Chapter 41
Chapter
The storm still pounds against the roof when McGann opens his eyes again the next morning. He lies there for hours, feeling the solid weight of Catherine next to him.
“Good morning,” he finally whispers to her. This is how he wants to wake every day for the rest of his life, with her curled up in his arms.
“Good morning,” she says, burrowing down into him. “It’s still raining.” Her voice is muffled from where she presses her face into his chest.
“Aye.”
“Good.”
“I’ve been thinking, Menace.” He has been. He’s lain awake half the morning thinking.
“About tea and toast?” she asks. “That’s what I’m thinking of.”
“That too.” His stomach rumbles, as if on cue. “But mostly of seaman’s cards. Do you know what those are, lass?”
“No.” She raises her head so she can look him in the face. “Tell me.”
“It’s a card a ship’s captain provides to the crew. It’s backed by the government, by the queen herself. It has a sailor’s name, date of birth, description—everything.”
“Alright,” she says, and he knows she doesn’t understand yet what he means.
“Whoever holds that card is a British sailor. And a British sailor, by law, is a free man. A free man protected by the British government no less. No matter where he came from.”
His mind whirls with the possibilities. He never thought he’d see the day when he’d be grateful for anything from the British government—but here it is. He can make something good come of this shite. Something that fits who he is: Scottish and Jamaican. Both, not half.
“I see,” she says, as understanding lights her face. “And if such a sailor were a Black man, even one liberated from the Southern States in America, he would still be protected by the British government?”
“They’d want to fight it, of course, but yes. As a duke…” He shakes his head, still not quite believing it. “There’d be nothing they could do against a duke, would there?”
“No,” she says, and they listen quietly for a moment while the rain finally begins to taper off and the weak rays of the sun begin to break through the clouds. “I don’t suppose there would be. If you were a duke…”
She stops and corrects herself. “As the duke, you could have a whole fleet of ships crewed by formerly enslaved men, and the government would go to the ends of the Earth to support what you wanted.”
She lays her head against his chest for a moment before she adds, “You could do a world of good, Andrew.” She grins. “Or at least a far sight better than burning down an East Indiaman ship.”
“I could,” he says, and he feels his heart swell. “Imagine it, Menace. Imagine what we could do.”
She buries her head into his chest again. “I can see it,” she says, her voice muffled against his skin once more. And then, “You’ll have a place on your ships for women too, won’t you? You won’t forget them?”
“Nay, lass. I don’t think you would let me.”
She lifts her head and smiles at him. But it’s the wrong one—he can see it is. The one with sadness at its edges and no mirth in her eyes.
“Menace?” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“I think the rain has stopped.” She disentangles their limbs and rises from the little bed of grass to listen. It has; the storm has worn itself out. “I ought to be back before they’re worried sick over me. Although,” she adds, “I did tell Elizabeth where I was headed last night.”
“Should you have done that?” he asks, but she only laughs.
“It’s a little late to begin thinking of my reputation now. There’s nothing left of it to bother over.”
She bends and places a kiss on his forehead, then dresses herself quickly while he watches. The morning feels wrong, but he doesn’t know how to fix it because he doesn’t know where it’s gone pear-shaped.
He’d always thought he was beneath her as an illegitimate sailor, but as a duke—bloody hell—he’d thought he could have her now. But watching her scurry away this morning, he thinks he was wrong about that.
“Menace—” he begins, but she only gives him that wrong smile once more.
“Your Grace,” she whispers. “I’ll see you this evening. It’s the Yule Ball, don’t forget.” And in just a few steps, she’s out the door, taking his heart with her.
Catherine wishes she had time to wallow, but she doesn’t.
She arrives at the governor general’s mansion with the sun still hidden behind the clouds, but the new day has already begun—the day of the Yule Ball, and the last day she will spend as Lady Catherine West. The sky above her is heavy and gray, overburdened with clouds, as if to mirror her heart.
Her conversation with Andrew that morning had only confirmed what she’d already known but hadn’t wanted to face: Andrew McGann is the Duke of Barclay. And she can never return to her life as Lady Catherine West.
Even if she wished to—and she does not—she’s ruined her reputation beyond repair. A duke would not, could not, come within a nautical mile of her. Least of all one who, given his parentage and the manner of his accession, will have troubles enough of his own.
For him to survive the court cases, the peerage, and all the machinations that are about to erupt into his life like an undersea quake, his reputation will have to be spotless.
He’ll need to marry the most sterling, upstanding lady of society he can find.
And that is certainly not her. A woman who jilted her fiancé at the altar and then ran away to sea.
No. Especially not now that he has a dream worth chasing. She’d heard that wonder in his voice this morning; it was beautiful. And she won’t tarnish it with her presence in his life.
She quietly lets herself in through the servant’s entrance and climbs the stairs to lay down in bed, only to be found moments later by Claire, bringing in a tray of tea and toast. If her absence had been noted earlier this morning, it isn’t mentioned now.
“Morning, Miss,” Claire says. “Mrs. Masters is already up, and Sir Cleveland is eager to meet with you both.”
“Yes, thank you,” Catherine replies. “Please tell them I’ll be down in a moment.”
She dresses in a hurry and then joins Sir Cleveland and Elizabeth in the governor general’s office.
“Are you certain?” Sir Cleveland asks fifteen minutes later, for what feels like the millionth time in their short conversation.
“I am,” she says. “And it’s easily provable. Any Scottish barrister could tell you—or any legal tract, for that matter. Andrew McGann is the Duke of Barclay if his parents married at any time, before or after he was born. It makes no difference if the title is Scottish, which it is.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sir Cleveland says. “Will he accept it?”
Catherine nods. “I think he might. If he can find a way to make it beneficial.”
“Beneficial?” Cleveland asks. “How could inheriting a dukedom not be beneficial?”
“I believe she meant to others, Uncle,” Elizabeth says.
Catherine reaches over and squeezes her hand. “Yes, that’s exactly what I meant.”
“He’ll be the duke, for Christ’s sake,” Cleveland replies. “He can do whatever he wants. For whomever he wants. That’s the whole point of being a duke.”
“You will speak with him, Catherine, won’t you?” Elizabeth asks. “And do remind him of the Yule Ball. It’s this evening, after all.”
“Elizabeth,” Cleveland chides, “this is hardly the time to worry over invitations.”
“On the contrary, Uncle,” she says. “It is exactly the right time. Barclay—or Lord Evans, I suppose he is now—is in prison. Andrew must claim his place, and the Ball hosted by yourself, celebrating Yule, is the perfect time to do it. You must show your support of McGann as the rightful heir.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Cleveland says, and Catherine feels the bars of the cage closing securely around them. Around him, especially.
The political machinations are beginning—right here and now, in this very conversation.
Who shows support and how and why and when.
What the weight of a reputation is worth, and who gets to assess it.
Who has power and who does not. Who aligns with whom.
She knows this world intimately and she wants nothing to do with it.
Andrew won’t want it either, but he won’t be able to turn away from it now.
“Where is Barclay, Lady Catherine?” Cleveland asks, bringing her attention back to the room.
“At his grandmother’s,” she says, ignoring the shudder she feels when he calls her Lady Catherine. “He’ll need time to recover. He was quite grievously injured by… bother, Elizabeth, what is the man’s name now?”
“Lord Richard Evans.”
“Thank you. Yes. He was quite grievously injured by Lord Evans. It will take time for him to regain his strength.”
“But you will speak with him?” Sir Cleveland presses. “It will be best for everyone if he accepts his position with no fuss.”
“I will,” she says. “For all the good it will do.”
“Now then.” Elizabeth claps her hands. “It’s time to get the Yule decorations under way. Preparations for a fête are not for the faint of heart.”
Catherine barely has a moment to breathe for the rest of the day, much less think—which is likely for the best. There’s nothing to think about. She finds a few stolen moments to seek out McNeil and make her preparations, then spends the rest of the day at Elizabeth’s mercy.
She helps oversee the placement of the flowers, introduces the musicians to the house staff and the space, and lends her expertise to the seating arrangements for the private dinner beforehand.
Seconds and minutes and hours tick past as she works, and she feels herself falling again into those familiar, hated rhythms of the ton.
This is the life she was born for: the oversight of balls, the running of a household. She can do it with her eyes closed, even while she reviles it.
Garlands of tropical flowers are wound around the banisters and colonnades, and a large cedar tree is hauled inside and situated in the middle of the ballroom floor.
The tree and surrounding tables are decorated with glass ornaments and globes, ribbons and lace, and finally, candles.
Footmen are stationed throughout the room to watch for fire while others scatter little parcels wrapped in brown paper and brightly colored string across every available surface.
The whole effect is cozy, warm, and lovely—and it is all Catherine can do not to cry.
“Are you missing home, dear?” Elizabeth asks as the two women stand back and examine their handiwork. All that’s left is to hang the mistletoe. Or rather, the Spanish moss, which is as close as they can get to mistletoe on the island. “It’s hard to be away for a holiday.”
“I am,” Catherine says.
And it’s true, after a fashion. She wonders how Violet and her mother and aunt are faring.
If they miss her. How they’ll react to the message she’s sent that morning—saying she’s well.
That she’d been waylaid on her way to Boston and is now in Jamaica but has every reason to think she’ll be back on the water soon.
And that she promises to call on Violet’s father in New York as soon as she arrives.
“And is there something more?” Elizabeth asks. “Something about our new duke, perhaps?”
Catherine smiles bleakly. Her friend is observant—not that she and Andrew had been particularly secretive.
They hadn’t known they needed to be. For those few hours after she found Andrew and before they opened the lockbox, they’d just been Andrew and Catherine.
She misses those hours already, with a heartsickness she didn’t know was possible.
“Yes,” she says. “A little of that too. It’s different now that he’s a duke.”
“Must it be?” Elizabeth asks. “You seem a woman who knows her own mind. And you are an earl’s daughter. You would fit together and no one would blink.” Elizabeth reaches for her hand and squeezes it.
“I’m an earl’s daughter who left her fiancé at the altar, boarded a ship bound for Boston unchaperoned, and has been cavorting about the island of Jamaica. I’m more than ruined, Elizabeth. I won’t bring him down with me. He’s got too many things to accomplish now.”
“If you insist,” Elizabeth says. “Although some might be more forgiving than you think. I know a number of women who wish they’d left their husbands at the altar and who might admire your bravery in having done it.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
She closes her eyes for a moment and imagines it might be true. That she could have a life with Andrew. But she knows she can’t—not only because of scandal or social standing but because she doesn’t want to live her life in the peerage. She’s escaped her cage, and she’s not going back into it now.
And he’s a man with a new dream she would never stand in the way of. He’ll build his fleet of ships, and she’ll go to New York and do… something. She’ll figure that part out when she gets there. That’s always been her plan—or as close to a plan as she ever manages.
Elizabeth gives her hand one last squeeze. “Well then,” she says. “It’s time to dress. Our guests will soon be upon us.”