Page 52 of Kathryn

Well, that was something, at least. Gerrit told himself to be grateful for small favors and then turned in the direction of the dower house that was just on the other side of the small, ancient cluster of trees known locally as Echo Forest. It was late, but Amelia would have heard he was arriving today and would still be awake. He mounted Centurion and urged the big horse into a gallop, directing him toward the tight cluster of trees across the park.

There was nothing like a conversation with Amelia St. Clare to soothe his ragged nerves.

***

“—the prettiest color! And what clever embroidery this is all along the hem. I haven’t seen work of this quality since I was a very young girl. Did you do this?” the dowager asked a stupefied Becky.

Becky blinked. “Er, no, Your Grace, that gown is from—”

“Oh, and this is lovely! I just adore green but cannot wear it without looking like a corpse.” The dowager thrust aside the gown in question and continued rooting through Katie’s garments.

Katie met Becky’s stunned gaze as Betje enthusiastically riffled through the contents of the trunk Becky had opened.

How was it possible that this tiny, flighty, loquacious woman was the mother of a man who hadn’t uttered as many words in the last two weeks as Betje had in the past two minutes?

As she watched the other woman taking such obvious joy from pretty things, she couldn’t help thinking of her own mother. If the Countess of Addiscombe had ever shown such unfettered excitement for anything in her life, she certainly had not seen it.

Katie had been morbidly fascinated by her husband’s normally impassive face, which had exhibited a veritable storm of emotions—none of them good—at the sight of his mother. She had the distinct impression that the dowager was not supposed to be at Briarly.

Betje suddenly looked up from the trunk. “Oh, dear! Look at how badly I’m behaving. Just like a naughty child rooting through your things. No wonder Gerrit is so horrified to find me here. What must you think of me, Katie?” She fluttered toward Katie and dropped onto the settee beside her, her small body shoving up against Katie just like a friendly kitten.

“I think you are delightful, Betje,” she answered truthfully, looking down into a pair of warm sky-blue eyes that were so very, very different from Dulverton’s. In fact, other than their fair hair—although her husband’s was a white, rather than golden blond—Katie could see no resemblance at all between the two.

“I could not resist snooping as you have such pretty things.” Betje’s girlish gurgle of laughter should have sounded incongruous, but Katie found it irresistible. “I can already see that you are kind as well as lovely,” the dowager said, patting Katie’s hand. “I cannot tell you how delighted I was when I heard Gerrit was not marrying the girl my brother selected for him.”

“Your brother?”

“My brother is Bas van Renesse. He and Lady Palmer have been scheming to foist one of the de Heeckeren girls on poor Gerrit for years.” Her face puckered into a scowl. “I despised their mother when I was a girl.”

Only now did Katie hear the other woman’s faint accent, reminding her of the tradition of taking Dutch brides.

“You do not mind that I am not Dutch?” Katie asked.

Betje gave one of her charming burbles of laughter. “Goodness, no! I am delighted. Just delighted. Gerrit is already so stuffy that the last thing he needs is a terrified, obedient, convent-bred Dutch wife.”

Katie gave a startled laugh. “But aren’t you Dutch?”

“Yes, yes, I certainly am.” She nodded vigorously.

“If you will excuse me for saying so, you do not seem, er, stuffy.”

Betje laughed. “No, no, no. Not at all. My father had to chide me to within an inch of my life to stifle my exuberance when he brought me to England all those years ago to meet Boon for the first time.”

“Boon?”

“Gerrit’s father.”

“What an unusual name.”

“It is quite common back home. Poor Boon.” Betje clucked her tongue. “The two of us were married all right and tight before he discovered the unfortunate truth about my gregarious nature.” She laughed again, but Katie did not think it was amusement she saw in her Delft-blue eyes. “Ah, well.” Betje suddenly leapt up. “Why am I rabbiting on so when you must be parched and exhausted? I must ring for tea. I am such a scatterbrain that I should have already—” A tap on the door interrupted her chatter. “Come in,” the dowager called, evidently forgetting it was Katie’s room.

A maid entered bearing a heavily laden tray.

Betje clapped her hands. “Look at that. Cranston knew what you would want before I could even tell him.” She lowered her voice and said in a confiding tone, “Fortunately for your comfort, Cranston is very wise.”

Katie wanted to remind the woman that she had been the one to suggest the tray when they had arrived, but the faint smirk on the maid’s face stopped her. There were strange currents in the house, and she suspected the duke’s mother was at the root. Dulverton certainly hadn’t expected her. Or at least he hadn’t told Katie that she would be here.

“I will leave you to relax,” Betje said once she’d overseen the placement of the tray.