Chapter Two
“Really, Catherine, how can you sit so composed, when in but two hours’ time you are to be made a countess?”
Rosalind Hartwell’s voice was bright with affectionate incredulity as she guided a curl into place above her cousin’s temple. Her hands moved with quiet efficiency, the brush gliding steadily through dark strands before pausing to twist and pin.
Catherine sat at the dressing table in the chamber she had occupied since girlhood, her gaze drifting to the pale blue silk gown suspended from the wardrobe door.
Morning light traced its altered neckline and sleeves, the seamstress’s artful adjustments having transformed it from an afternoon visiting dress into something suitable for a wedding.
She tapped her fingers lightly in her lap, out of Rosalind’s sight.
In two hours, I will become the Countess of Penwood.
The title felt as though it belonged to someone else, like a garment borrowed but not yet worn in.
It promised a husband, a home of her own, and a place in society no longer tethered to her brother’s household—yet convenience, not affection, had brought her to this moment.
Rosalind spoke in a cheerful tone, her voice light and bright as she described the chapel’s floral arrangements and the mildness of the weather.
“You must have brought the sunshine with you,” Rosalind went on, her voice bright again as she adjusted a pearl comb above Catherine’s temple. “It has not been so fine all week. Mrs Ashcombe was in raptures over the roses. She says the white ones near the chapel door have never bloomed so early.”
Catherine nodded, smiling idly. “They did look lovely when we walked yesterday.”
Rosalind met her eyes in the mirror. “You remember that?”
Catherine laughed. “Of course. I remarked on the scent, and you said it reminded you of Grandmother’s walled garden.”
Rosalind’s expression softened.
“So, I did,” she said. “I thought you seemed too distracted to commit such a thing to memory, is all.”
Catherine shrugged, surprised at her nonchalance.
“I was thinking,” she said calmly.
Rosalind resumed brushing.
“You have seemed calm all morning,” she said quietly.
Catherine shrugged again.
“Should I not be?”
“I do not know,” Rosalind admitted slowly. “You are about to marry a man you have known less than a fortnight.”
Catherine nodded.
“Yes,” she said.
Rosalind looked at her as though she were mad.
“And yet you sit there with the composure of one preparing to receive a houseguest, not a husband,” she said, incredulity quite eclipsing her earlier cheerfulness.
Catherine’s smile softened and faded. She studied her reflection in silence. The country air had lent a richer colour to her cheeks, and there was a brightness in her eyes she had not anticipated. It was not resignation. Nor was it unease.
“I am not afraid,” she said at last.
Rosalind laid the brush aside and set her hands lightly upon Catherine’s shoulders.
“That is well,” she replied, though the want of relief in her expression betrayed her words.
Catherine had had her cousin as her lady’s companion long enough to recognise the concern on her face.
“But you are,” she said quietly—without accusation, and without mockery.
Rosalind hesitated.
“I would not say afraid,” she said at length. “Merely… cautious.”
Catherine’s smile warmed again.
“I understand,” she said. “It must all appear rather strange to you.”
Rosalind nodded, though her expression suggested she would have felt easier had Catherine indulged in a fit of nerves.
“I do not doubt that you consider this marriage a prudent step,” she said, choosing her words with care. “Nor do I deny it. But Marcus Pemberton is unlike other men. He lives within his head—among books and in the past.”
Catherine’s lips curved faintly, recalling the scholarly light in his eyes when he spoke of his antiquities.
“I know it,” she said softly.
Rosalind withdrew her hands and crossed the room, pausing before the gown. Her brows drew together—not at what she saw in front of her, but something she was envisioning that Catherine could not view.
“I suppose I am merely unaccustomed to finding a bride so very calm,” she said.
Catherine stood and approached the window. The trees in the distance stood still, leaves quiet in the morning sun. A gardener crossed the path below, wheeling a barrow filled with clipped branches. Behind her, the soft swish of silk marked Rosalind’s movement across the room.
“I expected to feel more uncertain,” Catherine said, surprised not at her words, but at the sincerity behind them. “When Thomas first proposed the match, I felt only relief. It was an honourable way forward. A household of my own. Security. That was all I permitted myself to consider.”
Rosalind frowned.
“And now?” she asked.
Catherine shook her head.
“Now I find myself looking forward to it,” she said. “However odd that may seem.”
Rosalind raised her brows.
“That is not what I expected you to say,” she said.
Catherine turned toward the dress. The seamstress had stitched narrow silver ribbons at the cuffs, just above the gathered sleeves. Her fingers brushed the fine embroidery along the hem.
“I spent a week at Penwood,” Catherine said. “I observed the running of the household, examined the library, and spoke with Marcus each morning—and again, on occasion, after supper. He possesses a disciplined mind, yet he listens. He does not speak over me. He asks for my opinion.”
Rosalind studied her cousin, a dawning comprehension softening her expression.
“You admire him.”
Catherine inclined her head.
“I respect him,” she said simply. “And I feel respected in his presence.”
Rosalind’s lips curved into a smirk. “That is not quite the same thing.”
Catherine shook her head. “No. But it is better than fondness that falters at the first adversity.”
Rosalind’s smile faded into thought. “And is that all it is, then? Respect?”
Catherine hesitated, then spoke more softly.
“Perhaps it began so. But I felt something more as I examined the index system he devised for his Roman coin collection. I observed that his categorisation did not account for overlapping regional design. He paused, then invited me to sit and explain my meaning. We spoke for near an hour.”
A quiet laugh escaped Rosalind.
“So—admiration, after all,” she said, hinting at her first assessment of the pairing.
Catherine rolled her eyes.
“He has an ingenious way of organising that which is important to him,” she said. “And he speaks with an uncommon passion of his books and antiquities.”
Rosalind laughed.
“You fall in love like a scholar,” she said. “Through shared logic and catalogues.”
Catherine tilted her head.
“I would not go so far as to call it love. Yet if affection must come, I would rather it be born in the mind than in passing fancy.”
Rosalind looked toward the clock on the mantel.
“We should dress,” she said. “The housekeeper will come looking for us if we delay.”
Catherine stepped behind the screen and allowed Rosalind to pass her the gown.
The silk felt cool as she stepped into it, the fabric sliding over her shoulders and down her arms. She held still while Rosalind fastened the buttons and adjusted the bodice.
The mirror revealed a woman neither stately nor timid.
A woman dressed simply and neatly for a marriage not born of romance, but of reason.
When Rosalind finished, she stood back and tilted her head.
“You look a countess already,” she said, blinking back a sudden mist in her eyes.
Catherine rolled her eyes again, though her heart stuttered at the mention of her pending title.
“I feel like Catherine,” she said.
Rosaline reached out and smoothed an invisible wrinkle on the bodice of the dress.
“Then perhaps the two may coexist,” she said, lifting the pearl comb and placing it carefully to secure the final curl.
A knock sounded at the door. A housemaid slipped in to announce that the carriage waited to take them to the chapel.
Catherine turned once more to the mirror. Her eyes held steady, her face neither shadowed by dread nor softened by regret. Whatever the marriage might prove to be, she had chosen it—and she meant to make it matter.
As they moved to quit the room, the door opened again. Thomas stepped inside, a small velvet box in his hand. His expression carried both tempered joy and a touch of reflection. He gave Rosalind a brief nod before fixing his gaze on Catherine.
“I trust I am not intruding,” he said.
Rosalind shook her head and gestured him forward.
“You are just in time.” Gathering her gloves from the wardrobe, she withdrew discreetly to one side, leaving them space.
Thomas approached and extended the box.
“I brought this.”
Catherine accepted it without speaking. The velvet was worn smooth at the corners, and she knew, even before she opened it, what it must contain.
Lifting the lid, she found the pearls nestled within, their soft lustre catching the light.
Her mother had worn them on every Christmas, at every important dinner, in every portrait sitting. They had not been seen in years.
Her throat tightened.
“I thought they were lost,” she said, struggling to swallow a sob.
Thomas squeezed her shoulder gently as she studied the heirloom fondly.
“I kept them,” he said. “I could not bring myself to let them go. But they belong to you now.”
She touched the pearls. They felt cool and familiar beneath her fingers.
“They belonged to Mother,” she said, more to herself than to her brother. “Are you certain you wish to give them to me?”
Thomas cleared his throat, clearly sharing his sister’s emotional torrent.
“She would want you to wear them today,” he said. He reached forward and took the necklace from its case. Catherine turned to allow him to clasp it to her neck. His hands moved gently, the latch clicking into place with a quiet finality.
“She would be proud of you,” he said, breaking the solemn silence. “She always said you had her mind.”
Catherine placed a hand over the necklace.
“She also said you had her stubbornness,” she said, closing her eyes to hold back her tears.
Thomas laughed softly.
“She meant it kindly,” he said.
They shared a quiet smile before Thomas’s expression grew serious.
“I want you to know this is not how I pictured your future,” he said. “I had hoped for more time to secure a better arrangement. Yet this suits you in a way I had not foreseen. I feared the opportunity might be lost, had I delayed. I only hope you can forgive my haste.”
Catherine met his eyes steadily.
“I chose it,” she said. “I might have refused. Nothing prevented me from declining his offer. The decision was mine, Brother. You forced nothing upon me.”
Thomas inclined his head, though his gaze slipped aside.
“I know,” he admitted. “And I admire you for it. You could have remained here with Priscilla and me—no one would have questioned it. You managed our household better than I ever did. You might have continued on in comfort, in safety.”
Catherine touched his cheek with gentle affection.
“I wanted more than comfort,” she said. “And you knew it—that is why you offered me the choice. I am nothing but grateful to you, Thomas.”
He swallowed, visibly relieved, though a shadow of remorse lingered in his eyes.
“You chose a man who respects your intellect,” he said. “That is no small thing—especially among our peers.”
Catherine nodded. However else her life might unfold as Lady Penwood, at least she need never conceal her intelligence.
“No,” she said softly. “It certainly is not.”
Thomas drew a steadier breath, reassured.
“I saw how he listened to you last week,” he recalled. “That discussion in the library—about the Saxon burial site. He deferred to your judgment without hesitation.”
Catherine’s smile touched her eyes.
“He asked questions,” she said. “And he listened to the answers.”
Thomas chuckled and nodded once more.
“Such regard is rarer than it ought to be—and it speaks well of him,” he said.
Rosalind returned to stand beside them.
“It is nearly time,” she said.
Catherine nodded. Then, a movement at the doorway drew their attention.
Priscilla stood just beyond the threshold, one hand resting against the painted frame. Her expression wore the careful arrangement of civility, but her eyes held the same veiled satisfaction Catherine had learned to expect.
“You look very fine,” she said.
“Thank you, Priscilla,” Catherine said.
Her sister-in-law advanced with the poise of a dutiful wife, settling at Thomas’s side.
“I suppose this means we shall be seeing far less of you,” she said.
“Most likely.” Catherine maintained her polite smile. The bond between them had never been warm, and Catherine doubted Priscilla would mourn her absence.
“A pity,” Priscilla sighed, her tone more sorrowful than her eyes. “Still, I am glad you found someone willing to make such an unconventional match.”
Catherine turned from the mirror, ignoring the barb.
Rosalind crossed to her and patted her shoulder with quiet encouragement.
“We must go,” she said softly.
Thomas stepped forward and offered his arm. Catherine hesitated only a moment before accepting. Together, they walked through the door of her chambers for what would be the last time and descended the stairs in silence.
At the foot of the stairs, the butler opened the front door. Sunlight fell across the marble floor in pale stripes. Outside, the carriage stood waiting.
Catherine paused before stepping forward. She looked to her left, where the rose bushes had begun to bloom along the path. The scent drifted on the morning air, familiar and faint. She turned to Thomas.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the necklace. For everything.”
He looked away for a moment, as though the sunlight made it difficult to see.
“You deserve happiness,” he said. “And I hope with all my heart that you shall find it.”
Catherine nodded, still smiling, even as the first tingle of uncertainty tugged at her heart. Without a word, Rosalind gave her hand a gentle squeeze. They stepped into the carriage together. The interior smelled of polished wood and fresh upholstery.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
As the wheels began to turn, Catherine sat straight and folded her hands in her lap.
She was not afraid. She was not entirely certain what kind of marriage awaited her, but she knew what she brought into it with her intelligence and resolve.
Whatever the life ahead might bring, she meant to meet it without reluctance or hesitation.