By the time she was seventeen, she had read about the fashionable ladies' salons on the Continent and then sampled the goods on an extended journey to Italy. Choosing ladies with whom she would most enjoy conversation, she invited them to her own salon at the Octagon House, and the result was admirable. Distanced from the scope of London society, they were able to talk about the things that really mattered, and not just tiresome gossip about men and marriage.
"If you continue to stare at the sun, Miss Katharine, you'll go as blind as old Mrs. Rutherford's cat," said Mrs. Moon.
"I am sensible enough not to stare at the sun," said Katharine irritably, blinking. "And did Mrs. Rutherford not die in January? Not that I am interested in that family."
"Nor should you be," Mrs. Moon said sagely, "but that Elspeth Rutherford was a neighbor and had her hands full raising Delphina. She was a wild thing, poor girl."
Katharine frowned. "Do you think her poor because she died so young or because she did not live to become a countess? Surely, not even she could have guessed her husband would have ascended to the title, for he was far enough down the line."
"I think her poor because she was incapable of happiness and resented joy in others."
"That is rather pithy, Mrs. Moon. Perhaps you would like to join our Octagon Salon?"
"Hush," said Mrs. Moon. "I have other kettles of fish to fry."
"Like sharing gossip in town?"
"Perhaps," Mrs. Moon said slyly and narrowed her eyes. "I shall never forgive what Edward Danforth did to you; please do not doubt it. But I am not above hearing news of him."
"What have you heard?" asked Katharine, too quickly.
"Why, he is to return to Cloverhill in the next week. Mrs. Rutherford's cottage now belongs to his daughter, and he comes to inspect the child's inheritance."
Katharine felt physically ill, knowing she might face him again. It was foolish and cowardly of her, for eight long and painful years had passed. Her friends had done much to disabuse her of any embarrassment. She was no longer a girl and now lived a fruitful, stimulating life.
And yet, there it was.
"He is an earl now, and the Rutherford cottage would scarcely do service to his stable boy. He will have a look and be gone again before the dust is off his boots. I am sure we will not meet again, and we would not recognize each other if we did." Katharine again leaned against the stone wall, drawing strength from its heat and the very fact that it was hers alone, and Edward could not breach her sanctuary.
But, of course, he probably had no desire to breach her sanctuary or anything else.
"Of course you would recognize him, Miss." Mrs. Moon drew in a deep breath. "It is not for me to know what went on between you, but a love such as yours leaves an imprint on memory. You would know him the minute he walks into a room."
Katharine had no idea what wellspring of experience her housekeeper drew upon, but the thought was unsettling.
"You know a great deal on the subject," she said.
"There are some things we know not by experience but by good sense," Mrs. Moon said, thoughtfully. "Nor do I know about the nature of love by reading a book. I know it by reading you."
EDWARD DANFORTH, THE EARL of Penfield, felt as if he'd never left the seaside community to which he now returned. The houses remained surrounded by sweet-smelling gardens, and the sea air, blowing briskly over Cloverhill's rocky peninsula, still brought with it the scent of adventure and excitement.
Here was where he spent his boyhood and where he became a man, in the long summer seasons during which his invalid mother sought a cure in the salty waters, and his father leased a modest estate for them. It was paradise to a young boy, who learned to swim alongside his older brother and fish with the local sailors.
But there were other distractions, which gradually became more interesting than fish. The community welcomed his family to Cloverdale, and while the ladies sat in the shade engaged in needlework and conversation, and the men gathered to enjoy a few games of cards, the children were often sent off to entertain themselves.
Edward was not sure when he realized Katharine Wharton was no longer a pesky little girl who showed him fossils she found along the shore and had become a beautiful woman. But it might have been the day he looked up from the pages of a book and noticed her eyes were the same color as the sea and her hair had loosened from its plaits. She returned his interested gaze and said he ought to close his mouth or a bird would fly in.
Instead, he leaned across the table and kissed her on her lips.
Their lives would always have been an adventure, through every joy and sorrow. This was nearly theirs, but for his own stupidity. He, who had already considered himself worldly and mature at twenty, acted impulsively, without a grain of good sense.
He hesitated a moment, thinking he'd walked too far, and then recognized the weathered cottage where Delphina once lived with her aunt. He had only entered it once, but what he did within changed his destiny. Now it was shuttered and the garden overgrown with wild roses, a trifling inheritance for the daughter of an earl.
He heard the white cat before he saw it and recalled there were always small creatures about the house. Perhaps the others ran off when the old lady died or were brought to new homes. When the cat raised her face and sniffed, he saw she was blind. And so perhaps she stayed where she was safe and, apparently, well fed.
Edward knew what it was to be blind, or, at least, unable to see what was apparent to others. He paid a bitter price for that and, even worse, made others suffer as well.
But he was back in Cloverhill, and the house was his. And he supposed the cat was his as well.