Chapter Eleven
“Thought it was too good to be true.” Mr. Kerwyn let out a deep, tired breath. “You sure, Kate?”
“Yes, of course I’m sure!” Kate cried. “How could you think that I would want to court Henry Crawford?”
Mr. Kerwyn looked blankly at his wife, sitting beside him at the worn kitchen table. “He said the two of you had a little conversation the night of your party. I thought you liked him.”
“Not like that! And, no, we didn’t have a ‘conversation.’ ” More like a one-way street, Kate fumed.
Mr. Kerwyn rubbed his forehead. “Well, why don’t you like him? Never dreamt you’d say no. He asked for my blessing to court you, so I gave it. Said we’d be happy to have him in the family. I’ll admit, I was a little surprised, but, well, there you go. Can’t always predict, can you?”
“I’m not courting him, and I’m certainly not marrying him!”
Mr. Kerwyn was genuinely perplexed. “Why not? Got a good job down in Chicago. An architect I think he said. Not bad lookin’.”
Kate groaned. “Because I don’t love him.” Angrily, she pushed away the memory of him kissing her on the porch. Did he think that that had entitled him to speak to her father? How dare he!
“That all?” Mr. Kerwyn let out a little chuckle, which further annoyed Kate. “That’ll come. You don’t have to love him completely in the beginning. Tell her, Caroline.”
“Well, I suppose that’s true,” Mrs. Kerwyn replied with a sigh. “Your father and I liked each other well enough at the beginning, but as the years went on, we grew to love each other.”
Kate wanted to blurt out that Henry Crawford was not the type of man you could grow to love over the years.
He was the type, she was sure, who would break any heart foolish enough to trust him.
She had not told either of her parents what she had seen in the kitchen the night of Ray’s party, but she was sorely tempted to now.
But to say as much would incriminate Louisa, and even though Kate had no great love for her sister, she had no wish to ruin her engagement to Vernon Tierney.
But there was another reason for her refusal, one she dared not say aloud. She was, as Henry had infuriatingly pointed out, hopelessly in love with Edmund Bertram.
Ever since her party, she had been turning it over in her mind, examining every angle of her and Edmund’s .
. . friendship—she dared not use the words understanding, relationship, attachment, attraction, fondness, devotion, loyalty or affection, though each of them had come to mind at one point or another in this assessment.
In the end, however, there was nothing left to do but to admit that it was true.
Now, whenever she thought about it—about him—she found it difficult to breathe.
She hardly knew what to do with her feelings now that she realized they were not familial nor platonic.
How could this have happened? Again and again, she reflected on their childhood together—how kind he had always been, and how attentive and helpful and encouraging he had become as they grew into young adulthood.
It made sense for these kindnesses to have eventually blossomed into love on her part, but did he feel the same?
As she tossed and turned at night, she tried to reassess the little looks he had given her at the badger hole last summer when he had come to help her and how he had visited her every day during her recent illness, usually bringing some little thing with him to cheer her—some candies from the Sweet Chalet, a bunch of wildflowers, once even a small kitten for her to pet.
Or just recently on the night of Ray’s party, when had come up to find her, concerned as always.
He may have been a little in love with her, she realized despairingly, but she had failed to recognize it in either herself or him, and now it was too late. Now he was in love with Mary Crawford, and she with him.
By nature, Kate was not a jealous person, but it did bother her that something she had held in her grasp for so long had now slipped out due to her own ignorant stubbornness.
How could she have been so blind? So stupid?
Her heart raced with anger and regret whenever she thought about it, which was nearly every hour of every day.
“Listen, Kate,” Mr. Kerwyn went on in response to Kate’s silence, “we took you in, you’re like a daughter to us, but the fact is . . .” He shifted in his chair. “The fact is . . . you are an Indian.”
Kate’s head shot up.
“Now before you get all hot an’ bothered, what I mean is . . . not many men around here are gonna want to marry an Indian. You should be glad that someone like Henry Crawford is making you a respectable offer. You’re not gonna get many chances, I don’t think. Tell her, Caroline.”
Kate stared incredulously at the only father she had ever known.
To spare their feelings, Kate had decided not to tell them what she had uncovered about her origins from Sheriff Norris and Rosemary, but now she regretted it.
Her parents still believed her to be a Sauk Indian, and though her heritage had never seemed to matter before, she saw with a stab to her heart that it did.
She was “less-than,” at least in her father’s eyes. She looked to her mother.
“Well, he might be right, Kate.”
For once in her life, Kate could think of no angry retort. The shock and the pain were too deep. She turned and fled the kitchen and began climbing the stairs by twos to her room.
“Now, don’t you run off mad!” Mr. Kerwyn called. “We’re just trying to help you, Kate!”
Kate pulled out a battered carpetbag from under her bed and began stuffing things into it.
It was obvious she didn’t belong here. She had blown her chance with Edmund, and she wasn’t about to be pushed into a marriage to Henry Crawford.
But more than anything else, she needed to get away from this wretched family who saw her as a second-class citizen.
Julius Fairfax had once compared her to some medieval Chinese Cinderella who lived in a cave, which at the time seemed ridiculous.
But the more she thought about it, perhaps it was all too true. She was a sort of Cinderella.
Well, this Cinderella had had enough. She took one last look around the room and pounded down the stairs.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Mr. Kerwyn shouted from the kitchen.
Mrs. Kerwyn hurried into the little foyer. “You’re leaving?” she cried, noting her small carpetbag. “Oh, Kate, you’re not going back to that dirty hole, are you? It’s supposed to freeze again next week.”
Kate dropped the bag on the floor and pulled on her coat. “No, I’m not going back to the badger hole. I’m going to find my real family.”
Mrs. Kerwyn’s face went white. “But we’re your real family.” Mrs. Kerwyn looked as if she was about to cry.
Kate wavered.
“Now you listen here, Kate.” Mr. Kerwyn strode in from the kitchen. “You’re upsetting your mother. You’ve tried leavin’ here twice before, and it ain’t worked. Runnin’ away is a little kid thing to do. You’re too old for this. Time to grow up.”
Kate’s angry resolve instantly returned. “Yes, it is time to grow up, Mr. Kerwyn. Don’t worry—I won’t be coming back this time.” Picking up her bag, she marched to the front door.
“Oh, Kate, please don’t go,” Mrs. Kerwyn pleaded, following her. “We were just trying to help you.”
Kate turned around, her throat aching with suppressed tears. “Help me?” she hissed angrily, too low for her father to hear. “Why didn’t you help me when Ray was fondling me in a closet?”
Her mother stared at her, stunned. “What?”
Kate was as startled by the words as Mrs. Kerwyn.
She stared at her mother, trying to read her face for deceit, but then realized with further crushing sadness that it was something else, something worse.
“You don’t remember, do you, Mrs. Kerwyn?
” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Well, I should have expected that.”
“Kate!” Mrs. Kerwyn called, following her onto the porch. “Don’t go!”
Kate heard her father shout from the kitchen, where he had retreated in disgust. “If she wants to go, let her go, Caroline. We’ve tried our best. If she ain’t grateful, well, so be it.”
Kate stomped down the steps.
“Kate!” her mother called, but Kate did not turn and instead marched hurriedly down the lane, angrily wiping her tears as she went.
She would find her real family, no matter what it took.