She woke early, and for a while lay there in a dazed state, wondering why she felt so despondent. Then it all flooded back, Nicholas’s apology and proposal, and her own inability to accept the latter.
Getting out of bed she looked at her face in the mirror. Her eyes were red with weeping, there was puffiness around them, and even after she bathed them in cold water the evidence of her tears remained.
Delphine was unusually tactful. She brought Catarina some breakfast herself, tea and toast, and gently insisted she eat and drink.
‘Then you shall stay in bed all day, tomorrow as well, and be made to see no one. Would you like a book to read?’
Listlessly Catarina agreed. ‘I left my library book in the drawing room. I have only just started it.’
It would perhaps distract her thoughts, prevent her from thinking of what might have been.
* * * *
The following day Catarina felt better and insisted on getting up. Her eyes were suspiciously pink still, but she would stay quietly at home, reading. Delphine offered to stay with her, but Catarina said she would be perfectly content on her own. If Delphine gave up her plans she would feel guilty.
‘And you’ll be all the better without my fussing, no doubt. Very well, I will do the shopping I had planned, and pay visits. You won’t be disturbed.’
Blodwen seemed to be the only servant allowed to come near her, and she was careful only to come into the room to bring Catarina a nuncheon on a tray, or to make up the fire.
‘It’s dreadful, it is, having to have fires in June,’ she said. ‘My lady, there’s a letter come for you.’
She fished in her pocket and brought out the letter. Catarina hoped it was from Joanna, but she recognized the handwriting of her butler. Quickly she scanned the contents, and frowned. He reassured her that all was well at the Dower House, told her they had organized a big search for Dan but had failed to find him, then came to the real point of the letter. Jeremy, Staines had written, had ordered the common to be enclosed now the hay had been gathered.
‘There’ll be trouble, my lady. I cannot write to Mr Brooke myself, it wouldn’t be seemly, and unless Mr Trubshaw has done so, which is his duty, Mr Brooke will not know the deep feeling there is in the village against him. I doubt if Mr Trubshaw will make it clear to him, which is why I am venturing to ask you, if you would be so kind, and can speak with Mr Brooke, that is, if he is in London, to let him know of our concerns.’
After some thought Catarina wrote a note for Jeremy and sent it with one of the footmen, asking him to call on her. She did not expect to change his mind, but the least she could do was remind him of his legal rights and inform him of the unrest his enclosure was causing.
Somewhat to her surprise he came at once.
‘To tell the truth, Catarina, I’m glad to be out of the house. Nicholas has been in a foul mood for a couple of days. He even snapped at Olivia when she mentioned Vauxhall, and told her she could forget the idea. And he’d virtually promised to take her.’
Catarina felt guilty. It was most likely her refusal of his offer which had put him out of countenance.
‘I’ve had a letter from Staines,’ she said abruptly. ‘He says you have ordered the enclosure of the common. Don’t you need an Act of Parliament to do that?’
Jeremy sighed. ‘I’m merely putting a fence round it, so that the animals don’t stray. The people will still be able to graze them there. Why has Trubshaw not told them this?’
‘I don’t know. Is he is in charge while you are in London?’
‘Yes. But the man seems incapable of explaining things in simple enough terms for the villagers to understand.’
‘Staines says there is a good deal of ill feeling in the village against you. Can you not go down and reassure them?’
Jeremy frowned. ‘I won’t be at the beck and call of a pack of disgruntled villagers! Some of them resent me so much they’ll not believe anything I tell them. Besides, I have plans for the rest of the Season, then I’m going to Brighton, and afterwards to visit an army friend for some shooting up in Yorkshire. If it weren’t for this wretched leg of mine I’d be glad to be back in the army, and Nicholas could deal with Marshington.’
He left soon afterwards, and Catarina decided she had had enough of London. She dreaded the thought of seeing Nicholas again, was tired of parties and balls and polite conversation. She was also missing Maria, and looked forward to seeing how the baby had changed during the few weeks she’d been away. Perhaps, if she were back at the Dower House and could explain the position to the villagers, they would understand.
* * * *
Delphine was reluctant to see her leave, but assured Catarina she understood how difficult it would be for her to be always fearing seeing Nicholas again.
‘I hoped you might come to Paris with me. I’m thinking of going there instead of Brighton, but I will write and tell you all the news,’ she promised, ‘and you must write back. I want to know how Joanna fares in Brazil, and what happens in Marshington.’
Three days later Catarina was home, and breathed a sigh of relief. Maria had grown, could sit up by herself, and had produced two teeth. At first she was shy of Catarina, but she was such a happy and contented child she soon accepted her once more. Catarina praised her servants for the excellent care they had taken both of the baby and the Dower House. Even though she had not been able to warn them of her return everything had been in perfect order and it only needed dust sheets to be removed from the drawing room furniture for the house to return to normal.
Conditions in the village were not happy, though.
Catarina, driving her gig, and looking at the changes to the trees and flowers since she’d been away, went first to see Mr Lewis, to tell him what Jeremy had told her, and ask how she could convince the villagers they could still use the common for grazing their animals.
‘That wasn’t what Mr Trubshaw was telling them.’
‘He must have misunderstood Mr Brooke. From what he told me he means to leave the common for them to use, both for hay and grazing. He thought a fence to keep the animals from straying all over the village would please them. He would need an Act to take the land away from common use.’
‘He offended a good many people trying to force them to accept his new ideas. Country folk need time to absorb them and see the benefit, but there, young men are always in a hurry.’
‘Has there been much resentment?’
‘Folk are worried. The hay was poor, and it was so wet we couldn’t dry it properly,’ Mr Lewis told her. ‘There won’t be enough to feed all the animals during the winter. We’ll have to slaughter more than usual, and they won’t be old enough, to have enough flesh for meat.’
‘Can’t they be sold at market?’
‘No. Everyone is suffering, no one has the spare hay to feed them up or keep them. Besides, the way the weather is the rest of the harvest will be poor. It’s going to be a lean winter for everyone as well as the animals.’
‘I see. There was something else I wanted to ask you. Is Dan still around? Did he evade that man hunt and return?’
‘I think he did, though he’s not seen in the village now. But Trubshaw says he’s found more shelters built in the woods, and we don’t know of any other vagrants living rough.’
Catarina drove home wondering who to see next. Would the Reverend Eade be able to convince the villagers that Jeremy intended them no harm? Or ought she to talk to Mr Trubshaw and discover exactly what he had been telling people?
* * * *
Nicholas was unsure whether to be sorry or pleased when he heard Catriona had gone back to Somerset. Meeting her would have been awkward, and as neither Jeremy nor Olivia knew of his offer, they would continue to see her and invite her to their parties. In particular, repenting of his brusqueness towards Olivia he had agreed to her holding a masquerade, instead of taking her to Vauxhall.
It was on the morning of the masquerade, when the entire house was in an uproar of preparations and he had retreated to his library, that a letter from Portugal was delivered to him.
Thomas had news for him. Nicholas was reluctant to open the letter. It could matter little to him now. Catarina’s refusal had been so decided he doubted whether she would ever again agree to listen to him, and he was at a loss to find a way of making her do so.
He wanted her more than ever, whatever the truth about Maria, he acknowledged to himself. Was this simply because she had refused him? He had been aware from an early age that he was a major prize on the marriage market. He had wealth, birth, looks, and the prospect, now realized, of a title. He had assumed, arrogantly, it seemed, that any girl he honoured with an offer would gladly accept him. To be refused had been a shock to his self-esteem, as well as a more personal disappointment. No, that was too mild a term. He was devastated, and from the first moment he had been able to think coherently after driving back home he had known he would never offer for anyone else. Other women might match the beauty and allure of Catarina, but he did not love them.
Eventually he opened the letter, which he had been turning over and over as he sat ruminating, wondering what he could have done differently to make Catarina accept him.
Thomas came straight to the point.
‘I have spoken to several members of the de Freitas family in Oporto,’ he wrote, ‘including Senhora Madalene de Freitas, who seems to be the leading member of the family. They all assure me that none of their relatives, however distant, has died recently, within the past year. Nor have any of the ladies been delivered of babies. It occurred to me that the child who is now in England might have been born to a girl who was not married, but from all I can discover, all the members of the family in Portugal were at some family celebration at the end of October, a wedding anniversary, I believe, and any late pregnancy would have been obvious and commented on. I was able to speak with one of the senior servants who was present on that occasion, some sort of major domo, whose wife is housekeeper at the quinta where the celebration took place, and they were both sure no lady present was on the verge of giving birth.’
Nicholas put down the letter and stared across the room. What did this mean? Catarina had told him the child had been born to a cousin who had died. According to Thomas no cousin had given birth at the right time, and none had died. So Catarina must have lied to him. Why? Either the baby was her own, after all, or belonged to some unknown woman and Catarina had adopted her. All his doubts came flooding back.
Supposing the baby was hers, had Walter been the father? Given that he and Catarina had been childless for eight years, it seemed unlikely. Had she taken a lover? A sudden surge of jealousy made his hands shake. He made an effort to calm himself and think clearly. In some ways, tied to an elderly husband, it would not have been surprising had Catarina wanted romance with a younger man. How long might she have been involved with him? Had they been careless, allowing the pregnancy?
That led to even blacker thoughts. Walter had died from a fall, and not been found for hours. Might he have survived if he had been found earlier? No one had essayed any thoughts on that. But how had the fall happened? Was it at all possible that Catarina or her lover had engineered an accident? But no lover apart from George Pearce had been noticed, and Nicholas, who had known him for years, felt that George was not serious about any woman.
His instincts made him reject the notion, he did not want to believe Catarina could have been a party to murder, but a niggling doubt remained. Who might her lover have been, and would he have been less scrupulous? Would they, at some time, marry? Was that the reason for her rejection of his offer? Who the devil could it be?
Suddenly Nicholas could bear his thoughts no longer. He tore Thomas’s letter into a hundred tiny pieces, rang for his valet, and left the house. He would seek some congenial company at White’s, order wine, and try to forget Catarina and his suspicions.
* * * *
Catarina was aware of continued unrest in the village, as people speculated on what their new landlord would do next. They had treated with considerable reserve the fact they were allowed to graze their animals still, and openly asked for how long this concession might last. They treated it as a concession, but all assumed it would not continue.
The harvest was as bad as Mr Lewis had predicted. The cold and wet weather earlier in the year had damaged the crops, and often what had survived was barely worth the harvesting. The villagers faced semi-starvation that winter, and many of them blamed Jeremy. Especially they blamed him for not being there to listen to their complaints, and many of them approached Catarina.
‘We can’t be doin’ wi’ that Trubshaw,’ one of them said to her. ‘He don’t listen, all ‘e can say is that Mr Brooke will be told, but ‘e never comes back to us wi’ any replies. ‘Tis my opinion ‘e never tells Mr Brooke.’
‘He tells ‘im, but the young feller don’t care. Enjoyin’ ‘isself in Lunnon, or that there seaside place where the Prince teks all ‘is wimmin.’
Catarina did what she could. She still had friends in Bath and some acquaintances in Bristol, and she begged them for promises of help in providing money or finding food later in the year, when conditions would be worse. She wrote to her family in Portugal, but was told that all of Europe suffered in the same way, and they could not help. Rather ruefully she wondered whether supplies of olives would have been acceptable to the villagers in any case. She even wrote to Joanna, without knowing what her sister might be able to do, but she received no reply, just another ecstatic letter saying what fun it was to be living in Rio, and how much she enjoyed life as a married woman. Eduardo was apparently still infatuated with her, loading her with fabulous jewellery, the Brazilian and Portuguese aristocracy were delightful, so attentive, and she had absolutely no regrets at leaving England and Portugal behind her.
In that last sentence, Catarina read an unspoken reference to Maria. Joanna had never once enquired after her daughter, and this remark seemed to imply she had no regrets at abandoning her. She had always known Joanna was tougher than she was herself, but this showed her sister was hard and selfish.