Two vintage bottles of St. Clair claret were consumed before the three men finally separated and shakily departed, each to his own room.
It was quite late the following morning when the three friends finally emerged, their eyes blurry and their heads heavy.
Under the efficient command of Mannering, mountains of luggage were assembled in the hall and strapped onto Percy’s great carriage.
“An altogether unforgettable stay, Julien,” Hugh remarked lightly, as he shook his friend’s hand.
“Lord, Hugh, you are never to the point.” Percy brushed a speck of dust from his immaculate sleeve. “I’d say it was a deuced unsettling experience. Women can find you anywhere, even in the damnable bowels of the country.”
“Rest assured, Percy, that the next week will be far more unsettling for me,” Julien said, a confident grin belying his words.
Percy leaned out of the carriage window and shouted to their receding host, “Wish you luck, old boy. If you need help, Hugh and I will be more than willing to serve as your faithful emissaries.”
A ghost of a smile flitted over Julien’s face as he stood watching the carriage rumble down the graveled drive and disappear into the park. He had no doubt that the most difficult part of entering into the married state would be surviving the jokes of his friends.
He retraced his steps and made his way to the library. As he passed by several portraits of past earls of March, he chanced to look up. Their painted eyes seemed to regard him with approval, their faces no longer accusatory. If he had been wearing a hat, he would most certainly have proffered them an elegant bow. As it was, he merely grinned and let his thoughts turn most willingly to Katharine. Katharine St. Clair, countess of March.
His footstep was light as he entered the library and eased himself comfortably into the large chair beside the fireplace. He pursed his lips and formed a sloped roof with his long, slender fingers, tapping them thoughtfully together as he contemplated his strategy.
It was but a short time later that he uncoiled gracefully from his chair, tugged the bell cord, and ordered that Astarte be saddled.
“I do wish you didn’t have to leave so soon, Harry. You know how wretched it is here without you.” She was plainly unhappy and her shoulders drooped pitiably.
“Now, Kate, it will not be long, only until Christmas. I’ll come and we’ll enjoy ourselves, you’ll see.” Harry clumsily patted his sister on her shoulder.
“Aye,” Kate said, reverting to her Scottish mother’s tongue, “but it’s still over four months away, Harry. Four months with just Sir Oliver. It’s an eternity.”
Harry searched his mind for sage words, reassuring words, for he was, after all, her elder brother. He could think of nothing except the warning that he had given her many times before. “Don’t forget to take care that father does not find out about your escapades during the day. You know as well as I what he would do.”
It gave Harry a start to see her woebegone expression vanish and a curiously cold and hard look take its place. “Do you take me for a simpleton, Harry? Of course I know what he would do. He would beat me within an inch of my life. We both know it is quite a habit with him.”
Harry was appalled that she could speak with such hardness. The picture of Kate as a child rose in his mind; her laughter, her openness, Kate tugging on his coattails, begging to be included in his games.
“Lord, Kate, why does he hate you so?”
His voice shook with impotent fury. He had argued with his father on several occasions, in an attempt to draw Sir Oliver’s anger onto himself. He felt a miserable coward, for he seldom succeeded, and when he did succeed, it never lasted long. Just until Sir Oliver again recalled the existence of his daughter.
“When Mother was alive, he was not so cruel,” he said, to himself more than to his sister.
Kate cut him short, her voice grim. “No, Harry. He became so toward me before mother died. Of that I am certain. But why does he hate me? I don’t know. Nor do I believe I really care now, not anymore.”
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