will always be here. Know that.”
She sat back against the stuffed chair. “Papa, there is to be a dinner.”
