Page 11 of The Wilful Widow
“Come on, Katherine.”
George stood on the threshold, beckoning to her, flanked by Beatrice.
“Just a moment.” Katherine studied the words in front of her with confusion. Everything that the Wicked Widow had written was very strange.
But very intriguing.
“You go ahead.” She waved them away. “I’ll stay here to write the letter that Beatrice can give to Mr. Pemberton since there’s pen and ink here, and it’s possible Nanny might ask questions if we try and do it in the schoolroom.”
George and Beatrice accepted her plausible excuse at face value.
Except that the more Katherine read of Beatrice’s mother’s last diary entry, the more her reasons for delaying her return to the schoolroom altered from her stated motivation.
* * *
“Well,Katherine, is the stage to your satisfaction?”
Fanny glanced across from where she’d been directing the footmen to arrange the seating for the children’s performance, smiling at her husband’s attempts to please their demanding daughter. Katherine would never become the actress she desired, but at least Fenton was prepared to indulge her in her desire to write a script and direct, in this case, a group of adults.
The ballroom had been transformed into a magical place with twining greenery adorning a ladder to a small bower high above the stage, designed to resemble Rapunzel’s Tower.
As the play incorporated Little Red Riding Hood, a small cottage facade had been created, with trees and bushes lining the path to Rapunzel’s lair.
Fanny had no idea what Katherine and George and Beatrice were going to present for them but, with a mother’s obvious pride in her precocious daughter’s efforts, she was certain it would not disappoint.
“Where’s that ax? Oh, goody! Hmmm. It doesn’t look very dangerous.” Katherine studied the makeshift implement made from a broom handle and a piece of wood. “I think the woodsman should wear grandfather’s sword since he is the hero. It’s so old-fashioned and will look wonderful with my hero’s costume.”
“And who is your hero, Katherine?” Fanny asked, struggling to pick up the heavy metal sword that Fenton had volunteered for the occasion, should the broom handle not be to her satisfaction. “I think the only person capable of wielding this is Mr. Pemberton.”
Katherine offered a mysterious smile but only said, “Now, please hang the mistletoe a little higher or I think people might bump their heads,” as she pointed to the green foliage with the red berries and stars that had been strung from the roof of the cottage to the ladder.
“I don’t think anyone is going to be under it, Katherine. It’s for decoration,” said Fenton, though he did as he was told.
And Fanny smiled at the look of satisfaction—and pleasure—that crossed her daughter’s face.
Like mother, like daughter.
Katherine did indeed intend that someone be kissed beneath the mistletoe as part of her play. Katherine was in the midst of some lovely Christmas plan, and no doubt she intended that Mr. Pemberton be prompted into the declaration everyone had been expecting the past few days—the marriage proposal he would make to Miss Jessamine Huxtable.
Chapter 7
Miserably, Charlotte sat at her dressing table and picked up her silver-backed brush and then put it down again. Her maid would be in to attend to her in an hour, and she should be downstairs making small talk to Jessamine and the other ladies while the gentlemen were outside looking at Lord Fenton’s new stallion.
Except that she didn’t think she could look Jessamine in the eye and not expose the state of her heart.
She sighed again. It wasn’t Jessamine’s fault that Charlotte would have liked to have seen a pox put on her or eradicated from the earth; yet, had Jessamine not been in the picture, Charlotte would have risked everything to have spoken plainly to Alexander. She’d have bared her heart even at the risk of losing the one security she truly needed if she and Beatrice weren’t to find themselves living in a rundown cottage with the only relative who’d take them in.
But Jessamine was anticipating a marriage proposal from Alexander. Charlotte had heard it from several quarters. How could Charlotte retain any honour much less live with her conscience if she made a play for Alexander?
Lord Ashbrook really was her only defense against destitution, and she dare not betray by word or deed the dangerous feelings that burned in her breast every time she looked at Alexander. Alexander was spoken for. Alexander had no feelings for her. That was very clear.
So, Charlotte must continue along the road toward her destiny—marriage to Lord Ashbrook, who’d shown such fondness toward Beatrice thus cementing her decision to wed him when Charlotte had so little real feeling for him, herself.
But feelings changed, and feelings grew. She knew that all too well. She might never have warmed to Busselton, but her second husband had been kind. Septimus had enabled her to retain her dignity and trust in the future during the last months of her disastrous first marriage. And gratitude had developed into a warmth that made her not averse to marrying a man who’d wanted only her happiness, and whose patient and generous nature had been cruelly repaid by his sudden death.
She rose, stretching her arms and moving her neck. It was too early to change her dress. She’d go down as she was and then change into evening dress a little later.
Tomorrow was her last night. She only had to get through dinner tonight—and she’d be placed far from Alexander—and tomorrow, when she could orchestrate any number of excuses to have no contact with him.
