A Stranger at Castonbury(27)
‘I know, but they don’t really feel like my family. I hardly know them at all. I mean, I met the duchess once when I was a child, though I scarcely remember her, and Lady Kate came to call when she had her Season, but that’s all. I’m not sure why they even invited me to this wedding.’
‘Perhaps because they want to know you better?’ Catalina said soothingly. ‘I am sure there is nothing to fear. You need only enjoy yourself for a few days and get to know your relatives. You are sure to like them, and they can’t help but like you.’
Lydia bit her lip. ‘Do you think so?’
‘I am sure of it.’ Catalina gave her a smile. ‘And I am sure there will be handsome young men there, just as you hoped.’
Lydia laughed. ‘Oh, I do hope so! If I can only be brave enough to talk to them.’
‘You need have no fear of that. They will talk to you.’ Catalina tapped the book in Lydia’s hands. ‘Now, tell me what you think of the don. Have you any Spanish words you want to go over?’
They talked about the story until the carriage slowed down to sway around a bend in the road. Catalina looked out the window and saw they were rolling through a pair of elaborately wrought iron gates surmounted by a family crest.
Castonbury. They were here at last.
The ornate iron gates, surmounted by the family crest and with a substantial stone lodge nearby, stood open to greet guests. Vast gardens lay beyond in a rolling vista of beautiful views, with twin lakes in the distance connected by an arched bridge and with white marble follies on hilltops. It was all just as Jamie had said it was.
Catalina swallowed hard as they drew closer to the house. It looked as if it had been just there on the land for ever, a graceful, classical sweep of a house, pale and perfect and somehow as substantial as a mountain. It proclaimed that it belonged there, that its family belonged there. It spoke of tradition and duty and devotion.
And Catalina could see so clearly now that she could never have belonged there as the Montagues did. Even if Jamie had lived and brought her here as his marchioness, it would not have been hers.
‘Mrs Moreno?’ Lydia asked, her voice soft with concern. ‘Are you quite well? You look so strange all of a sudden.’
Catalina turned away from the window and smiled at Lydia. ‘I am perfectly fine. I think I’ve just been in the carriage too long and need some fresh air. Isn’t the house lovely?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Lydia turned eagerly to the view, her eyes shining as she took in the prospect down the sweep of the drive. ‘I have heard about Castonbury for ages, and it is just as I imagined it. It looks as if a king should live there.’
A king. A memory suddenly flashed through Catalina’s mind, of Jamie walking with her beside a Spanish river, the sunlight gleaming on his dark hair and turning his skin to pure, molten gold. In that moment when everything seemed to go still around them, she had been sure he looked like a god come to earth.
The carriage drew to a halt, and Catalina was pulled out of her memories and into the present moment. She wasn’t here to remember, she was here to work, to get through these few days and get on with her life again. She straightened the ribbons of her bonnet and smoothed down the collar of her grey pelisse.
A footman hurried to open the carriage door and lower the steps. Catalina stepped down onto the gravel drive behind Lydia, and had to grab the girl’s arm before she could go dashing off to look at some horses in a nearby paddock. Lydia had never had the chance to learn to really ride and yet was fascinated by horses.
‘We must greet our hostess and find our rooms first, Lydia, don’t forget,’ Catalina said. ‘There will be time for exploring later.’
Lydia pouted a bit, but she obediently followed Catalina up the wide stone steps and through the pillared portico into the front doors. The soaring hall was so dark and gloomy that for a moment Catalina couldn’t see anything at all. She felt like she was surrounded by shadows, by the sweet smell of flowers and beeswax polish pressing in on her.
She rubbed her gloved hand over her eyes and looked up to see a staircase winding into the upper recesses of the house. Marble pillars lined the space, soaring up to a painted ceiling and more galleries above. Paintings in heavy gilt frames were hung on the panelled wall along its length, an array of Elizabethan ruffs and Cavalier plumes mixed with powdered wigs and satin gowns. And one young man standing under a tree in the Castonbury Park, his hat held casually in his hand as the breeze tousled his dark hair and he smiled out at the viewer.