Chapter Nine

It was gone.

After seeing Old Parson to the gate, Catherine had gone to her room and sat in the armchair beside the fire. She reached into one of the pockets of her skirt and pulled out whatever had slipped into her hand when she and the De Noir boy were running through the forest. It was a ring, gold with a black onyx stone which was carved with a coat of arms. Catherine squinted to make out the crest: a silver shield with the image of a black lion. She thought about this for a minute, this obviously belonged to Robin de Noir and the right thing to do would be to give it back to him, after all, he had helped her to escape - that being said, he had been perfectly beastly to her and still had her mother's brooch and her scarf. No, Catherine thought, she would give it back to him when she could and prove she was a better person than him.

She decided to hide it in her jewellery box to make sure Benjamin wouldn't come across it. As she placed it in the box, Catherine caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dressing table mirror and saw that the cameo brooch given to her by Tobias Saxon was missing from its place at her throat. Catherine gave a strangled cry of utter despair, her hand flying up to touch the lace at her throat. She promised herself that, no matter what, she would go back to the forest and find it. She didn't even care if she got caught again, just as long as she found it.


"My father, a wise and grave man, gave me serious and excellent counsel against what he foresaw was my design. He called me one morning into his chamber, where -"

"Stop! I can't bear the sound of your voice!" Mrs. Darvill interrupted.

"But we've only gotten to page eight!"

"I don't care. I've no wish to hear your voice any longer. You don't read as well as Gwen does."

Catherine was seated on a chair in Mrs. Darvill's dingy bedroom while the old lady herself sat enthroned in her armchair beside the fire. She was reading from a copy of Robinson Crusoe while Mrs. Darvill interrupted at every possible opportunity.

"Does Gwen often read to you?"

"Every time she is here." the old woman replied haughtily, "Her voice is pleasing to the ear. Your voice has a somewhat unpleasant quality about it."

Catherine bit back the urge to say something harsh in return and instead said sweetly, "When will Gwen be here next?"

"She'll finish the season in London and then return home. I expect her arrival any day now and then I'll have no need of you for she will read to me and do a much better job if it!"

"I'm sure she will."

"You may continue." Mrs. Darvill said, much to Catherine's surprise.

"…where he was confined by the gout, and expostulated very warmly with me upon this subject. He asked me what reasons, more than a mere -"

"Lift that painting down from the mantelpiece." Mrs. Darvill suddenly commanded. Catherine marked her place in the book with a scrap of ribbon then laid it aside and went to fetch said painting.

"Look at it!"

The painting was only about the size of the book she had been reading, it depicted a rather beautiful young woman in her late teens. Her hair was golden blond and tied in a thick plait around her head with little flowers placed amongst it; her face was heart-shaped with fine cheekbones, a button nose, pert little lips like a rosebud and dimples.

"Is this Gwen? She's very lovely." Catherine held the painting out to Mrs. Darvill who snatched it from her hands.

"Yes she is. Hair like liquid gold, eyes as blue as forget-me-nots." the old woman murmured distractedly, stroking the edge of the painting with one gnarled, arthritic claw of a hand, "Gentlemen from all over the British Isles are vying for her hand. The French ambassador even wants her for a bride for his eldest son…Open the trunk at the bottom of the bed."

Catherine did so, and couldn't help but gasp at what she found inside. The trunk was packed with some of the finest clothes she had ever seen; two velvet dresses, ruby red and emerald green; a plumb coloured walking dress with accompanying jacket, gloves and parasol; a travelling dress of black moiré silk; a grey mink coat with matching hat and hand muff; a luxuriously soft white stole made of Arctic Fox fur; Japanese silk robes for the evening; pale hand-printed dresses to be worn in the garden on a summer's day; dresses to wear to horse races, garden parties, on yachts, at picnics, to breakfast, to dinner and to supper. Silk and muslin petticoats and bloomers, trimmed with lace and ribbons; whalebone corsets embroidered with miniscule flowers, butterflies and dragonflies.

"Oh, Mrs. Darvill! They're wonderful! I've never seen anything so beautiful before!" Catherine marvelled.

"Her wedding trousseau. I sewed the intimates myself. I did a fine job, did I not?" Mrs. Darvill replied in a faraway voice, still fondling the painting.

"Yes, you did." Catherine agreed, running a finger over a dragonfly sewn upon one of the corsets, its body was of shining gold thread and its wings of green and blue, giving the whole thing a lustre akin to a peacock's feather.

"In the wardrobe are her ball gowns. Imported from Paris."

Catherine flung open the wardrobe doors and found six exquisite dresses which greeted her with a rustle of satin and chiffon; a dress of black velvet embroidered with gold brocade and with black lace trimming the sleeves and neckline; a dress of deep purple with silken violets, which looked uncannily real, sewn upon the dress as though they had been scattered across the wearer's collarbones; one made of an unusual dusky pink material which turned lilac in some places when it caught the light; teal satin embroidered with dragonflies like the corset Catherine had handled earlier, which had obviously sewn to match the splendid dress; an unusual mustard yellow dress with a scarlet sash around the waist and corsage upon the shoulder; but the finest of them all was undoubtedly a dress made of layer upon layer of white chiffon, it had dramatic puffed sleeves and was sewn all over with little hanging pearls which quivered at the slightest movement.

"When is Gwen getting married?" Catherine asked, turning to face the old woman.

"In the summer. I still have yet to finish embroidering her handkerchiefs. It takes so long because of my arthritis. But I'm confident that I'll have them finished in time." Mrs. Darvill looked up from the painting for the first time in almost five minutes and stared at Catherine as if she were just seeing her for the first time, "What are you doing? Who told you to stop reading? Read! Read this instant!" she reprimanded, almost on the verge of shrieking.

Catherine sat back down again and opened the book, "…more than a mere wandering inclination, I had for leaving my father's house and my native country; where I might be well introduced, and had a prospect of -"

"Oh, it's no good! It's just no good! You'll never compare to my Gwen." Mrs. Darvill grumbled, "Leave now. I want you to leave."

Catherine, who was utterly bewildered by the old woman's behaviour, to say the least, put the book down and made for the door, "Goodbye, Mrs. Darvill." she stammered on her way out.

"And you needn't bother coming back!" Mrs. Darvill called after her, "By then my Gwen shall be here and I shall have no need of you!"

Catherine stood in the lane outside the cottage for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She was more than a little shaken by the experience of her first afternoon spent with Mrs. Darvill.

"M'lady! Lady Merryweather!" a voice called. Catherine turned to see Josiah Flitch scampering down the lane towards her. He skidded to a halt in front of her, breathless and grinning.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, mum. A right pleasure!" he laughed, grabbing her hand and shaking it enthusiastically.

"How do you do, Josiah? Is Mister Hadaway still in London?"

"Aye that 'e is and 'e probably won't be back for a while yet. An 'igh profile client - a duke – popped 'is clogs and Mister 'adaway 'ad to stay behind for the readin' of the will and all. But it turns out that several illegitimate children 'ave come forward, all demandin' a share of the wealth. So the situation 'as complicated somewhat." Flitch babbled, still shaking her hand.

"Well I do hope it all sorts out quickly for him. No doubt he is extremely busy."

"Aye but I'm lookin' after things at this end so 'e doesn't 'ave to worry 'bout things in Silverydew." Josiah boasted smugly.

"And I'm sure you're doing a splendid job, Josiah. You seem like a very capable young man." Catherine replied. The skinny clerk puffed out his chest proudly.

"So what's your business in the village today?"

"Old Parson arranged for me to visit Mrs. Darvill and read to her once a week."

Josiah threw back his head and positively cackled with laughter, "Ha! I don't envy you, mum!"

"Ah. I take it you've met Mrs. Darvill before?"

"Just the once, mum. Mister 'adaway took me with 'im when 'e visited to set some affairs in order. Right royal cow she was!"

"Oh."

"'scuse my French, mum. Well, I reckon you'll be needin' a drink after spendin' the afternoon with that old crone! Come on, Cathy," Flitch said, flinging an arm around her shoulders, "We'll go to The Lion and I'll buy you a lemonade!"

While Phillip Hadaway would have very probably been horrified by the familiar manner in which Flitch was treating her, Catherine herself didn't mind in the slightest and laughed as the clerk steered her down the lane and to the local public house.

The pub which Josiah had referred to as 'The Lion' was actually named 'The Lion and Unicorn' as the sign proclaimed, along with a very good painting of a black lion and a silver unicorn fighting viciously over a jewelled crown, just as the popular rhyme decreed. The proprietor was a man named Roger Norton who greeted them heartily from where he stood behind the bar. Norton was a beefy man with curly auburn hair - which had begun to thin some on top - and mutton-chop sideburns.

Catherine sat at a table in the corner while Josiah went to the bar to order their drinks. He walked back to the table carrying the drinks, all the while staring at the glasses with a laughable expression of concentration as he focused hard on trying not to spill the contents. Catherine had lemonade while Flitch sipped daintily at a glass of sherry, his little finger sticking out – no doubt he was trying to convey an aura of good-breeding to the other patrons of the pub in order to prove himself worthy of the company of his aristocratic companion.

Roger Norton came out from behind the bar to talk to them, "Lady Merryweather! What an honour it is to have you set foot in here!" he boomed, bowing rather elegantly for a man his size.

"My mother is probably spinning in her grave if she can see me! She always said that no lady of good breeding would ever be vulgar enough to enter a public house!" Catherine laughed, "But then, she always did have silly, old-fashioned principles. I am very happy to be here."

"As I recall she was none too happy that your father visited as often as he did." Norton said with a smile, "He was a good man was Lord Merryweather. Treated every man as his equal. Well, this deserves a toast," the publican went behind the bar and returned with a brimming glass of ale, "To Lady Merryweather, for ignoring convention and entering a public house! It is a treat to see a lovely young woman in here. Hopefully one day custom will change and more young ladies will be free to enter!"

"I'll drink to that!" Josiah giggled, knocking back the rest of his sherry. He was already looking rather glassy eyed and a little drunk.

"Norton, my good fellow," he slurred, putting on a ridiculous posh accent, "Would you be so kind as to fetch me another glass of sherry?"

"It's a little early in the day, don't you think, Josiah?" Roger Norton said gently, "And you aren't very good at holding your liquor."

"Nonsense!" Flitch cried, spraying spit through the air as he spoke, "We're celebrating! Lady Catherine was fortunate enough to escape the evil clutches of Mrs. Darvill!"

"You've been visiting Mrs. Darvill, eh? Did you find her as frightful as everyone else does?" Norton chortled, his laugh was loud and deep.

"I am afraid so, Mister Norton." Catherine smiled, "Though I think perhaps her disposition will sweeten when her daughter arrives." Roger Norton's laugh stopped abruptly and his smile faded, a look of incomprehension was adopted instead. Even the inebriated Josiah Flitch turned his gaze upon her and looked confused.

"You know, her daughter Gwen." Catherine explained.

"Lady Merryweather, Mrs. Darvill doesn't have a daughter. Gwen died more than fifty years ago." Mister Norton explained quietly.

"But she told me that she was spending the season in London and that she would be getting married soon! She showed me her wedding trousseau!"

"Mrs. Darvill only remembers her daughter as how she was. If Gwen were alive today then she'd be an old woman herself."

"I…I don't understand."

"I suppose she's told you about all the suitors Gwen had?"

"Yes."

"Well that's true; Gwen Darvill was indeed a very beautiful young woman with high prospects and she was expected to make a good marriage. Mrs. Darvill was very strict and worked tirelessly to make Gwen into the perfect potential bride. All the British aristocracy with unmarried sons were interested and even some foreign dignitaries began to get involved. What no one counted on was Gwen herself. Turns out she had fallen in love with a stable boy who worked on one of the farms just outside the village."

"Oh dear." Catherine winced.

Roger Norton nodded sagely, "Some way or another Mrs. Darvill found out and, to put it mildly, she was furious. To make matters worse, it turned out that Gwen and the boy were planning to elope. So Mrs. Darvill called the local magistrate and accused the boy of breaking into their house and thieving. The lad was locked up and eventually deported to Australia. Gwen was heartbroken and, not long after, she committed suicide. Threw herself off the cliffs at Merryweather Bay. Mrs. Darvill suffered from some illness for a while after that – probably the shock had gotten to her – and since then she seems to have forgotten the whole thing, she's convinced that Gwen is just away in London and will return soon and get married. She even carried on amassing her daughter's wedding trousseau – thousands I heard she spent on it and then spent years painstakingly sewing other things, making it all perfect."

"Oh God, what an awful story!" Catherine said, close to tears.

"It's a tragedy to be sure. Then, almost fifteen years after Gwen killed herself, a rich gentleman arrived in this very pub asking of her whereabouts and if she ever did get married. It turned out to be the stable boy, all grown up. He'd done his time in Australia for the crime he didn't commit and then made himself a fortune out there with a gold mine. He'd come back in the hopes that he could finally marry her like he'd planned to and practically broke his heart when I told him what had happened to her. He sat at the bar and sobbed his heart out."

"Haha! I found it, old sport! I found it!" a voice suddenly crowed triumphantly. Catherine and Mister Norton looked up to find Josiah Flitch standing over them, waving a bottle of sherry in their faces. While the publican had been telling his story, Flitch had left the table without them seeing, snuck behind the bar and hunted for the sherry himself, breaking three glasses and a bottle of whiskey in the process.

"Yes, you thought you could hide it from me, didn't you? Well, I found it and I shan't share any with you, old sport!" Flitch whooped before biting the cork out of the bottle and taking a large gulp.