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Chapter Eighteen
She’s gone. I am abused; and my relief must be to loathe her. O curse ofmarriage.
—Shakespeare,Othello
It was atwo-hour ride to Sophia’s estate. Catherine had told Fredericks she might not return this afternoon and not to worry. It was not unusual for her to spend several days with Sophia, so the countess would not be entirely surprised to see her even though Catherine had not taken the time to send word she would be coming. After last night, there was no reason to hurry back to Woodfield Park.
She watched the countryside roll by. It was her favorite time of year, the greens ripe in a quilt of harmony. When had she last felt accord? The child in her had hoped her father’s demand would pull Nicholas in line, that he would realize he was integral to a larger family and would do his part. He adored her father, so she’d hoped that might tip the scales in her favor. She’d been angry when she’d challenged him, but when he’d risen to the occasion, she’d foolishly believed he’d wanted her and craved her as much as she longed for him. His abrupt departure had dispelled that illusion. She had been left reeling, bereft, and abandoned.
She could make no sense of it. How could he want her one moment, then discard her the next? Sophia was a woman of the world and might be able to shed light on the matter. Catherine so needed guidance in this. She also owed Sophia some truth. About last night. And about Daniel. She had lied to her through omission. Things had spiraled quickly out of control in those weeks before Daniel’s death. There’d been no time. In truth, she wasn’t sure she would have shared with Sophia even if she’d been nearby. It had been all such a mess she wouldn’t have known where to start.
She blew out a long breath and turned from the window. It seemed so cloak-and-dagger in retrospect, almost dirty. No, never dirty. Love, true love, was never dirty. And there was no doubt Daniel’s love was the truest kind.
The clanging of the wheels shifted to a more muted clunking rhythm as the carriage slowed to a halt. Catherine adjusted her hat and smoothed her skirt, suddenly unsure this was a wise idea. Perhaps her secrets should remain that. The footman opened the door and helped her to the ground. She stared up at Château Nouveau, renamed by Sophia from its original staid English name to the more optimistic French one. Its majestic stairs wound in invitation.
“Leave my valise,” Catherine said to the footman, speaking with a confidence she did not feel. “You may return to Woodfield. Countess Tessaro will see me safely back.”
The driver and footman tipped their hats as a trill filled the air. “Amica bella!”
All doubt evaporated, and Catherine grinned at the exotic specter on the landing. Swathed in crimson, her dress and her hair flowing in the wind, she held out her arms in welcome. Sophia was stunning, and her warmth was irresistible. Grabbing her skirt, Catherine quickly climbed the stairs. Breathless when she reached the top, she gratefully accepted Sophia’s embrace, hugging back with equal vigor. Catherine had grown up with men. Sophia had introduced her to the purity of a woman’s love and the security of a true friend’s support. Support she dearly needed now more than ever.
Sophia grabbed Catherine’s arms, holding her at arms’ length, staring intensely. “Amica bella. You have much to share, no?” She kissed each cheek, then pulled her to the door. “Do give me a moment.”
Sophia disappeared into the drawing room, closing the door behind her. Antsy, Catherine strolled around the large foyer, admiring the collection of paintings that were as bright and vibrant as Sophia herself. Many were portraits, but Sophia said that none were of family, that those remained in her family home in Italy. These had been selected solely because of their beauty, although she claimed to have befriended each and every one of the subjects…in her imagination. Catherine had loved that. It had somehow made talking to the stuffed heads at home seem more charmingly eccentric.
The drawing room door opened, and Catherine caught a glimpse of a man she didn’t recognize, before Sophia closed it.
“I’m sorry, Sophia.” Heat rushed to Catherine’s face. She hadn’t even considered that Sophia might be entertaining. Catherine was aware Sophia had a reputation as a widow who did what she wanted, but Catherine had never actually seen her with a man. As a safeguard to her own reputation, Catherine never attended Sophia’s renowned socials, and Sophia was always alone when Catherine visited. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Sophia waved her off dismissively. “You have interrupted nothing,bella. Simply some business that can wait.” She hooked her arm in Catherine’s. “Come.”
They ascended another set of stairs to Sophia’s private suite. The inner sanctum, she always jokingly referred to it. Catherine knew it was Sophia’s private quarters and few crossed its threshold.
Settling on the sofa, Sophia patted the seat in invitation, and Catherine sank onto the plush tapestry. Before either could speak, a tap at the door signaled the arrival of refreshments. She had only been here a few minutes, and the servants were prepared. Sophia was a marvel of hospitality. Or had Catherine interrupted more than a business meeting down below? No matter; she was grateful Sophia didn’t seem to mind. Catherine needed her too much right now to graciously return to Woodfield Park.
Sophia poured them each tea from the steaming silver pot. The warmth was a comfort, bracing in its familiarity. Sophia sipped, eyeing Catherine over the cup but saying not a word. Catherine squirmed uncomfortably. Now was the time, but how much should she, could she, share?
“Last night’s dinner was…interesting,” Sophia said with the raise of an eyebrow before taking another sip.
Interesting? Catherine could not imagine what it must have looked like to their guests, never mind to someone who had received a covert invitation from her father.
“I didn’t mean to exclude you.” She had refused to invite Sophia because Sophia was too genuine for such a charade. How could Catherine tell her that without fully betraying the farce that was now her life? Yet wasn’t that why she’d come?
Sophia waved away Catherine’s excuse. “Amica bella, there are no apologies between friends. Only honesty.”
Catherine cringed. Sophia may be Catherine’s only friend now, but she was a good one. She had pulled Catherine from her lonely world and pointed her toward her future, shopping and laughing, and had encouraged her to dream. Sophia had also held Catherine’s hand when fear for Nicholas had grown dark and the wait had become agonizingly long. Did Catherine really wish to lie to her?
“I didn’t want you to be witness to the masquerade. To my sham of a marriage,” Catherine said.
Sophia contemplated her as she set down her cup. Then she grabbed Catherine’s hand and held it tightly. “No,mia amica. No fraud exists.” She squeezed, then released Catherine’s hand before heading to the sideboard and pouring small amounts of wine from a barrel-shaped crystal decanter. Sophia returned and gave a glass to Catherine.
“Salute.” Sophia raised her glass before taking a sip.
Catherine stared at the ruddy liquid. Blood had been shed on both sides of the continent. Metaphorically and physically. She felt that hers was seeping slowly from her body. She took a too-large drink of the Madeira. Sweetness clogged her throat, but she managed to swallow. It instantly soured in her stomach.
“No charade, my friend, despite what you may have to tell me. He loves you. That truth is clear. He’s confused, but he loves you.”
Catherine’s eyes burned. Oh, how she wanted to believe that.
