Indiscreet (12 page)

“Good morning,” she said, following her visitor into the parlor. Though it must be close to noon or even past, she thought. “Oh, Toby, do hush.”

“Get rid of that dog,” Mrs. Adams commanded above the din.

Catherine resented the tone of voice when she was in her own home, and so was Toby, but it was a good idea nonetheless. She led the terrier to the back door, and he raced outside, his indignation immediately forgotten.

Mrs. Adams was standing in the middle of the parlor, facing the door.

“Slut!” she said coldly when Catherine reappeared.

Catherine did not pretend to misunderstand. Her heart began an uncomfortable hammering and there was a buzzing in her head that she hoped was not the harbinger of a fainting fit. She lifted her chin and clasped her hands in front of her.

“Ma'am?” she said calmly.

“Do you add deafness to your other vices?” her guest asked. “You heard me, Mrs. Winters. You are a slut and a whore and you will be out of this house by the end of next week. And out of this village. You have been tolerated here for too long. There is no further room for you among respectable people. I trust I have made myself clear.”

They had been seen, then. Someone had observed them leaving the house together. He had had his arm and his cloak about her. Her mind reached for an explanation to give. But her mind would not work as she willed it to do. Anger rescued her from abject muteness, however.

“No,” she said at last, hearing with some surprise the calmness of her voice. “Of what exactly do I stand accused, ma'am?”

Her visitor's eyes narrowed. “I do not intend to stand here conversing with you,” she said. “I shall get straight to the point by telling you that Lord Rawleigh was seen leaving this house—
this
darkened
house—late last night. And that I myself have observed for the past two weeks your seductive wiles in his presence.”

“I see,” Catherine said. She felt almost like two persons. One of them was mindless with shock. The other was coldly thinking and speaking. “And have you banished Viscount Rawleigh from your home and this village too, ma'am?”

Mrs. Adams's bosom heaved and her nostrils flared. “Mrs. Winters,” she said, ice dripping from every word, “you are impertinent. You have a week during which to leave this house and neighborhood. Be thankful for such mercy. Do not try my patience to the limit. If you are still here at the end of next week, you may expect a visit from a constable and a meeting with a magistrate. Stand aside from the door. I would deplore having to brush against you as I leave.”

Catherine turned and walked to the back door. Even though Toby was sitting there, waiting patiently to be let in, she did not give him a chance to come inside. She stepped out to the garden and closed the door behind her. He stood up, eagerly wagging his tail, and was rewarded when she strode down across the lawn to the river's edge. He frisked along happily beside her.

She tried not to think. She tried not to feel.

Impossible, of course.

He had been seen last night. Coming from her house. And whoever had done the seeing had jumped to what she supposed was the obvious conclusion. It had almost been the correct conclusion. She had been called a slut and a whore.

Not for the first time.

How could this be happening to her again? She had tried so hard.

She had convinced herself during the past five years that what had happened the other time had not been her fault, that someone else had been to blame. But it must have been her fault. This must be her fault. There must be something intrinsically evil in her.

She had been told to leave. This cottage and this village. She had to go. Within the week.

She went down on her knees beside the water suddenly and gripped the long grass on the bank with both hands. Almost as if she would fall off the world if she did not hold tight.

She opened her mouth in order to breathe more easily. She was panting.

She could not leave. It had been the one condition. . . .

What would she do?

Where would she go?

She would be destitute.

Oh, God, oh, God. She bent her head and prayed desperately. But she could not get beyond the two pleading words.

Oh, God.

•   •   •

CATHERINE
forced herself somehow to go out during the afternoon to make her visits. If she stayed at home, she would surely go mad, she thought.

Mr. Clarkwell was unwell, his daughter-in-law reported, standing with the door half-opened, her face flushed, her eyes darting
everywhere except to Catherine's own. He was too poorly for visitors.

There was no answer at the Symonses' house, though the washing on the line and the curl of smoke coming from the chimney indicated that there was someone at home. Besides, elderly Mrs. Symons never went out.

Catherine did not try the third house. She went back home. She was too weary to take Toby for a walk, though he looked hopeful when she came through the door.

She was too weary even to set the kettle to boil. She slumped down in the rocker and shivered, her arms wrapped about herself.

They knew. Everybody knew. Or thought they knew. She had passed two people with whom she was acquainted on the walk home. Both had averted their faces.

There was a knock on the door.

She sat for a while with closed eyes. Perhaps whoever it was would go away. It could not be a friend. It seemed very likely that she had no friends left. If it was
him
 . . . But she did not believe he would come here today, not now that everyone knew. Not that anyone would condemn him, of course. He would be seen merely as a gentleman appeasing very natural appetites. If it was . . .

The knock was repeated, louder, more imperiously. Toby, thank heaven, was outside and was not barking. She got to her feet. Why hide? Why care about anything any longer?

It was the Reverend Lovering. She almost sighed aloud with relief. Here surely was some small measure of comfort. He and Mrs. Lovering had always been her friends.

“Reverend.” She tried to smile. “Do come in.”

“I will not cross this threshold,” he said with quiet solemnity. “It is my duty to inform you, Mrs. Winters, that fornicators and sinners are not welcome to worship with the righteous in the church of which I have been accorded the honor of being pastor. I deeply regret having to make this visit. But I never shirk what I consider my duty.”

She found herself smiling. “No fornicators or sinners,” she said. “Who is left to attend church, then, sir?”

He regarded her sternly. “Levity is not appropriate to the gravity of the circumstances, ma'am,” he said.

“So you believe the story too?” she said. “You are here to cast your stone along with everyone else?”

“Ma'am,” he said, his expression unchanged, “I believe the evidence of my own eyes. I
saw
his lordship leaving here last night. One cannot blame him, of course. Any man who is caught in the snare of a Jezebel is to be pitied rather than censured. His lordship has seen the error of his ways and has left Bodley House.”

“Good day, Reverend,” she said, and closed the door.

She stood with her back to it for many long minutes, shaking, from her head to her feet. She found herself quite unable to move. At last she managed to crouch down on the floor. But she stayed where she was for many minutes longer. Toby was scratching on the back door. She ignored him. She had to. There was no getting to him.

•   •   •

DAPHNE
had heard during a visit to the village and a call she had made on Mrs. Downes. She did not appear at luncheon. It was a gloomy affair, Claude found. Everyone seemed to be out of sorts, most noticeably Clarissa, who was doubtless punishing him for some of his unwise words of the morning.

But Daphne found him immediately after luncheon and told him. Told him about the stories that had been spreading like wildfire in the village during the morning. Told him about the Reverend Lovering's call at Bodley. Told him about Clarissa's visit to the village.

“Can it be true, Claude?” she asked, looking at him unhappily. “I know that Rex admired her. I encouraged him. I did not dream that his intentions might be dishonorable. Clayton often calls me a dangerous innocent. Is it possible that they were having an a-affair?”

He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “If they were,” he said, “I cannot see that it is any of our business, Daph. But I know that is not the common view. And if they were and were indiscreet enough to allow themselves to be discovered, then it was Rex's fault. Entirely. It was his business to protect her reputation. And
he
was the one to be seen last night? Damn him! Pardon me, Daph.” He clenched his hands. “And I had to be from home this morning!”

“Why would he leave if they were in the middle of an affair?” she asked.

“I don't know, Daph.” He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. “What a damnable mess. Well, one thing is clear. He is going to have to be sent for. She cannot be left to face this scandal
alone. Clarissa called on her, you say? I had better find out from her what was said. Do you mind, Daph?”

“No,” she said. “I will send her to you, Claude.”

He sat down at the library desk while he waited and rested his head in his hands. Damn Rex. Damn him!

Clarissa came. She looked at his face and her own became triumphant.

“I see that you have found out,” she said. “Now perhaps you will admit that I was right, Claude.”

“Exactly what did the Reverend Lovering tell you this morning?” he asked.

“That he saw Rawleigh come from Mrs. Winters's darkened cottage late last night,” she said. “It is obvious what was going on, Claude.”

“To you, maybe,” he said. “If it is any of your business.”

“If—” She bristled immediately, but he held up a staying hand.

“You called upon Mrs. Winters?” he said. “For what reason, Clarissa?”

“Why, to order her to leave the cottage and the village by the end of next week,” she said. “We cannot have a whore living so close, Claude. We have children to bring up.”

He leaned across the desk with ashen face. “You
what
?” he said. But he held up his hand again before she could speak. “No, I heard. On what authority did you do this?”

She looked somewhat taken aback. “You were from home,” she said. “It was something that had to be done without delay.”

“It was something you have been itching to do for a long while,” he said, not even trying to hide the anger from his voice.
“And finally you saw your chance and took it while I was from home and could not stop you.”

“It had to be done,” she said. “The Reverend Lovering agreed with me.”

“Did he indeed?” He strode around the desk to stand close to her. She looked at him with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty. “Clarissa, I am very displeased with you.”

“You cannot believe ill of her, can you?” she cried. “Just because she is a beautiful woman.”

“I am very displeased with you, madam,” he said again, slowly and distinctly. “You are a spiteful, vicious meddler. Somehow I am going to have to smooth this thing over. I do not know quite how. You have made it extremely difficult. But you will certainly do no further harm. You will remain in this house until further notice from me. And yes, that is an order.”

“Claude!” She was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. Her voice was shaking. “How dare you talk to your own wife like this?”

“I dare because you
are
my wife, madam,” he said. “When you married me, you vowed to obey me. I have never called on you for obedience before. Now I insist upon it. I have a letter to write and then a visit to pay. You will leave me.”

She opened her mouth to speak, shut it again with an audible click of teeth, and hurried from the room.

T
HERE
were two more knocks on Catherine's door that day. She was too deeply in shock, too stunned, too lethargic to keep from answering. Besides, humiliation, rejection could not be more complete than they already were.

Even so, she cringed when she saw Miss Downes outside the door. She had liked Miss Downes of all people in the village or neighborhood. But of course, the lady was the daughter of a former rector, a middle-aged spinster pillar of the community.

“You do not need to say it,” Catherine said, holding up a hand. “I believe it has all been said by others. Good day, Miss Downes.” She half closed the door again although Toby was outside, snuffling at their visitor's hem. He liked Miss Downes. She always fed him corners of her cakes and biscuits when she came to tea—with apologies to Catherine for wasting delicious food.

“No, please.” Miss Downes in her turn held a staying hand. Her face looked pale and pinched. Her jaw looked rather like granite. “May I come in?”

“Why not?” Catherine opened the door wider and left it to walk back into the kitchen.

Miss Downes followed her and stood resolutely in the doorway while Catherine poked at the fire.

“I do not know the truth of the matter,” Miss Downes said. “I do not want to know and do not need to know. It is none of my business. But the truth of my religion
is
my business. Papa always taught me that it was my personal business, that I should not let even a minister of religion, even Papa himself, speak for me when what he has to say is against the truth as I know it. The truth as I know it, the truth as Mother and Papa always taught it, is that the church is for sinners. Not for anyone else. Just for sinners. Being a sinner is one's membership certificate in the church—that was Papa's little joke. I am a member of the church, Mrs. Winters. I let that fact speak for itself.”

Catherine set down the poker quietly and sat on the rocker, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She stared into the fire.

“Mother and I do not condemn you, dear,” Miss Downes said, her voice breathless now that her prepared speech had been delivered. “No matter what you have done—or not done. We do not need to know. It is your affair.” She flushed scarlet. “That is, it is your
concern
.”

“I am a member of the church too,” Catherine said. “But I am not guilty of this particular sin, Miss Downes.”

“As I said to Mother,” Miss Downes said, “and as she said to
me. We were in perfect agreement. Mrs. Winters is a
lady
, we said to each other. But you did not need to say it, dear. I did not need to know. I did not come to pry. I merely thought—and Mother thought—that you might like a little chat and a nice cup of tea. Oh, goodness me, it looks as if you have been baking for an army.” Her eyes had alighted on the table and all the cakes that were to have been delivered to the elderly.

Catherine set her head back and closed her eyes. “I cannot express the extent of my gratitude for your kindness, Miss Downes,” she said. “But you must not stay. You were probably seen coming here. If you stay, and it is suspected that you are actually
visiting
me, you may find yourself without friends too.”

Miss Downes crossed the room to the fire, lifted the lid of the kettle to check the water level inside, and set the kettle to boil. It was something she would normally have been far too well-bred to do in someone else's house even if she had been parched with thirst. She looked about her for the teapot and the tea caddy.

“We must always follow our own truth, Papa said.” Miss Downes ladled a generous helping of tea into the teapot. “If others choose not to follow the same truth, then they are merely exercising the free will our Lord in his wisdom gave all of us. I can only do what is right in my eyes, Mrs. Winters. How others act is their concern. You made some currant cakes, I see. Yours are always more delicious than anyone else's I know. Even Mother's, though I would never say so in her hearing to hurt her. Shall I set some on a plate for us?”

Catherine opened her eyes at last and nodded. “For you,” she said. “I am not hungry.”

Miss Downes eyed her critically. “You have not eaten all day, have you?” she said. “I shall cut one up for you, Mrs. Winters, in bite-sized pieces. Like this, you see?” She had found a knife and proceeded to carve one small currant cake into smaller wedges. “This is what I do for Mother when she is off her food. There, dear.” She handed the plate to Catherine.

Every bite tasted like straw. Every swallow was a major undertaking. But out of gratitude for kindness and unconditional love she persevered. By the time she had finished, there was a cup of strong, sweet tea at her elbow. It was a long time since she had been waited on in her own home.

Despite the breaches of etiquette that Miss Downes had deemed necessary, she stayed only the half hour that was polite for an afternoon call. Catherine followed her into the hall.

“I shall call again tomorrow after church,” Miss Downes said. “Yes, I will go to church. I will not punish God because my truth does not coincide with the rector's. Oh, Mrs. Winters, Mother and I had great difficulty being properly civil to Mrs. Lovering when she called on us earlier. Great difficulty, indeed, though I believe we succeeded. There is no excuse for discourtesy to others, is there, especially when they are guests in one's own home.”

“Miss Downes.” Catherine had spoken scarcely more than a dozen words throughout the visit, though there had been not a moment of silence. “Thank you. I wish there were words more expressive of how I feel.”

Miss Downes, thin, shapeless, ramrod straight in posture, severe of expression, was not the type of person one normally felt
the urge to hug. But before she opened the door, Catherine did just that.

“Well, goodness me,” Miss Downes said, flustered. “I just hope the tea was not too strong for you, dear. It is how Mother likes it, you know, though I prefer it a little weaker myself. And I remembered after putting two spoonfuls of sugar in your tea that you usually take just one.”

Catherine stood at the open door for a short while, watching Miss Downes stride purposefully along the street. There were a few other people out at some distance from the cottage. There were probably others looking out of windows.

Miss Agatha Downes, fussy spinster daughter of a former rector, had just performed what was perhaps the most courageous act of her life.

•   •   •

THE
second knock came only fifteen minutes later. Her encounters with the outside world for today could not possibly end on a positive note, then, Catherine thought, making her weary way to the door.

And would this day never end?

Not for even one moment did she mistake him for his brother. Even so, her breath caught in her throat at the likeness. And more alike than ever. The customary good humor had left Mr. Adams's face. He looked pale and grim. So did Lady Baird, who was with him.

“I do not believe there is anything to add, is there?” Catherine
said bitterly before either of them could speak. “Unless you have come to reduce the week's notice to a day.”

“Oh, Toby, you darling dog.” Lady Baird stooped down to cup his barking face in her hands. “You know me. We are friends, are we not?”

He agreed. He stopped barking, wagged his tail, and lifted his chin to be scratched.

“Mrs. Winters,” Mr. Adams said, “I would like a moment of your time inside if I may. My sister has come with me to lend propriety to the visit.”

Catherine heard herself laugh as she stood aside and ushered them into the parlor. Lady Baird went to stand facing the window. Mr. Adams took up his position before the empty fireplace, his back to it. Catherine stopped just inside the doorway and lifted her chin to look him directly in the eye.

She would not cringe. She would not despite the guilty memories she had of what she had done with his brother last night in the passageway just behind where she was now. Could that possibly have been just last night?

“Mrs. Winters,” he said quietly, “it appears that my brother and my wife between them have done you a dreadful disservice during the past twenty-four hours. Not even so long.”

His words were so unexpected that she said nothing.

“I do not know what happened between you and Rex last evening,” he said. “I believe you are of age, ma'am, as is he. What you do in privacy together is your concern and his. Not mine. Or anyone else's. It is unfortunate, of course, that he was seen to leave your cottage. People will talk and gossip. And people will judge.
And punish too. My wife acted hastily. She was given the facts and was upset by them. I was from home and so she did not have me to consult. She felt that she must act as she thought I would have acted. She is sorry for it now, sorry that she acted with what she perceived to be the harshness of a man instead of acting in accordance with her softer woman's instincts. Perhaps in time you will pardon her—and me. I hope you will disregard all that she said to you. Your cottage is leased until the end of this year. I will be quite happy to renew the lease at the end of that time.”

“Mrs. Winters,” Lady Baird said without turning away from the window, “forgive me. I deliberately threw you and Rex together on more than one occasion, knowing that he admired you. I did not realize the nature of that admiration. I suppose I should know my own brother better by now. Forgive me for my contribution to your distress.”

They thought her guilty. But it did not matter to them. They thought that a physical affair between two adults was their business and no one else's. The realization was soothing, or would be when she had time to digest what was happening here. Mrs. Adams had
not
been acting on her husband's perceived behalf, of course. But it was understandable that he should wish to protect her from censure.

“Lord Rawleigh escorted me home last night,” she said. “I was tired, yet the Reverend Lovering had already left. I was going to walk home alone but was afraid of the dark. Lord Rawleigh found me in the music room—I was supposed to be dancing with him at the time—and insisted on bringing me home himself. Toby was barking and it was very late. Lord Rawleigh stepped inside
to quieten him. He left a few minutes later.” She left them to imagine what had occupied those few minutes. “Nothing happened between us.” Not what she stood accused of anyway.

Mr. Adams nodded. “Perhaps it is as well that my brother left Bodley early this morning,” he said. “I do believe that the events of this day would have provoked me into separating him from some of his blood, Mrs. Winters.”

“I might have helped,” Lady Baird added.

“It would have been so simple—and so proper—for him to have called out my carriage for you,” Mr. Adams said, “and even to have sent a maid with you. I apologize for him, ma'am. He was ever the impulsive one, and frequently the thoughtless one too, as witness his purchasing a commission when he was the elder son of the family.”

“He always said you would make the better viscount, Claude,” his sister said quietly.

“I feel for the distress you must have suffered today,” Mr. Adams said. “But gossip dies and my wife will want to make her personal apologies to you. You are a valued member of this community.” He smiled. “How are Julie and Will to become even competent pianists if you go away? You will stay?”

She could not go. That fact had been causing waves of panic all day. But she could not stay either. How could she stay?

“I am a pariah,” she said. “How can I stay?”

“Oh, dear,” Lady Baird said. She sounded angry. “People can be very vicious. With no proof whatsoever of what they believe. And even if there were proof . . .”

“We will call for you here tomorrow morning,” Mr. Adams
said. “You will come to church with us, ma'am, and sit in our pew. People will get the message.”

Catherine closed her eyes briefly. “I have been told not to go to church,” she said.

“By whom?” His brows shot up. He looked more than ever like his brother.

“By the Reverend Lovering,” she said.

He stared at her in stunned silence for a few moments. “I see you did not exaggerate when you described yourself as a pariah,” he said quietly. “I shall handle this, Mrs. Winters. This will not do at all.”

“I will go away,” she said. “If you will just give me a week or two.”

“But do you have somewhere to go?” Lady Baird had turned away from the window now. There was concern in her face. “Do you have family to go to?”

“Yes.” There was enough pity in their faces. She would not invite more. She would not be a helpless pawn in this drama that had developed today and was playing itself out about her. “Yes to both questions. I merely need to write a letter to warn them to expect me. I must leave. I would not be comfortable here any longer.”