He pushed aside such distasteful speculations as they came to the first of the cottages. What had looked picturesque from the terrace at the Grange was, close to, rather more squalid. Several cottages had, it appeared, already been demolished, and piles of rubble showed where they had stood. The thatch was old and in dire need of renewing. The wattle and daub walls were pocked with gaps where the mud had fallen away. The window frames sagged, with spaces through which the wind would whistle.
‘These things can be repaired,’ he said to Catarina as he halted the curricle and took stock of the scene in front of him.
‘Of course, but I must show you the houses in the village, and you will see how much better they are.’
‘I deplore the fashion of clearing away whole villages just to improve the prospect from a house.’
‘So do I, if that is the sole reason, and especially if no other suitable provision is made for the villagers. But these people want to move. Ask them yourself.’
She scrambled from the curricle and vanished through a low doorway in the nearest cottage. Nicholas slowly climbed down, handed the reins to his tiger, and wondered whether he was meant to follow.
Before he could decide Catarina reappeared, tugging at the hand of a small, slight, bent old woman who glanced shyly up at him as she tried to curtsey. Several small children followed her out of the house and stood nearby, joined soon by two more women and an ancient man smoking a foul-smelling pipe which had in it, Nicholas thought, something far more obnoxious than tobacco.
‘Moll, this is the new Earl. Tell him why you want to move from this house.’
Moll took a deep breath. ‘Well, surr, it be mortal damp in’t winter. See t’river, it floods in’t winter. An’ we don’t ‘ave nowhere ter go, see, can’t, we don’t ‘ave more’n the one room.’
Nicholas glanced at the cottages and belatedly realized the thatch came so low it was impossible for there to be an upper storey, even a loft. ‘What do you do?’ he asked. ‘When the houses are flooded?’
‘It don’t often reach wall beds, so we can sleep in’t dry. We just ‘as ter wade through it. But it covers fireplace, so we can’t cook. Surr, when will our new cotts be ready? Old Marge went just afore ‘is lordship were killed, an’ says it’s ‘eaven, so close ter new well an’ all.’
‘Will the new houses be ready soon?’ Nicholas demanded.
‘Before the winter, if you don’t stop the building,’ Catarina told him. ‘And even if you preferred to rebuild here, you would need to find somewhere for these people to go while it’s done. How many still live here, Moll?’
There were three cottages remaining, so when Moll told him there were ten adults and as many children he looked at them again, wondering how on earth so many people fitted into their single rooms.
‘You’d prefer the new houses near the church? Rather than have these rebuilt, with upper floors and more room?’
Moll looked frightened. ‘Oh, surr, you bain’t goin’ ter stop us ‘aving our nice new ‘ouses? The old Earl promised, and we’m lookin’ forward to being close ter them that’ve already gone.’
There was a murmur of agreement from the adults surrounding them.
Nicholas nodded slowly. ‘Very well, I’ll make sure the builders finish your new houses as soon as possible.’
‘Bless you, surr!’
‘Do you want to see the new houses?’ Catarina asked as they drove away.
‘I think not. I really must be getting on. I intended only to make a quick visit, to see my agent. I am on my way to Brussels.’
‘You are rejoining the army? Now that the threat from Napoleon seems greater? Is there really going to be more fighting? Sir Humphrey does not think so.’
‘I fear there will be. Perhaps he is trying to reassure you, prevent you from worrying.’
‘He is very considerate.’
Was he? Nicholas ground his teeth.
‘The Duke needs all the experienced officers he can find. Jeremy is already there, in Brussels, but so far all he appears to do is go to balls and parties.’
‘Then I wish you good fortune, my lord. My mother’s family in Portugal suffered during the French occupation. Several cousins were killed, either in the fighting or when the French massacred all the people of Evora.’
‘Do your family live there?’
‘No longer in Evora. The Quinta das Fontes is near Oporto. That is the main estate, though various members of the family have their own houses along the Douro. They are mostly producers of wine.’
‘Which I suppose is how your parents met?’
‘Papa did a lot of business with the family, but her parents were not pleased when he wanted to marry Mama. They had hoped for an alliance with one of the wealthy, well-connected Portuguese families.’
‘When did they die?’
‘Mama was ill for a long time after Joanna’s birth, There is six years between us, and several babies were lost before Joanna was born. She was only four when Mama died. Papa died four years later, of a fever he contracted when visiting a vineyard in the Canaries.’
‘And his brother became your guardian?’
Catarina merely nodded. He glanced at her and saw that her lips were pressed firmly together. Though she had talked freely about her parents, she was clearly unwilling to speak of her uncle. Was that because he had forced her into marriage with Walter? All he had heard about Sir Ivor Norton indicated the man was stern and unyielding. His own sons were reputed wild youngsters, though Nicholas barely knew them.
They had reached the Dower House and he helped Catarina to alight.
‘Will you take a glass of wine, my lord? I can offer you some of Papa’s best madeira.’
‘I must decline, I have a long way to travel. But my thanks for your — guidance over the cottages. By the way, I have dismissed the agent and my own man, Mr Trubshaw, will be arriving to take over. Perhaps you will talk to him? I know he would appreciate it.’
‘Dismissed? But why?’
‘He had been defrauding your husband, falsifying the accounts over the cost of the building materials for the new cottages, and telling me lies. Of all things I most abominate being lied to.’
She clearly wanted to know more, but Nicholas shook his head.
‘I’ll explain another time. I really must leave now.’
He drove away. He did not know what to feel. He was so accustomed to managing his own estates, where no one queried his decisions, that he was a trifle piqued at having had to accept Catarina’s advice. At least he would now have a reliable agent here.
He shrugged, and forced his attention back to the situation in France. Wellington and Napoleon had never met in battle. From all reports many of Napoleon’s former soldiers were flocking to join him, and the allied army was a heterogeneous collection of untrained and inexperienced men. If anyone could mould them into a proper fighting force it was the Duke. The sooner he got to Brussels the better.
* * * *
Two weeks later Catarina and Rosa, her maid, were in the Dower House putting away Catarina’s gowns.
‘Such a pity you can’t wear colours,’ the maid said. ‘Black doesn’t suit you.’
‘There’s no one to see me,’ Catarina said. ‘I can’t go out in company yet, and I have no wish to.’
‘Sir Humphrey calls almost every day.’
‘He’s been very kind. As one of his lordship’s oldest friends he’s made it his task to look after me.’
Rosa suppressed a smile and Catarina frowned. She knew what her maid, who had been with her since her marriage, thought. Sir Humphrey was a widower, his wife having died six years ago, and his children were all married and living at a distance. He made no secret of the fact he did not enjoy living a bachelor existence. And he had never hidden his admiration for Catarina. Fervently she prayed he would not make her an offer. She had been fond of Walter, but she had no desire to wed another man of his age. She had no desire to remarry at all, whatever romantic notions Rosa had. Perhaps it was her own imminent wedding to the son of one of the tenant farmers that directed her thoughts in such pathways.
They finished putting away the gowns, and Catarina picked up the older, less fashionable ones she had determined to give away. Walter had been a generous husband, and she had more gowns than she would need now. Besides, the Dower House had only four principal bedrooms, all far smaller than hers at the Grange, and there was insufficient room for them all. She would harness the gig and take them to the Rectory. Mrs Eade would know who needed clothing, and her sewing circle, made up of the few gentlewomen in the parish, a couple of farmers’ wives, and two favoured shopkeepers, would enjoy using the material and making the gowns over into apparel more suitable for needy villagers.
Rosa packed up the bundle, while Catarina sent Staines to order the gig. Walter’s butler, who had been with the Earl for more than thirty years, had insisted he wanted to remain in her service.
‘I’m getting on, my lady, and I can’t be doing with the sort of changes a new owner will want to make. I’d be better suited, much more content, looking after you at the Dower House.’
Touched, she had agreed. With him, Rosa, a cook, kitchen maid, two housemaids and two gardeners who also looked after her two horses and did odd jobs about the house, she was well served.
She was entering the village just as a mail coach pulled away from the Bear inn. Then she frowned. Surely that female standing before the inn, a carpet bag at her feet, couldn’t be Joanna? But it was, and as soon as her sister saw her she abandoned her bag and ran to meet Catarina.
‘Oh, Cat!’ she cried and burst into tears.
‘Joanna, what on earth’s the matter? Why are you here?’
‘I — I can’t tell you here.’
‘Get in. Let’s collect your luggage. I must take these gowns to Mrs Eade, then we can go home and you can tell me what brings you here, and in such a state. Now dry your eyes.’
Joanna sniffed, employed the handkerchief Catarina offered, and tried to calm herself. Fortunately Mrs Eade was out, so Catarina did not have to refuse any offer of refreshment, and half an hour later she was guiding Joanna into the Dower House.
Staines, without being asked, brought a pot of tea and some of Cook’s almond biscuits. Ellen, her cook, was no older than Catarina herself, and she had hesitated before employing her. She had been accustomed to have much older women, plump and comfortable, as cooks, but once Ellen had produced some of her delicious dishes, on a week’s trial, Catarina had had no more reservations. Ellen seemed to spend all her time reading old receipt books, and told Catarina she had inherited them from her grandmother, who had been cook to gentry.
Joanna tossed her travelling cloak over the back of a chair and curled up in a small ball in one corner of a big sopha. She seemed disinclined to speak, and Catarina did not press her. She poured tea for them both, and Joanna took the cup with a bleak smile. Then she attacked the plate of biscuits and ate voraciously.
‘I had no breakfast,’ she explained. ‘I had to leave in the middle of the night to catch the mail in Bristol.’
‘Does Uncle Ivor know you have come? Has he been unkind to you?’ she added, thinking back to the few months she had herself spent with her uncle’s family between leaving school and marrying Walter.
Joanna paled. ‘No, and you must not tell him I’m here! Promise, Catarina! He’ll make me go back!’
‘They will guess you have come to me.’
‘No, they won’t. I left a note saying I was going to a friend’s in London.’
Catriona frowned. She appreciated Joanna’s fear of their uncle’s anger, but she did not approve of telling lies.
‘He and Aunt Hebe will be worried.’
‘They’ve never cared for either of us except in the way of duty. They disapproved of Papa, and never accepted Mama. But they’ll want to drag me back, and Cat, I can’t!’
‘Why not? Have they been unkind to you?’ Catarina repeated.
‘No. Not them,’ and Joanna burst into tears.
It took time and patience to calm her, but eventually she sat up, pushed herself away from Catarina’s comforting arms, and wiped her eyes. Then she took a deep breath.
‘Cat, I’m — oh, I can’t tell you!’
‘You must if I’m to help you. And you must want my help, or you would not have come to me.’
Joanna nodded, and turned away her face so that she did not have to look at Catarina. Her words were muffled, and low, but Catarina heard them.
‘I’m increasing, I’m having a baby.’
Nicholas put his lack of interest in accepting any of the many invitations waiting for him in London to his concerns about the coming struggle with Napoleon. Many of the people who normally spent the Season in London had flocked to Paris and Brussels, taking advantage of the opportunity to visit Europe, the first for many years, though it appeared that a few, apprehensive at the approach of the Corsican monster, had fled back to London.
One of the young matrons with whom he enjoyed a discreet liaison sent a brief note saying her husband was away for a week, and she hoped to see him before he too left for Brussels, but he tossed it into the fire. He had no appetite for her frivolity. Lady Keith, furious that he had countermanded her decision to have Olivia in London for the Season, sent an imperious command ordering him to dinner the following day, and to this he sent polite apologies, mentioning a previous engagement. He was in no mood to listen to her complaints.
He could not dismiss thoughts of Catarina from his mind. Used as he was to ordering his own affairs, it rankled that she had been better informed than he about the old cottages. However much he told himself that as she lived there it was only natural she would know the situation, he disliked the experience of having to admit he was wrong. She had not, however, known about the agent’s dishonesty, but that had no doubt been Walter’s province.
She was an enigma, and to his annoyance he could not rid his mind of thoughts of her. Going through Walter’s papers he had discovered several letters from an elderly Colonel Carsley, a member of White’s, and it seemed they were old friends. Almost without being aware of it he found himself entering the club later that day.
The Colonel was reposing in a deep armchair, his eyes closed, and a glass held loosely in his hand in imminent danger of tipping the port it contained onto his lap.