The Great Christmas Ball by Joan Smith Page B

tea that afternoon. When she began to speak of a June wedding, Cathy informed her that Costain planned to return to the Peninsula as soon as possible, and turned the conversation to Mrs. Leonard.
    “Do you know anything about her, Mama?” she asked.
    “What was her maiden name?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You must remember, dear, my memories are some years old. Very likely she was still a Miss when I knew her. I do not recall a Mrs. Leonard.”
    “She is about thirty-five, so she would perhaps have been making her bows when you were in London.” She described the lady, but Lady Lyman declared that she had known a dozen young brunette beauties.
    “If you can discover her maiden name, no doubt I shall be able to help you. Meanwhile I shall inquire for a Mrs. Leonard of my friends. If she is anyone, someone will know her. Now, about you and Costain, my dear. As he plans to return to Spain, we must think in terms of a winter wedding. He will want to ensure having a child on the way before leaving. You must come home for your accouchement, Cathy. That explains his interest in you. I thought it rather odd, but he is in a rush, poor lad. I do hope he returns safely from Spain. And in case he does not, you must have a son. A daughter is no good to you. She will not inherit Pargeter. You do not want to be stuck in a Dower House.”
    “I don’t believe he plans to marry before leaving, Mama,” Cathy said.
    “Very properly said, my dear. A lady never thinks she is being courted until she has received her proposal. Do you think—a small wedding, or a large one?”
    “Let us not make any plans at all, Mama.”
    Lady Lyman nodded her agreement. “A quiet wedding, then. Perhaps that is best, considering the season. One cannot like to ask guests to travel over icy roads. I do hope the duke and duchess will come!”
    “No plans, Mama. I have promised Uncle Rodney to make a fair copy of chapter five,” Cathy said, and escaped to the study.
    Uncle Rodney was not yet out of bed, which allowed Gordon to use his office to transform himself into an elderly man with a gray beard, spectacles, a rusty old black coat, and his uncle Rodney’s blackthorn walking stick.
    “I would not recognize you in a million years,” Cathy said when he doddered out, tapping the floor with his cane, as if checking his path for impediments. “Can you see with those spectacles? They make your eyes look huge.”
    “I have to lift ‘em up to see,” he said. “I tried on that old pinch-nez of Papa’s, but it kept falling off, and with the walking stick in one hand, it was too much bother. Wouldn’t I love to call on Charlie Edison in this getup!”
    “Will you be home at four to meet Lord Costain?”
    “Of course I shall. It’s me he’s coming to see. He most particularly asked me to be here.”
    Cathy accepted this with apparent good humor. What did she think, that Costain was coming to pay court to her? She set about the tedious chore of writing a fair copy of her uncle’s translation of Schiller. It was heavy going, and virtually meaningless to her. The only sound in the study was the scratching of her pen, and the low, steady wind howling through the streets. Occasionally the wind would find a handful of leaves uncovered by the snow, and hurl them against the window, causing a momentary panic.
    She wrote all morning without other interruption, and was happy when a caller stopped by in the afternoon. Mr. Holmes was a regular customer. He was translating a book of poetry, Les Jardins by Jacques Delille, from French into English. His own French was spotty. He wanted the exact literal translation, which he would put into poetical language.
    At a quarter to four she was interrupted by another tap on the door. When she opened it, Lord Costain was blown in on a gust of wind. His nose was red, his cheeks were rosy, and his dark eyes gleamed with youthful spirit and health.
    “What a day! One would think we were in Canada. I pity poor Gordon his