Katherine, When She Smiled

  KATHERINE, WHEN SHE SMILED

  By

  Joyce Harmon

  Katherine, When She Smiled

  Published by Joyce Harmon at Amazon

  Copyright 2015 Joyce Harmon

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  KATHERINE, WHEN SHE SMILED

  By

  Joyce Harmon

  ONE

  The escape of Napoleon Bonaparte, erstwhile Emperor of the French, from his place of exile on Elba caused a frisson of dread and consternation from Vienna to London and all throughout Europe and beyond. But the residents of the village of Piddledean felt that they had especial cause to be vexed by the return of the Corsican to the world stage.

  Piddledean, on the banks of the Piddle River in the county of Dorset, was a village of no historical significance whatsoever, but was nonetheless valued by its inhabitants as a place of great comfort. The greatest estate in the vicinity was Greymere, and the owner of the estate was consequently a man of paramount importance to the community. The original family who built Greymere Manor had died out in the last century, and ten years previously, the estate was purchased by the Duke of Winton as a means of providing for his younger son. Upon the Duke’s death, the estate was accordingly bequeathed to that son, Lord Charles Ramsey.

  But Piddledean had yet to make the acquaintance of Lord Charles, or he of them. Lord Charles was a soldier, and at the time of coming into possession of his estate was much involved in the war then being waged in the Peninsula. While following the progress of the war achieved new pertinence with such a prominent (though as yet unmet) resident engaged in the struggle, Piddledean was thrilled the previous spring to read of the fall of Paris and the abdication of the Emperor, sure that Lord Charles would soon walk among them. Indeed, intelligence gleaned from London advised them that Lord Charles had in fact sold his commission and left the army.

  Anticipation ran high. Greymere itself was competently managed by a most superior steward, yet he was not the sort of man, worthy though he might be, that the gentry of the region would invite to their dinner table. And yet still Lord Charles did not come. His lingering in London was a source of deep concern, London being considered a particularly dangerous locale for a young single gentleman. Piddledean was not worried for the physical safety of the seasoned young soldier, but felt the danger to his single state to be severe.

  When an engagement was announced, and proved thankfully to be for Lord Charles’ older brother the Duke, the village knew that Lord Charles would be delayed yet again. Following the Duke’s marriage, there was talk of a scientific expedition, so perhaps he was involved in those arrangements. The sailing of the Ramsey Expedition, with the Duke and Duchess aboard but with Lord Charles still safely ashore, was another danger passed. The society columns of the London newspapers, arriving late in Piddledean, showed Lord Charles present at this or that ball or house party.

  Then finally, nerves frayed with the constant disappointment, in the waning of the year, word came to Piddledean that Lord Charles was coming at last. The news was incontrovertible, from the Greymere housekeeper to the local butcher and greengrocer, laying in such supplies as would be required to provision the household of a Duke’s son. Indeed, the word went forth that in the early spring Lord Charles would arrive to take up the reins of his property.

  And then, then, with the viands actually purchased, delivered, and stored, with village girls hired and giving the Manor such a turnout and washing as it had not seen in a generation, with young ladies turning out their wardrobes and examining their best gowns and finding them insufficient, with such a purchasing of new bolts of sprig muslin and new shawls and new bonnets and boots and lace and gloves, with the squire and his wife, hopeful parents of three daughters, debating whether the front hall of the Place was grand enough that a dance held there might be described as a ball, amid all this ferment of activity and expectation, then Napoleon inconsiderately loosed himself once more upon the weary world.

  “And so, he’s gone,” Julia Fordice, the squire’s eldest daughter, told the ladies of Rosebourne in the Roses’ front parlor.

  “Are you sure?” asked Helen, the younger of the two Rose daughters. Sixteen and romantic, she was one of the most fervent hopers after Lord Charles.

  “It’s certain,” Julia said glumly. “Papa was just at Horse Guards when up in London and learned that Lord Charles has rejoined his regiment. They’ve already sailed.”

  Katherine, the elder of the Roses, diligently plying her needle, said, “I’m sure Lord Wellington will be glad to hear it. According to the newspaper accounts, the army assembled to face Napoleon this time is a sorry patchwork of nationalities, not at all the army with which he defeated the Emperor the first time. The Duke will be thankful for any Peninsular veterans he can muster.”

  Julia, whose acquaintance with the newspapers did not extend beyond the society columns and court news, pouted. “But it’s so provoking!” she exclaimed. “The war could continue on for years and years as it did before, and my new gowns could be entirely out of fashion before Lord Charles ever sees them. Had I but known, I would have saved the money and worn my older gowns another year. They’re quite good enough for the local fellows.”

  She looked at her friend Katherine and Katherine’s sister Helen, both dressed in unrelieved black, and held back her most deeply felt complaint. She had hoped to meet Lord Charles while the beautiful Rose sisters were still in mourning for their father, and thus not attending local social functions. Katherine was her best friend, but she would like, just once, to meet a likely man and give him an opportunity to form an attachment before he met Katherine.

  Miss Alice Rose, the sisters’ aunt, spoke up now. “If you speak of expense, think of the Regent and the Allied monarchs! Such an extravagance last summer with those Peace celebrations! The parades and the fireworks and balls and grand illuminations and that reenactment of Trafalgar! The cost must have been enormous. And then it comes to nothing after all. So inconsiderate, just like the French.”

  Mister Downey, the vicar, was also paying a morning call on the Rose ladies and pointed out, “But Napoleon is actually Corsican, Miss Rose, practically Italian, so his lack of consideration can scarcely be blamed on the French.”

  Miss Alice snorted. “Ah, but if the French hadn’t committed the cardinal folly of beheading their rightful king, they would have been in no situation to be imposed upon by a Corsican adventurer, would they? No, I have no patience with them. Why, look at us, we haven’t beheaded our king and he’s mad as he can stare, poor thing. They could certainly tolerate Louis if we can abide George.”

  Mister Downey, a young man of great diplomacy, nodded. “I cannot argue with you there, Miss Rose.”

  Helen, uninterested in the traits and follies of foreigners, was still cogitating Julia’s assertion that the war might go on for years. She looked up in fright and exclaimed, “Why, Lord Charles might be killed, and so be unable to marry any of us!”

  Her exclamation, though artless, well expressed the general sense among Piddledeanians. Whatever loyalty and duty Lord Charles owed the Duke of Wellington, Piddledean thought he owed them something as well. At the least, to appear before them and give them something to talk about, and at best to marry one of their fair daughters.

  “Ah, Miss Helen,�
�� the vicar chided in teasing accents. “Consider that none of us has so much as laid eyes on his lordship. How can you be certain our young ladies will want to marry him?”

  Katherine looked up from the needle she was threading. “Come now, Mister Downey,” she said. “We know quite enough to know that Lord Charles will prove to have every amiable quality.”

  “We do?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she replied. “Consider, we know that he is a soldier and a lord. The son of a duke and the brother of a duke. He is known to be young and rich and single. Surely that is quite enough for the young ladies to discern in him every virtue.”

  Mister Downey sighed in mock sadness. “So young to be so cynical.”

  “Can you doubt my words?” she challenged.

  “Alas, I cannot,” he admitted.

  Once the callers had departed, Katherine thought little more about Lord Charles, remembering his existence only when others mentioned him. Helen mentioned him often, wondering where he was and how he was doing and how long he would remain away at war this time. When Helen or Julia introduced the subject, Katherine would enter into the conversation out of good nature, but a titled young gentleman who was a complete stranger interested her not at all. Katherine, as both her family and the community at large were fond of saying, was The Sensible One.

  This accolade was not one that Katherine had sought, nor, having gained it, did she take any particular pride in it. If anything, hearing herself so described evoked little more than a resigned exasperation, and the thought that after all, someone must be sensible. There had been no other candidate for the assignment since Mama died.

  Katherine’s father, the late Sidney Rose, had been a man greatly respected throughout the community, indeed, throughout all of England in certain circles, as one of great intellect and scholarly attainment. But Papa’s mental acuity had been devoted to a particular field of study which began and ending in ancient Greece. Ask him anything about Euripides or Aristophanes or Sophocles, or particularly about his beloved Homer, and he would answer at length, with great precision and knowledge. But Katherine learned at a very young age that if the question was whether the hay in the long field was ready for harvest, or if little Jack needed new shoes, it was pointless to apply to Papa.

  Aunt Alice, Papa’s sister, had joined the family establishment upon the death of the children’s mother six years ago. She was to provide the maternal influence in the family. Aunt Alice was a dear lady, kind and warm-hearted, but her most devoted proponent would have to admit that common sense was not one of her strengths. ‘Scatty’ was a term often used to describe her in her absence, though it was said with fondness.

  Since Papa’s death two months ago, Rosebourne was the property of little Jack, now returned to school following Papa’s funeral. His guardianship and the management of his property until he attained his majority were officially shared between Aunt Alice and Mister Perkins at the bank. But everyone knew that the de facto head of the Rose household was actually Miss Katherine Rose, just one-and-twenty.

  Katherine was used to managing the household, had indeed held these reins since her mother died. But taking up her father’s responsibility as well had introduced her to problems, and mysteries as yet unsolved.

  Now Katherine took a quick tour of the household to ensure all was in order. In the kitchen, Cook had all she needed for preparation of the family dinner. Helen was at the pianoforte, at which she excelled, and the strains of a sonata filled the house with mellow tones. Aunt Alice was established in the comfortable little parlor known as the ladies’ sewing room. Nothing cried out for her immediate attention, and so Katherine repaired to Papa’s study to once more turn over the conundrum that had become her obsession.

  The study was a masculine apartment on the ground floor, cozy with leather arm chairs, walls lined with books, a shabby oriental rug, and two desks. Katherine passed the large desk taking pride of place in the center of the study, and seated herself at the secretary beside the wall. This was Papa’s desk for conducting business; the large desk was where he did his scholarly work. The mystery concerned business, and was simply this – what was the source of Papa’s money?

  Of course, Papa was a gentleman, not a professional man, and like most gentlemen, he lived on his lands and investments. When Katherine examined the books after Papa died, she expected to see that he derived the entirety of his income from rents and the Funds, as was common among country gentlemen. The Rosebourne property consisted of a number of farms and cottages and these were rented out to tenants. The Funds were government securities and the wealthy class of the day kept most of their fortunes in these safe and stodgy investments. The rate of return might be low, but it was safe, as secure as Britain itself.

  But when Katherine went over the household accounts, she discovered that rents and income from the Funds accounted for barely half of the family’s income. Several times a year, a large sum was deposited into the account and this made up the remainder. When she discovered this last month, she made an appointment with Mister Perkins and asked him about this income, certain he would have an explanation. But Mister Perkins had only looked crestfallen and said, “I was hoping you knew!”

  Mister Perkins, a fussy little man with a hesitant manner and a fondness for snuff, told Katherine that the income arrived in the form of a draft on a London bank, and that her father had told him that he needn’t concern himself with the matter. Katherine thanked Mister Perkins and returned home more baffled than ever.

  Katherine wished there was someone with whom she could discuss the matter, but there was not. Aunt Alice and Helen were both obviously unaware of any other source of income, and to bring this to their attention would merely serve to alarm them.

  For a few moments, Katherine pondered discussing the issue with Mister Downey. A vicar seemed an ideal recipient for perplexing confidences, and if old Mister Wilkes were still alive, she would take the issue to him without hesitation. But Mister Downey was not a fatherly old man. He was a young man, and single at that. Moreover, Katherine’s relationship with Mister Downey was one fraught with unspoken assumptions.

  Before Papa died, Mister Downey had begun to make it clear that he preferred Katherine’s company to that of any of the other young ladies in the neighborhood. His attentions were subtle and had not quite risen to the level that observers would be speaking of Mister Downey’s courtship, but the signs were there. When they met in company, there was a special look in his eyes reserved solely for her. When he had occasion to take her hand, he held it for just a brief moment more than was strictly necessary. He called on the family and stayed longer when Katherine was in the house than when she turned out to be absent. There was no doubt in Katherine’s mind that the matter had been progressing toward a declaration in form.

  Of course, since Papa’s death, Mister Downey’s attentions continued but did not progress further. The vicar wouldn’t dream of being seen to be courting a young woman in mourning. But Katherine was certain that once she had replaced her black garments with the grey and lavender of half mourning, then Mister Downey’s proposal would soon follow.

  And Katherine had no notion how she would respond. She liked Mister Downey, certainly. He was an admirable young man, industrious and good natured. Everyone liked and respected him. He had no known vices and no grating habits, and an establishment so close to her childhood home would be pleasant. Katherine in fact knew of no reason not to accept Mister Downey. But she wondered if the points in his favor were enough to sustain a lifelong relationship of the closest nature.

  But these factors made her decide against bringing the problem of Papa’s income to him for consideration. Asking a man for guidance in a matter of family finance would be as good as a preemptive acceptance of an offer not yet tendered.

  No, Katherine was on her own. And she fancied that today’s mystery was somehow connected to an earlier one, the puzzling circumstance she thought of as Papa’s Clever Investment.

  Mam
a had still been alive, so it was seven or eight years ago when Katherine first became aware that the family was experiencing financial difficulties. One evening, after the children had gone to bed, Katherine got up and went along the hall to ask Mama a question. What the question was she could no longer remember, as it was driven from her mind by what she overheard that night.

  Approaching Mama and Papa’s room, where the faint candlelight still shone under the door, Katherine was about to rap for admittance when she heard Mama exclaim, “Sell Rosebourne! Will it really come to that?”

  Papa’s voice was softer, but the words came clearly to the young girl shivering in the dark hall. “I’m afraid it’s inevitable, my dear. I see no way around it. We simply can no longer afford to remain here.”

  Katherine turned and sped silently back to her room, where she buried herself in the covers and cried herself to sleep.

  She never mentioned what she overheard to anyone, but maintained a cautious watch on her parents, waiting for the words that would exile them from their home. Helen was just a young girl and Jack a toddler, so they noticed nothing amiss, but Katherine saw a worried crease between Papa’s eyes now, and Mama was quiet and went on her round of duties without the smiles and songs that were her previous habit. It was an anxious time for Katherine, made more anxious by the fact that it was entirely unmentioned. And it went on for weeks and months.

  And then one day everything changed. That evening when the children arrived at the dinner table, they found Mama singing and dancing. Mama was back to her old self, only more so, a wild hectic gaiety such as Katherine had never seen before. The meal was a feast and a party, consisting of all of Papa’s favorites, from the green goose to the trifle.

  When Helen asked if it was a party, Mama said, “It is indeed!” and when Katherine asked what they were celebrating, Mama laughed and said, “Papa’s clever investment.”

  Papa tried to frown at Mama, and Mama went on, “All you children need to know is that your Papa is a brilliant man.” Papa seated himself at the head of the table and Mama kissed him on top of the head and danced to her own chair. There were several more mentions of ‘Papa’s clever investment’, all from Mama, before Mama finally conceded to Papa’s admonishments, placed her finger onto her lips and said, “very well, I’ll say no more.”