Lady Silence by Blair Bancroft Read Free Book Online Page A

the village had been less
subtle. Gestures, whispers, appreciative grunts and whistles marked
her path. She was naught but a servant. Easy prey.
    Just when she thought she had found
sanctuary.
    Millicent Tyner, sharp-eyed as a housekeeper
must be, had sat her down for a good long talk. Katy listened
attentively, making no attempt to indicate she was already well
aware of the vicissitudes of men. In fact, she paid little
attention until the housekeeper, in her usual frank style, warned
her that it was she, Katy Snow, who could well precipitate her own
downfall. If she did not hold her heart close, she would be ruined.
“Men are not for women like us,” Mrs. Tyner told her. “You cannot
hope to marry higher than a farmer or an innkeeper. Best keep what
you’ve got to yourself and rise to housekeeper in a fine home.
Goodness knows you’ve got the wits for it. But give rein to your
feelings, child, and you’re lost. Lie with a man, and he’ll soon be
gone, leaving you fit for nothing but Haymarket Ware.”
    At the question in Katy’s eyes, she added,
“That’s a whore, child. Cyprian, courtesan, filly o’ joy,
share-amy—whatever strange words they use—’Tis all the same. A
girl’s ruined. Useless to any decent man or to serve in any decent
household. Your friend Clover listened to me, a good girl is
Clover. Keeps to herself, with her eye on being dresser to a titled
London lady. And she’ll do it, she will, as long as she keeps her
legs tight scissored and her head out of the clouds.”
    Head out of the
clouds . And much chastened by reality, Katy was making
every effort to do that. Alas, not successfully. The few hours she
spent each day in the bookroom—sorting the household mail, finding
long-unused volumes of history on high shelves, making notes from
the colonel’s dictation, sharpening quills, refilling the inkwell,
and serving tea—were treasured moments. For the most part, the
colonel remained glum and irascible, but once having decided on the
course of his writing—a comparison of battles of historic
significance—he had set to work with an intensity bordering on
obsession. She might be young and inexperienced, but Katy could not
help but wonder if the colonel was attempting to exorcize his years
of war by finding refuge in someone else’s battles.
    And there she was, feeling sorry for
him! Which made her poor heart grow more tender, even when she knew
that on her own particular battlefront he was the Enemy. It was nothing but
propinquity, of course. Shut a single man into the same room with a
single woman, particularly when both were young in age, if not in
spirit, and the result was almost inevitable. So why had her dear
Lady Moretaine suggested such a remarkable arrangement? Was Katy
the bait to tempt the colonel out of his sullens?
    A sacrifice to her son’s baser needs?
    The countess couldn’t . . . she wouldn’t . .
.
    Katy found her mare had come to a halt
in a clearing and was happily cropping a lush stand of
grass. Propinquity . No wonder
young ladies of good families were guarded almost as closely as the
crown jewels. Propinquity was lethal. Even now she could feel his
eyes on her, her heart beginning to beat like a drummer sounding
Charge. Her mare lifted her head, whinnied.
    Oh, dear God! Not a fantasy. He’s here!
    “ Good morning, Katy,” said the colonel
from atop his black stallion, Volcán, who had survived the war with
scarcely a scratch, as miraculously as his rider.
    His thighs were quite
beautiful . Far better displayed on horseback than in
the library. Katy tried not to stare, but here in this lonely
place, she knew better than to look her employer in the eye. She
nodded her head in regal greeting.
    “ Do you always ride alone?”
    And how else would she ride? With a retinue
of grooms, as if she were the lady of the house?
    “ Of course,” the colonel murmured. “How
foolish of me. Lady Moretaine’s remarkable notions have addled my
wits. I forgot you are merely a