Chapter III — The House of Rutland

Belvoir Castle, Leicestershire — July 1879

There are invitations which are merely invitations and there are invitations which, when received by the right person, amount to declarations of war. The invitation which Charles Montclare sent to Catherine Walters belonged, though neither of them understood it at the time, to the second class. It was written upon the cream-coloured paper reserved for family correspondence and carried the arms of Rutland above the Duke's name. To Charles it seemed an ordinary courtesy, a natural extension of the intimacy which had grown between them during the preceding months. To Catherine it was something considerably more dangerous. She understood that Belvoir was not merely a house; it was the visible expression of everything Charles had been born to preserve, and by entering it she would no longer be a woman whom he visited in London. She would become a woman who had crossed the threshold of his world.

She accepted.

The Duke received her at the western entrance on a bright afternoon in July. The rain which had troubled the county for much of the spring had finally disappeared, leaving the gardens heavy with roses and the lawns brilliant beneath the sun. The terraces were in perfect order, the fountains played among the stone statues and the long avenues of trees led towards the park where horses grazed beyond the ornamental lake. Servants had been instructed to make every room ready, though Charles had given no explanation for the unusual care with which the house had been prepared. His mother was absent in London, which he considered a fortunate circumstance, and the members of the household had received the arrival of Miss Walters with that particular discretion expected from servants who understand that curiosity is sometimes part of their employment but never part of their duties.

Catherine stepped from the carriage and looked towards the castle. For several seconds she said nothing while Charles watched her. He had imagined this moment many times: in his imagination she had been impressed by the towers, amused by the gardens, perhaps even a little overwhelmed by the grandeur of the place. Instead she stood quietly upon the gravel and looked at the house with an expression he could not interpret.

“It is beautiful,” she said at last.

Charles smiled.

“I hoped you would think so.”

She turned towards him.

“I did not say that I liked it.”

He laughed. It was the sort of answer he had come to expect from her, yet there was something in her manner which made him uneasy.

He showed her the gardens first. They walked along the great terrace, past the fountains and marble statues, through the rose garden and beneath the arches of the old orangery. Catherine admired the flowers, though she paid little attention to the arrangements which had required the labour of an entire gardening staff. She preferred the older parts of the estate, where the trees grew less obediently and the paths had begun to lose the perfection imposed upon them by generations of gardeners. Charles noticed that while he had always preferred the formal gardens, Catherine preferred the places where nature had begun to resist them.

They walked towards the lake in the late afternoon, and Charles showed her the little stone pavilion which stood upon the water's edge. Beyond it was the maze.

Catherine stopped.

“You remembered.”

“Of course.”

They entered together. The paths were warm beneath the summer sun, and the high hedges concealed the rest of the estate. Within a few minutes the castle had disappeared from view. There was only the green corridor before them, the sound of birds and the occasional movement of leaves overhead. Charles felt strangely happy; he had imagined this place with her many times, and now the imagination had become reality, though Catherine seemed quieter than she had been in London.

At last they reached the centre. She stood beside the old fountain and looked at him.

“You wanted me to see all this.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Charles hesitated because he wanted her to belong here — a thought that had become so familiar he almost failed to recognise how dangerous it was.

“I wanted you to understand me.”

Catherine looked towards the distant hedges.

“I think I already understand you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“And what have you discovered?”

She smiled faintly.

“That you are a man who has been given everything except permission to choose.”

The words unsettled him. He had wanted her to see the house, but she had seen him instead.

That evening they dined privately in the smaller dining room. Candles burned upon the table, silver reflected the light and the windows stood open towards the gardens. Charles had arranged the room himself, choosing the flowers and ordering that the usual formal dinner be replaced by something simpler. For the first time in years he felt that the house belonged to him — not his family, not his ancestors, but him. And because Catherine was sitting opposite him, he began to imagine that perhaps it might belong to her as well.

He spoke of the future, though not directly, as Charles was too cautious for declarations. He spoke instead of London, of Belvoir, of the possibility of spending more time in the country and of the improvements he intended to make to the gardens. He spoke of the conservatory, the library and the old rooms which had been closed for years. He spoke with an enthusiasm which surprised even himself.

Catherine listened and understood what he was doing: he was building a future around her, piece by piece, room by room, garden by garden. She did not interrupt him.

After dinner they walked through the library. The shelves rose to the ceiling, the portraits watched from above the mantel and the fire burned low beneath the carved stonework. Catherine moved slowly among the books.

“You have a great many.”

“I have not read all of them.”

“Few people do.”

Charles smiled.

“There are books here which have not been opened in fifty years.”

She touched one of the volumes.

“That seems rather sad.”

“Why?”

“Because they were written to be read.”

Charles looked at her, finding the remark strangely profound. Everything around him had been preserved: the books, the portraits, the furniture, the name, the house, and perhaps even the people. He wondered whether he had been preserved as well.

Catherine turned towards him.

“You have been trying to make me fit into this house.”

Charles did not answer.

She continued quietly.

“I know you have.”

“I want you here.”

“That is not the same thing.”

He stepped towards her.

“I love you.”

The words came more simply than he expected. There was no grand declaration, no dramatic gesture and no preparation; he simply said them.

Catherine closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, there were tears in them.

“I know.”

He reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it. For that moment the house seemed silent around them, but then Catherine withdrew her hand.

“Charles, I cannot become what this place requires.”

He frowned.

“I have never asked you to.”

“You have.”

“No.”

“You have asked me without saying it.”

She looked towards the portraits upon the walls.

“You want me to be beautiful in the drawing room, charming at dinner, graceful among your friends and acceptable to your family. You want them to look at me and see the woman you have chosen. You want me to belong here.”

“I want you to be happy here.”

“That is different.”

Charles could not answer because she was right. He had begun with love, but somewhere along the way, love had become arrangement. He wanted to preserve her. He wanted to place her within his world and protect her from everything which might threaten it. He wanted her beauty beside his title, her presence beneath his roof and her name joined permanently to his. He did not yet understand that in attempting to make her part of his world, he was beginning to destroy the very freedom which had first attracted him to her.

The following morning Catherine left Belvoir. Charles watched her carriage disappear along the long avenue. The gardens were bright beneath the summer sun, the fountains continued to play, the deer moved through the park, and the servants returned to their duties. Everything remained exactly as it had been, and only Charles had changed.

He returned to the library and stood before the portrait of the seventh Duke. For the first time he disliked the man in the painting — not because he had done anything wrong, but because Charles suddenly understood what it meant to inherit a life so completely that one could no longer distinguish one's own desires from the expectations of the dead.

Three weeks later, Charles informed his mother that he intended to marry Catherine Walters. There followed a silence of such extraordinary length that even the clock upon the mantel seemed embarrassed by it. Then came the objections: her profession, her reputation, her lack of family, her independence, her refusal to conform, her past, her friends, the possibility of scandal, and the damage to the family name.

Charles listened to every argument and rejected none of them; he simply refused to change his mind. And for the first time since inheriting the dukedom, he discovered what it meant to disobey.

Society responded as society always responds when one of its members attempts to escape the arrangement prepared for him. There were whispers, letters, and warnings. There were women who suddenly discovered that Catherine had never been as beautiful as people claimed, and men who suddenly discovered that they had always considered actresses unsuitable companions for gentlemen.

Charles ignored them, but Catherine, however, did not. She understood that marriage to the Duke of Rutland would not merely give her a title; it would take something from her. She did not yet know whether she was willing to pay the price. And while Charles believed that he had finally found the woman who could complete his life, Catherine had begun to wonder whether the man she loved was slowly becoming the very man she had feared he would be.