During the first week of his stay at Cousin Sarah's house, David sometimes wondered if he would not be more comfortable at a hotel. It was true that Sarah was a solicitous host. The trouble was, she was too solicitous. He could not reach for the salt pot at the dinner table without her bustling up from her seat to hand it to him herself. She always insisted he sat in the most comfortable chair closest to the fire, even if he had no wish to sit at all. Every morning, he was woken by a chambermaid bearing a pot of steaming, gritty chocolate. The pot of ivy on the mantelpiece was beginning to look quite sickly as a result. But of course, it was all done to be kind, so David thought it would be rude to complain.
The other problem was that sometimes he was quite sure she was flirting, which puzzled him greatly. When they had been younger, she had never betrayed any suspicion of tenderness towards him. Indeed, he might have suspected quite the opposite from the way she had ordered him about and teased him. It seemed exceptionally peculiar for her to begin with flirting now.
For a few days, he stonily ignored all her attempts at flirting. When she complimented the fit of his coat, he pretended he did not hear her. When she remarked on the intimacy of dining alone together, he suggested she invite some friends to join them. When she found excuses to touch his shoulder or hands, he simply moved away. Eventually, to his relief, her flirtations ceased and she treated him in a much more normal manner. He decided she had merely been lonely.
Thankfully, David's business kept him out of the house more often than not. He was around his old clubs, around his old army friends, trying to find investors to pay for the expansion of the slate mines. Tunnels would have to be dug deep into the hills to access a rich but hard-to-reach ore deposit. Once the tunnels were dug, he would be able to mine and sell vast quantities of slate, but until then, it would be all expense and no income.
Several of his friends or acquaintances pledged small investments, but the highest of his hopes were pinned on Lord Varley, a viscount, a little older than David, who had recently come into his title and inheritance and was determined to make something of it. Before any real arrangements could be made, however, Lord Varley left town for his Sussex estate to attend his wife who was expecting a baby very soon. He promised David that he would let him know when he returned but could not commit a date or time. Until then, David had little to do but amuse himself in London.
It was easier not to remain alone in the house with Sarah. David went to clubs and dinner parties and the theatre. It was while he was shopping one morning in James Street that he quite literally ran into Luke Balley as he came out of a tailor's shop. After the first reflexive apologies, Luke looked sheepish and uncertain, as if he did not know whether to say goodbye or hello.
"A funny coincidence meeting you here," David said, trying to be helpful. "Good day, Mr Balley."
"Wait." Luke trotted after him. "I must ask. How is Cate?"
David stopped with a frown. He had received no response to the letter he had sent, and he had not wanted to send another. He had nothing more to say. "You would know better than me," he said. "She writes to you, does she not?"
Luke shook his head. "My father forbids it. We are none of us to make contact with her. She knows well. He will only punish me if she sends me letters. And that old weasel is spying on her, I'm sure."
It was too easy to guess which 'old weasel' Luke meant. David considered him thoughtfully. When he had been courting Catherine, Luke had never impressed him as anything more than an over-energetic and rather childish young man with too much time on his hands. Despite that, David knew Catherine was fond of him, for whenever she mentioned him a light came into her sad eyes. It seemed monstrously unfair to refuse them even the right of correspondence.
"Why don't you write her a letter," David said, "and I'll give it to her. Your father will never know."
Relief broke over Luke's face. "You'll do that for me?"
"Of course."
"I'll write it immediately," Luke said. "Will you be home this afternoon?"
"I can be. I am staying with my cousin in Finsbury. Do you have a pencil? I will write the address."
Luke found a grubby pencil and a scrap of paper in his pockets and David wrote the address down for him.
"You may rest assured that any letters that Catherine receives from you through my hand will be in absolute confidence. I will make sure neither Miss Skinner nor your father ever find out."
"Thank you. You're a real swell."
It was not a word anybody had ever used to refer to David before, but he found he rather liked it.
Luke came by early that afternoon as Sarah was trying to persuade David to allow her to make him his fifth cup of tea for the day. When she learned that Luke was Catherine's brother, she gave him a very curious once over.
"I never met your sister," she said, "so I am looking at you to imagine her countenance. Are you alike?"
"As siblings usually are, I suppose," Luke said. "Well, my colouring is a little darker than hers. She is very fair."
"Oh. You did not tell me that." Sarah looked at David.
"I was not aware it would interest you," David said.
Sarah took the rebuff with a smile, but perhaps it motivated her to say, "I suppose you men will want to talk; please make use of my study," and go away up the stairs.
David took Luke into the study and shut the door.
"I've got the letter," Luke said, taking a thick, folded sheaf from his pocket. "It was hard to write it. For the past year and a half, I've been missing her so much that I didn't realise how angry I was. It's the first secret she's ever kept from me, being seduced."
The angry sheen in Luke's eyes made it seem like a confession. David thought he understood; it seemed that there was no one he could talk to in his family about this. All the same, it made him uncomfortable. His own feelings about Catherine were far from sympathetic. He did not want to be put in the position of having to defend her, yet he thought that was what Luke was asking for.
"I'll give it to her as soon as I get home." He took the letter and slipped it into his own pocket. "And whatever she writes in return, I'll make sure it gets to you safely."
Luke was not as easily put off as Sarah; he sighed and flung himself down into an armchair. "I would have helped her. I would have dragged Redwood to the altar and made him marry her. Why didn't she trust me?"
David was beginning to regret his impulse to help Luke. Why had he not remembered now that the boy — Luke was twenty-five and did not often behave it — was a self-centred nuisance? To be sure, it was cruel for their father to refuse the two all contact, but to offer to do them a small favour did not mean he wished to make himself a confidant.
"I do not know," he said politely, refusing to sit down himself in case it encouraged Luke to stay longer. "Though you do Redwood wrong, Mr Balley. He is not the baby's father."
"That's what he says, of course, but Cate named him. She would not lie."
"I am afraid she did. She told me as much."
"I don't believe it."
"When she answers your letter, perhaps she will explain herself. I cannot attempt to do so on her behalf; I do not understand her motivations."
Because fear was not an excuse. Not for the level of deceit Catherine had sunk to.
Luke stared at David. "No. I cannot believe it. Cate does not lie. She never lies."
"Under great pressure, perhaps, anyone might lie."
Well. There. He was defending Catherine despite himself. But Luke was shaking his head.
"You are mistaken," he said with absolute conviction. "Not Cate."
There was little to say to that. David leaned against a chair, the letter in his pocket crinkling, and wondered how long Luke intended on staying here. It was natural for him to miss his sister, of course, but was he truly insensible of the awkwardness of seeking David as a conversational partner in this topic?
The door opened suddenly, without a knock, and Sarah poked her long chin through. David had never been so relieved to see her in his life.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said. "Some letters have just arrived for you. One is from Lord Varley. I thought it might be important."
"Thank you." David stretched his hand out and took the letters gratefully. When Sarah did not leave the room but hovered in the doorway, he made no attempt to remind her of privacy. If she stayed, Luke might find motivation to leave.
He opened the letter from Varley without even looking at the others. It was only a memorandum saying that he would be back in town briefly in three days and could arrange an interview with David then. Beyond that, he would be in Sussex until the opening of parliament in February because his wife and new baby were very delicate.
"He is coming back to town soon," David told Sarah. "If all goes well, I'll be out of your hair by the end of the week."
"You are no trouble at all," Sarah said. "You must not think you are."
"I did not really think I was," he said. "It was only a turn of phrase."
He glanced at the other two letters. One was from his mother, but the other... he frowned. Why on earth was Miss Skinner writing to him?
He slit the letter open. Miss Skinner wrote in a sharp, regular hand, unpleasantly reminiscent of her sharp voice.
Dear Captain Demery,
Pray do not be alarmed by the content of this letter. I write to inform you that Catherine is unwell. She suffers a malaise of the lungs brought on by a long flu. She urges me not to write to you but I consider it my duty.
As I have said, there is no cause for alarm. The illness is of a chronic, but not dangerous nature. Doctor Priddy says she will improve. He recommends bed rest and a bland diet. Catherine is well enough, at least, to complain of gruel.
I will write to you again if there is any change.
With regards,
Judith Skinner
David put the letter down. He was not alarmed, exactly, but there was a stirring of unease in his belly. A malaise of the lungs sounded serious.
"What's wrong?" Sarah asked.
"Catherine is unwell. She had the flu."
"She's sick?" Luke sat up straight. "Is it serious?"
"Serious enough for Miss Skinner to write of it, but not serious enough for alarm." David put Miss Skinner's letter aside and picked up the one from his mother. "Perhaps Mother writes of it also."
He skimmed his mother's letter, past the usual village gossip and family news. Towards the end, Mrs Demery wrote of Catherine:
Your wife has been ill. I saw her shortly after Christmas. It is only a cold, a trifling cold, and yet she was bundled up in bed with red eyes and white cheeks looking like death warmed over. Not in possession of a strong constitution, that one. She has remained at home for three Sundays now. The vicar asked after her when last he came to tea. I had to confess that I did not know. Laura will visit her next and inform me. I do not wish to go again. I have always despised sickbeds.
Love,
Mama
Two weeks at least of illness, if not more. There might not be cause for alarm, but there was certainly cause for concern. David breathed out slowly. To send a letter demanding more details would take at least four days to return, and the letters he had in his hand were already two days out of date. But there was no speedier resolution; he could not leave London until Lord Varley returned.
"What does your mother say?" Luke asked. "Does she speak of Cate?"
"She says she has been sick for two weeks. My sister is going to visit her — will already have visited her, I suppose."
"Two weeks?" Luke got to his feet. "Lend me a horse and I will go to her!"
David shook his head. "If what you say is true, you will bring your father's wrath down upon you both. Besides, Miss Skinner writes that the illness is not dangerous. No. I will go to her myself, as soon as I have met with Lord Varley."
"Then meet with him and go," Luke said. "Where is he?"
Demery coughed. "In Sussex. He will be in London three days from now."
"Three days? You would wait three days before leaving?" Luke paced the floor. "You cannot care for her at all."
"Catherine is not my only responsibility. The people who live in Porthalen depend upon my slate mines and my farmland and my village for their livelihood. And my mines require investment which Lord Varley might offer."
"Oh, there's always money," Luke said impatiently. "Someone, somewhere, always has money. Money doesn't die. It doesn't get sick. People do."
"She's not going to die," David said.
"Of course not, but she's still sick. Sick two weeks now. I don't know how you're not more worried."
"Certainly," Sarah said from the doorway. "It is concerning. If she falls ill, what happens to the baby?"
That was a dark thought. Catherine was the only person who truly had a reason to love and care for baby Luke, who was so intensely vulnerable. If she became very ill, what would happen to him? He would need a protector. Someone to make decisions for him until he was old enough to make them himself. Miss Skinner did not count. His grandparents were an impossible prospect.
David cursed out loud. The trouble was, Luke was right too. Money was far less important than people. Even people you hated.
"I had better go," he said grumpily to Sarah. "The sooner the better. Do you think you can have the servants pack my things and prepare my coach? I would like to leave before the hour is up if I can. There's enough daylight left to pass twenty miles."
"Of course," Sarah said. "I will tell them to hurry." She hesitated. "Might I come? I am a little afraid of travelling on my own, but I have been wanting to visit Wales for a while now. It is a long time since I have seen my old home."
David recalled Sarah's flirtations uneasily. No doubt there was some ulterior motive in her request. But she had crossed no tangible boundaries and it was a small favour from a cousin to a cousin.
"If you wish," he said. "But you must have your things packed quickly too. I will not be delayed on your account."
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2023-01-22: I don't think Miss Skinner will be happy too see Demery so soon.