The Bishop's Daughter

  "You could be, if you would make the slightest push. Have I not told you that she is perfect for you, Adolphus? Absolutely perfect?

  "Yes, you have, my dear. Upon many occasions." Adolphus squirmed. "Miss Towers is a most amiable young woman, but—"

  "Amiable! She is modest, well-favored, bred to be a clergyman's wife and . . . and simply perfect," Julia finished by breaking off what she had actually been about to say. It would do no good to point out to one as lacking in ambition as Adolphus Kathryn's other charms. Although only possessed of a respectable competence, Kathryn's chief fortune lay in her connections. She had one uncle highly placed in the cabinet of the present ministry, to say nothing of her circle of acquaintances within the cathedral close at Chillingsworth. It was most unfortunate that her father, the bishop, should be dead, but Kate still retained enough influential friends to be certain that her future husband would not be left to languish as parson of some obscure country vicarage. Julia intended to see her brother become a dean or at least an archdeacon with several livings at his disposal.

  Adolphus should see for himself what a good match Kathryn would be, but instead his brow furrowed into a troubled frown.

  "You may be right, Julia— I mean, of course you are right," he hastily amended. "Miss Towers is perfect, but if, as you believe, Lord Harry should have some notion of settling down and wish to wed the young lady, I do not feel it would be right to set myself up as rival to him."

  As Julia fixed him with a cold stare, her brother stammered, "You tend to forget my position here. Although he is our cousin, Harry is also lord of the manor. I can never provoke his lordship while I owe him such a debt of gratitude. It was he who presented me with the living."

  "Lytton would have presented St. Benedict's to the first tinker coming down the lane," Julia said scornfully, "if only to spare himself further responsibility in the matter."

  Thus dismissing her brother's obligations to Lord Lytton, Julia proceeded to inform Adolphus how he should call upon Kathryn at once to see how she fared, perhaps even take her a small nosegay from the parsonage garden. But neither coaxing nor insisting could move him to do so.

  "I have a sermon to finish for the morrow," Adolphus said, his jaw jutting in stubborn fashion.

  Julia saw that nothing she could say would convince him and, although considerably annoyed, was obliged to give over for the moment. Adolphus could be led to a certain point, but when he waxed obstinate, it was best to let be or she would only have more difficulty reopening the subject of his courtship later.

  Julia had realized a long time ago that she was much more clever than her younger brother. She would never have been so unmaidenly as to admit being discontent with her lot, a frustration that her sex barred her from the education that seemed to have been wasted upon Adolphus. Instead, she found her solace by managing his life for him.

  It distressed her when she thought that perhaps Adolphus might truly be content to be no more than the vicar of Lytton's Dene. She had far greater plans for him, and neither his modesty nor Lytton's interference were going to ruin these schemes.

  When they arrived at the vicarage, Adolphus's last word on the subject was to pat her kindly on the shoulder and tell her not to fret. "I am sure the Almighty will decide whom your good friend Kathryn should marry."

  Although Julia bowed her head in pious acquiescence, she realized that the Almighty frequently had a way of arranging things not to her satisfaction. But not this time, she thought, her lips thinning dangerously. Not if she had anything to say in the matter.

  Come what may, Julia vowed, Lord Lytton would not have Kate.

  Chapter Four

  Maisie Towers settled herself upon the window seat and stole one glance through the sun-glazed panes, hoping for some sign of a carriage billowing in a dusty cloud along the lane. Surely Kate should have been home by now. Mrs. Towers began to fret and then adjured herself not to be a fool. Kate was not likely to break any bones attending a dedication service upon a hillside.

  No, not any bones, Mrs. Towers thought, suppressing a worried sigh, only her heart. She forced her gaze away from the window and summoned an attentive smile for her guests, all the while wishing them at Jericho.

  Mrs. Prangle, the archdeacon's wife, had been ensconced upon the settee for over half an hour, her inquisitive eyes taking in every detail of the cottage, her sharp, unlovely voice rasping at Mrs. Towers's nerves. Seated upon either side of Mrs. Prangle were her two red-haired daughters. Doubtless in a few years they would grow to be most sensible girls, but now they showed a distressing tendency to giggle.

  "And I told archdeacon," Mrs. Pringle trilled on, "that I was going out this way to visit my sister in any case, so I must stop and call upon Mrs. Towers and dear Kathryn. Such as pity she should be away from home."

  Mrs. Towers smiled, nodded, and wished she had accompanied her daughter.

  Mrs. Prangle arched her neck, glancing about her. "This is a charming house, although rather small. Have you got but the one parlor? And such a tiny dining room. Rather a change for you, my dear, after the splendor of the bishop's palace."

  The Misses Prangle giggled their agreement.

  "The cottage is large enough for Kate and me," Mrs. Towers said mildly. She liked the coziness of her small house, although at the moment she wished it were located at the tip of Wales, too far for Mrs. Prangle and the other gossipy ladies of Chillingsworth to call. Dear Kate had meant to be so kind, arranging it that her mother should be near her old acquaintances. Mrs. Towers had been quite unable to tell the poor child she had no desire to see most of those prying women again.

  "The late bishop, rest his soul, was such a saintly man," Mrs. Prangle said, her bonnet feathers nodding as she mounted a fresh attack. "He never used his position to amass a fortune as some might have done, did he?"

  This was such a bald-faced attempt to discover how Mrs. Towers and Kate had been left circumstanced, that Mrs. Towers stiffened. She had never known how to depress such impertinence. Kate would have known how to answer Mrs. Prangle. Kate had always known, far better than her retiring mother, how to deal with the never-ending stream of canons' wives, prebendaries' daughters and vicars' nieces who had trickled through the drawing rooms of the bishop's palace.

  But Kate was not here, and Mrs. Towers did the best she could. She succeeded in changing the subject by inquiring after the archdeacon's son at Eton.

  As Mrs. Prangle boasted how young George had become the boon companion of a duke's son, the china clock upon the mantel chimed three. Mrs. Towers noted with alarm that Mrs. Prangle might linger until tea time and that Kate still had not returned home.

  Her anxious gaze traveled to the window once more. She had never been able to divine the true extent of Kate's feelings for the late Lord Lytton, but all her motherly instincts told her that her daughter was hiding a great deal of pain.

  She should have put her foot down, duty be hanged, and not permitted Kate to go through the ordeal of attending that dedication. But she never had been able to take a firm line with Kate. Sometimes she stood a little in awe of her own daughter, so reserved, so self-possessed, so much like her father.

  "Ooh!"

  Mrs. Towers was startled from her thoughts by a squeal of delight from the youngest Miss Prangle. "Can that be Miss Towers coming home now? What an elegant coach!"

  Mrs. Towers had allowed her mind to wander so far, that she had been unaware that a conveyance had pulled her up before the gate, but not the one she looked for. Before she could obtain a clearer view, the other three women joined her at the window, and she was nigh suffocated by a profusion of bouncing curls and muslin gowns.

  Managing to peer past Mrs. Prangle's feathers, Mrs. Towers determined that it was not the vicar's smart barouche, but a much more impressive coach, fit to have been a state carriage for royalty.

  "Look at the coat of arms on the door," Miss Prangle exclaimed. "Would that be the Arundel family crest?"

  "No," Mrs. Towers said, a chi
ll of recognition coursing through her. "It-it is . . ."

  The Prangles regarded her breathlessly.

  "It is my mother-in-law," Mrs. Towers said faintly.

  The sight of the grande dame being handed from the coach by a bewigged footman in scarlet and gold livery caused the Prangles to shiver with excitement but Mrs. Towers's heart sank in dismay. Winifred Aldarcie Towers, the Lady Dane, had been widowed for many years now. One of her chief forms of amusement was to descend unexpectedly upon the families of her numerous offspring. With the bishop in his grave, Mrs. Towers had considered herself safe from any more such visitations. How disconcerting to discover she was wrong.

  As Mrs. Prangle and her tittering daughters fussed, smoothing out their gowns and hair, Mrs. Towers rose to her feet with all the resignation of a condemned prisoner. All too soon the door to the parlor opened, the pert Mollie entering the room in subdued fashion.

  "Lady Dane," Mollie announced in awed accents.

  She flattened herself against the door as her ladyship swept past. Lady Dane stalked into the parlor with all the majesty of a queen, leaning upon a silver-handled cane she in nowise needed, her bearing still upright, her step unhampered despite her advancing years. Her figure had lost none of its statuesque proportions, her eye none of its keenness. The only signs of age were the lovely waves of white hair flowing back from her brow, the feathering of lines upon her skin, which only seemed to draw attention to the aristocratic fineness of her bone structure.

  Even in her youth something in Winifred Towers's countenance had made all the young men tremble in her presence, address her as madam. Only one had ever been privileged to see the softness of her smiles and that had been the bandy-legged little Baron of Dane whom she had chosen to marry.

  No hint of that smile now transformed Lady Dane's features as she crossed the threshold of the tiny parlor, her hawklike gaze taking in both the chamber and its occupants. Mrs. Towers forced herself forward to greet her ladyship.

  "Mother Towers. What a surprise."

  "Maisie." Lady Dane unbent enough to offer her cheek, which Mrs. Towers dutifully saluted. She had then no choice but to present Mrs. Prangle and her daughters, who embarked upon a frenzied round of curtsying.

  After subjecting the Prangles to a glacial stare, Lady Dane condescended to extend two fingers by way of greeting.

  "I had the privilege of meeting your ladyship before at Chillingsworth," Mrs. Prangle gushed, "though I daresay my lady has forgotten."

  "I daresay that I have.”

  As abashed as Mrs. Prangle appeared by this remark, she was fully prepared to renew the acquaintance and made a movement to herd her daughters back to the settee.

  "You must not think of staying upon my account," Lady Dane said in arctic accents. "I fear Maisie has already kept you beyond the time considered civil for an afternoon call."

  Mrs. Prangle flushed a bright red but for once was unable to find anything to say. With scarce more than the raising of an eyebrow, Lady Dane sent the archdeacon's wife and daughters bustling toward the door.

  This high-handed maneuver almost put Mrs. Towers in charity with her ladyship. Returning from seeing the Prangles to their coach, a gentle laugh escaped her as she asked Lady Dane, "However did you guess that woman had outstayed her welcome?"

  "It required no great perspicacity. A most vulgar female," her ladyship pronounced. "I should have told my maid to deny that I was at home."

  Mrs. Towers felt certain that her ladyship would, but she was not made of such stern stuff. Despite Lady Dane's masterly disposal of the Prangles, Mrs. Towers's smile vanished when she saw the footman dragging into the hall several large trunks to say nothing of a dressing case. Her ladyship's maid followed, her arms full of a supply of her ladyship's own bed linens.

  "I trust you have a chamber available for me?" Lady Dane asked.

  "Yes, of course," Mrs. Towers said, considerably daunted by this invasion. She retained enough presence of mind to direct the footman and lady's maid upstairs to the guest bedchamber before inviting Lady Dane to be seated in the parlor.

  "I shall have Mollie bring in some tea."

  "I prefer lemonade," said her ladyship.

  Mrs. Towers did not believe they had lemons in the kitchen, but she knew her small household held Lady Dane in such awe that her housekeeper would procure some forthwith.

  Having given her instructions, by the time Mrs. Towers returned to the parlor, she discovered that Lady Dane had eschewed the settee vacated by the Prangles and had enthroned herself upon a stiff-backed chair.

  Seating herself upon the settee, Mrs. Towers nervously inquired after her ladyship's health. She had heard that Lady Dane had gone to take the waters in Bath. Had her ladyship just returned from there?

  Lady Dane returned a brief answer. Never one to engage in idle chatter, she demanded abruptly, "Where is Kathryn?"

  "She is gone to attend the dedication of poor Lord Lytton's memorial. I expect her home at anytime."

  Her ladyship offered no comment, scowling at the information. "I saw Kathryn briefly in London a fortnight ago. Did she tell you?"

  "She mentioned it." Mrs. Towers had encouraged Kate to visit her cousin in the hopes that a little varied society might improve her spirits. "Kate only stayed a week. I suppose summer is not the best time to be in the city."

  "The child looked positively haggard," Lady Dane said.

  "She had been ill with a severe bout of influenza."

  "Stuff! She is pining away for that young man, Lord Harry."

  "I fear you are mistaken, my lady," Mrs. Towers said."Kate insists she did not love him."

  Lady Dane gave her that look that always made Mrs. Towers feel like a perfect widgeon.

  "Humph! The girl might be able to throw dust in your eyes, Maisie, but—"

  Her ladyship broke off at the sound of another carriage arriving. Mrs. Towers glanced toward the window and saw her daughter alighting and coming up the walk at last. She thought she would have done anything to spare Kate her ladyship's overwhelming presence at this moment. She wished that Lady Dane would be kind enough not to mention Lord Harry, but one did not dare tell her ladyship to mind her tongue. Mrs. Towers took a hesitant step forward,, thinking that at least she might warn Kate of her grandmother's arrival.

  But it was already too late, for the parlor door came flying open. Mrs. Towers was not prepared for the flushed young woman who bolted into the chamber, her bonnet missing, her eyes sparkling with indignation.

  "Mama, you will never guess what—" Kate stopped, in midsentence at the sight of Lady Dane. "Grandmother!" Kate's greeting betokened surprise and a hint of wariness.

  She recovered enough to kiss her ladyship's upturned cheek. Kate cast a doubtful glance toward her mother as though seeking an explanation for Lady Dane's presence. Miss Towers could only respond by a bewildered shake of her head.

  Lady Dane rapped her cane upon the carpet. "Don't keep us in suspense, miss. I gather something untoward happened at the dedication? Likely Sybil Arundel made a spectacle of herself as usual."

  Lady Dane's remark snapped Kate's attention back to the original source of her agitation. She remained silent a moment, then burst out, "It has nothing to do with Lady Lytton. It's Lord Harry. He's still alive."

  "What!" Mrs. Towers exclaimed in the same breath as Lady Dane.

  "He arrived at his own dedication," Kate cried. "He had just been pretending to be dead all this time."

  Mrs. Towers was as shocked and aggrieved by such conduct as her daughter, but Lady Dane broke into one of her rare trills of laughter.

  "The rogue! I wish I had been there to see it. He must have made you all look like a parcel of fools, standing about in this blazing heat to gape at some ridiculous memorial."

  "I didn't find it so amusing, Grandmama," Kate said in a taut voice.

  "Of course. You wouldn't." Although still chuckling, her ladyship's eyes held a gleam of sympathy. "It is most understandable you should be somewhat dis
tressed, considering you are not exactly indifferent to the young man."

  Somewhat distressed! This seemed such a callous way of describing Kate's distraught state that Mrs. Towers cast a reproachful glance at her mother-in-law. She moved closer to Kate, intending to slip a comforting arm about her daughter's waist, but Kate did not notice the gesture.

  "I was indifferent to Lord Lytton before, Grandmama," Kate said drawing herself up proudly, "but now I quite despise the man. If you will excuse me, I must go and change before tea."

  "Kate!" But Mrs. Towers's gentle protest was lost as Kate dashed out of the room. She longed to go after her daughter, but past experience had taught her it would do little good. Sagging down upon the settee, her head spun with the shock of the tidings. Lord Lytton still alive . . .

  Only Lady Dane appeared quite unperturbed.

  "I told you the girl was in love with him."

  Kate fled upstairs. She had been longing for the sanctuary of her own room ever since her flustered exit from Mapleshade Hall and Harry's disturbing presence. Stepping inside the small bedchamber, Kate closed the door behind her and leaned upon against it with a tremulous sigh.

  The room's walls were painted green, a soothing shade that captured the softer hues of the forest. The only furnishings were the four-poster bed, the wardrobe, a washstand, a dressing table, and a chair, all carved of satinwood, all of the utmost simplicity appropriate to a clergyman's daughter, except for a few touches of lace here and there that her feminine heart would crave.

  Yet for once the room's sylvan peacefulness was little balm to Kate's troubled spirits. She stalked away from the door, trying to draw rein upon her emotions, flattering herself that in some measure she had begun to do so.

  The delusion lasted until she got a glimpse of herself in the mirror affixed to the dressing table. She all but shrank from the hoyden staring back at her, a hectic flush coloring her face, her dark curls in a tangle. Kate pressed her hands to her cheeks in dismay. She looked like a wild woman, and to think that she had appeared thus before Lady Dane of all people. Kate had the feeling her grandmother did not approve of her in any case—a most novel and disturbing sensation to one accustomed to always meeting with approbation.