The Portrait

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Catherine rapped on the roof of the carriage. The lurching eased, then stopped.

“My lady?”

“Do not push the horses so,” Catherine said sharply. “I will not have them ruined.”

“Yes, my lady.” The door shut. Catherine could feel the wide-eyed gaze of her maid upon her. Never mind. Perhaps others felt differently when rushing to the side of a father on his deathbed. She, however, preferred the company of her horses, and she controlled her stables with an iron fist. No horses would give themselves up for the sake of the Earl of Delamare. She leant back in the comfortable darkness.

The maid nodded off again. Clara was a country girl without the finesse society considered necessary in one who was lady’s maid to the daughter of an earl. But she was stout and honest, and did not flinch when her mistress needed to be lifted or required other assistance in the bath or in her dressing room. No, there were no dignified London dressers for Catherine – the ministrations of her rustic helpers would do very well. She usually travelled with her companion, the London-bred Miss Lydia Barrow. But for this particular task, she preferred the company of as dumb and innocuous a servant as she could find.

She, Catherine Claverton, was in control. She might be a cripple, but she would not be dominated. Not by her father, not by her servants, not by society … Catherine ticked her potential masters off on her fingers. She smiled briefly. There was a confrontation ahead of her, to be sure. She did not relish the thought of it, but avoidance was only a temporary solution. It would have to take place.

She hoped her father was already dead and she would be spared the unpleasantness of actually speaking to him. The discussion would still have to happen, but his man of business would be a less unpleasant substitute.

These were not well-bred thoughts. Catherine chided herself as another grim smile curled her lip. But that Delamare’s daughter thought them was his own fault. He had banished his only child to a solitary life on a distant estate – but he had given her a tremendous gift by doing so.

Freedom.

She answered to no one.

Another girl would, perhaps, have sorrowed at the open disdain of her father. Another girl would, perhaps, have been afraid for her position – after all, the earldom was reverting to the Crown. Another girl might have feared for her safety: with no husband and no father to protect her, hungry men lurking behind every corner would reach sticky fingers for her gold.

At least she had no fear that any man would have designs on her virtue. She smiled into the darkness. “I fear nothing,” she said aloud. Startled at the sound of her voice, she glanced at the maid who slept on. She would have to watch herself. The next few days would be filled with tension. She could not break. She would not allow it.

Catherine dozed off and on but, even as she drifted, she was aware of the pace of the horses. She calculated they would arrive at Albrook early in the afternoon, although they could have made the journey in much less time had it not been for her concern about the horses. But she knew this concern was somewhat artificial; her true concern was for herself. With the change in her circumstances, how would she keep the control she had of her world?

However, when she finally caught sight of the grand Tudor façade, her heart constricted in spite of her determination to master herself. Albrook – the prison of her childhood. She hated every stone in its foundations, every blade of grass in its sweeping expanse of lawn. As a child, she had plotted its destruction, wishing for strength, for an army. But, as a cripple and as a girl, her means were limited, her friends few.

Stern faces greeted the carriage as it drew up: the housekeeper, the butler, the usual gathering of upper servants. Clara got out first and, once on the ground, she turned and extended her arms for Catherine. Two footmen started to move forward, but Clara stopped them with a sharp word. Her mistress descended, leaning on her for support.

No one spoke.

A gentle spring breeze ruffled through the wisps of hair that slipped over Catherine’s ears and about the sides of her face. Ah, springtime at Albrook. How well she remembered the damp fecund smell of the earth, the sheep droppings, the rotting leaves of last year’s summer.

“My lady,” the butler began. “We are—”

“Take me to my father,” Catherine interrupted. She spoke as loudly as she could manage, and her words seemed to ricochet off the sandstone of the portico. She saw the butler pause, glancing at the housekeeper as he did so. Catherine addressed her next.

“Is he awake?”

“No, my lady,” the housekeeper said.

“Is the doctor here?”

“He has just left, my lady. He will return this evening, and wishes to wait on you at that time.”

“Very well.” Clara had sent the footman for a chair, which she made comfortable with a cushion and a shawl before helping her mistress into it. There was a chilly silence. Catherine leant back. She looked from one stony face to the next. These people, she thought, have never bothered to treat me with even the formal courtesy my title deserves. When the earl is dead, you will all lose your livelihoods. And I won’t be a bit sorry.

She almost smiled. But, instead, she nodded at the footmen and they gently lifted the seat and carried her inside.

In truth, she could have walked in on her own two feet having learnt over the years how to overcome the ugly, lumbering limp that the Albrook servants surely recalled from her childhood. She could walk tolerably well now, compared to those sad days. But she preferred to enter the doors of this prison in such estate as she could arrange, the better to remind her jailers that she was not the shy young girl whom they had treated as a weak-minded invalid.

She was carried into the library, which surprised her, but she recalled that it was the one room where the fire was kept stoked at all times, even in the spring and through much of the summer. Certainly no such effort had ever been expended on the nursery where she had spent most of her long lonely hours. The footmen lowered her chair, and Clara set about assisting her with her hat and shawl, while bidding the footmen to await Lady Catherine’s pleasure outside the door – she would wish to be taken to her father shortly.

A tall man with a long thin face hurried into the room. He held out his hands, and Catherine reached forward eagerly to grasp them. Beaseley had aged tremendously since she had seen him last, the skin on his hands grown more papery and wrinkled and his grey hair thinning and showing more of his scalp than she remembered. In spite of herself, she felt her heart moved by his devotion to the family. Beaseley had made the difference between a life of privation and shame and the independent existence she currently enjoyed. It could not have been easy, walking the line between the rage of his employer and the suffering of a child.

“Lady Catherine! I beg your pardon, for I have only just arrived. I hope you are in good health?”

“I am, thank you, Mr Beaseley. Pray, tell me what news?”

Beaseley shook his head. “I am sorry to say that the news is not good.” He paced restlessly as two young maids brought in the tea tray. Clara dismissed them and set about pouring the tea.

“Clara,” Catherine said, “you may leave us. Do not wander far. I will need you shortly.”

The door shut behind her. For a moment, the only sounds were the crackling fire and the baa-ing of distant sheep. Catherine looked around the room. It had not changed at all. Soon, she would leave this room, leave this house, never to see it again, and it would be a burden lifted from her heart. There would be no necessary public demonstration of respect, no dutiful acknowledgement of her family. The Clavertons of Albrook would simply cease to exist. Yes, she herself was a Claverton, but – and here her lips twisted in an expression of disgust – she would do her best to rid herself of the association as effectively as they had rid themselves of her.

If she could change her name, she would.

Albrook could fade into the history books, as far as she was concerned. She could imagine weeds taking over the elaborate formal gardens, rust stains under leaking windows, and the chapel – with its generations of dead Clavertons buried under the floor – abandoned and silent. She could imagine paying a visit, preferably under gloomy grey skies, just to see this place die. It was unfortunate that she would not live long enough to see the buildings tumble down onto their foundations.

She shook herself a little. It was a strange daydream, but one she had enjoyed off and on for years.

“I trust that you have just come from London, Mr Beaseley?”

Beaseley was staring out of a corner window, absently stroking his flyaway hair. He turned, startled. “I beg your pardon, Lady Catherine?”

Catherine laughed. “Come, Mr Beaseley. What occupies you so? We have known of my father’s illness for these past four years. I am sure nothing you could tell me would shock me! Is there some new trouble in his business affairs?”

Beaseley shook his head. “No, my lady. That is … that is … it is … as you know, there are no heirs to the earldom. The title will revert to the Crown. And you, of course, are the last Claverton. Most of the family assets will come to you. Certain properties belonging to your late mother will also come to you, as well as monies that …” His voice trailed off.

“I’m not interested in Albrook,” she replied. “Close it up, do with it as you wish. I will stay at Wansdyke.”

Beaseley bowed.

Catherine sipped her tea. Beaseley was a kind man. She had known him all her life. He had eased the transition to living with her governess at her mother’s country property near Bath all those years ago. He had made sure she was never short of funds, and had left her to handle the matters of her household on her own, with no interference from Albrook. Were he a different sort of steward, he could have made her life quite difficult and unpleasant. He might have refused to speak with her directly, or have required that she appoint a manager of her own. But he had known her mother, and he also knew how to handle the earl. But Beaseley was not all-powerful.

He could not make the earl love his daughter.

Catherine pushed the thought away. She said lightly. “So, I will be quite rich. How lovely.” Beaseley looked at her blankly, then realised that she was joking.

“I do not anticipate any problems, my lady,” he said. He hesitated and seemed about to say more, but Catherine decided that she was bored with the topic.

“That is good to hear.” She yawned. “I am quite tired. I wonder if I might go up and see my father?”

“He has been unconscious for several days. The doctor does not believe that he will recover.”

“Well, good.” Beaseley did not flinch at her candour. Catherine put down her cup. “You may send for Clara.”