Chapter Four
The dining room at Penwood had been appointed with quiet elegance.
Though smaller than the great hall reserved for formal occasions, its balanced proportions and pale panelling lent the chamber an air of comfort rather than of grandeur.
A cloth of white linen lay over the long table, while vases of lilacs and early roses from the estate gardens lent a cheerful note amid the gleam of polished silver and fine porcelain.
Catherine entered, holding onto Marcus’s arm. He guided her toward the head of the table with attentiveness that startled her.
As he pulled back her chair and waited for her to sit before taking his own seat, she read something quiet but resolute in his expression.
He means to uphold his role as husband not merely with legal propriety, but with personal regard, she thought.
Such attentiveness has not been required of him—yet he offers it freely.
Mrs Thornberry and the footmen moved about efficiently, serving each guest with practised precision.
The dishes were well chosen, comprising a selection of fresh breads, eggs in cream, broiled trout, stewed fruit, and a syllabub flavoured with elderflower.
The housekeeper had accomplished a feast both refined and intimate, absent of ostentation but rich in thoughtful detail.
Catherine allowed herself to relax beneath the murmured conversations as Rosalind turned toward Alexander.
“Lord Elmsworth, I had meant to ask you,” she said. “Have you seen the Roman coin Lord Penwood uncovered last month? It was found near the old hedge behind the orchard.”
Alexander leaned forward with interest.
“Indeed?” he asked with keen curiosity. “That stretch of ground borders what I believe to have been a Roman road. What sort of coin was it?”
Rosalind paused thoughtfully for a moment as she recalled.
“A denarius, they believe,” she said. “Lord Penwood mentioned he discerned the profile of Vespasian, though it was much worn.”
Alexander nodded with understanding.
“Ah—Vespasian. He appears rather more frequently than one might expect. Still, a fine find.”
Rosalind smiled.
“You speak as though you have seen too many coins to be impressed,” she said.
Alexander gave an easy shrug.
“Enough to know not every piece is what it pretends to be. I recall one occasion at the Ashmolean when a supposed sestertius was displayed for years, until someone noticed it bore the inscription of a French coffee-house.”
Rosalind laughed aloud.
“Surely not!” she exclaimed, half in disbelief.
Alexander nodded matter-of-factly.
“It was genuine brass, oddly enough,” he said. “Merely not Roman. A student had mislabelled it, and no one thought to question the piece until the curator caught the scent of coffee and wondered why a coin bore the year 1783.”
Catherine laughed softly. She had met Lord Elmsworth only thrice during her brief courtship with Marcus, yet he never failed to prove warm and companionable.
Rosalind, too, seemed to fall easily into conversation with him, though Catherine observed how her cousin’s gaze lingered upon the gentleman even when he addressed another.
Even Priscilla, seated at the far end of the table with an expression poised between reserve and resentment, allowed herself a reluctant laugh.
There was a sincerity in Alexander Sinclair’s good humour that appeared difficult for even the most forbidding temperament to resist.
Marcus leaned a little closer, his words pitched for her ear alone.
“Do you find the arrangement to your liking?” he asked.
Catherine nodded, surprising herself by smiling.
“Yes,” she said. The word felt wholly insufficient. She turned toward him and softened her voice. “It is more than I expected. And your kindness is deeply appreciated.”
Marcus offered a brief nod but looked down at his plate with humility that unsettled her more than pride might have done.
It struck her how different her new husband was from his outgoing friend, yet how oddly complimentary their respective endearing qualities were.
As she mused on their friendship and the humble behaviour of her groom, Thomas stood with his wineglass raised.
“I would like to propose a toast,” he said.
The buzzing conversations quieted at once. Only Marcus spoke in the silence.
“I—that is we—would be honoured,” he said softly.
Thomas gave his new brother-in-law a small smile and nodded.
“To my sister and her husband, the Earl of Penwood,” he began.
“It is no small thing to build a household not upon fondness alone, nor mere suitability, but upon esteem. Catherine has long shared in our father’s work, while Marcus has devoted himself to the same scholarly path.
That they should meet in such circumstances may appear unconventional, yet I believe it to be most fortuitous.
They begin their marriage with partnership and understanding already at the fore.
May that mutual respect serve as the surest foundation for all that is to come. ”
He lifted his glass toward them. Marcus responded in kind, and Catherine, with hands steadier than she expected, did the same. A murmur of approval circled the table, and Catherine caught Rosalind’s glistening eyes before she quickly lowered them.
Catherine sipped her wine and returned the glass to its place. Though her brother’s words lacked the sentiment they might have held had she been wed for love rather than convenience, they still softened her heart just a little.
“I do not often hear toasts that mention research and understanding,” she said dryly.
A smile twitched on Marcus’s mouth.
“Nor do I,” he replied. “But I find I prefer it.”
Alexander leaned forward with a grin.
“And why should it not be so?” he asked. “A marriage built on friendship and admiration is a wise one. I daresay it may outlast many a union built on less substantial ground.”
Rosalind looked at him with intrigue.
“You speak with great conviction,” she said.
He answered with a jestingly smug tilt of his brow.
“I have made a study of such things,” he said.
The remark drew more soft laughter, and the atmosphere settled once again into quiet merriment.
The light through the windows fell across the table in delicate stripes, softening the silver and glazing the crystal.
The dining room, though modest by noble standards, held the warmth of a home beginning anew.
Catherine glanced around the table. She saw her brother’s quiet pride, Rosalind’s evident relief—and then Marcus, his still, contemplative profile suggesting that he, too, was taking in the moment with measured thought.
Whether his reflections dwelt upon their union or upon something entirely apart, she could not tell.
Yet the deliberate consideration he so often displayed assured her that he meant to take his role as her husband seriously.
That knowledge, if nothing else, was a small comfort.
The breakfast unfolded with an ease she had scarcely dared hope for, conversation flowing between scholarly anecdotes and household concerns, yet never straying far from their common ground of shared interest. When Alexander raised a question about the preservation of documents lately discovered in the attics—items Marcus had shown her during her visit to Penwood the previous week—he turned to Catherine first.
“You examined the binding of that Roman codex,” he said. “Did it appear stable to you?”
Catherine nodded.
“It did,” she said. “Though the vellum was dry near the spine. If the humidity continues to fluctuate, the stitching may loosen further. I would suggest we keep it flat rather than upright.”
Marcus nodded with approval.
“That is precisely my thought,” he said, his eyes shining warmly even as his expression remained blandly thoughtful.
Her heart lifted at the inclusion. He treated her neither as an ornament nor as a mere ally in domestic management, but as a collaborator.
It was a quiet acknowledgement, yet profound.
She had been her father’s assistant for most of her life.
She knew how often such work went ignored or dismissed, especially when discussed by a woman.
That her husband accepted it without question gave her dignity in the face of their peers.
Thomas was right, she thought with surprise.
Marcus is pleased with my ability to discuss things that interest him alongside him.
She found her gaze returning to him more than once as the meal progressed.
His profile had grown familiar during their week at Penwood, yet she found herself seeing it anew.
The shape of his brow, the quick precision of his gestures when explaining a point, and the steady calm with which he listened had not registered before with such clarity.
They belonged not to an aloof scholar, but to a man capable of thoughtfulness and respect.
Marcus, in turn, observed Catherine’s composed navigation of the meal. She gave him a polite nod as she turned her attention to her cousin. She lifted the teapot inquisitively as she reached for the nearest cup.
“Would you care for some, Cousin?” she asked, glancing toward Rosalind.
Rosalind nodded with a warm smile.
“Yes, if it is no trouble,” Rosalind said. “Your hand is remarkably steady, considering the occasion.”
Catherine returned the smile. “I confess, this feels smoother than I expected.”
Rosalind leaned closer. “You are carrying yourself exceptionally well on your first day as countess,” she said softly. “I am very proud of you.”
Catherine passed her the cup with quiet gratitude.
“Thank you, Rose. Though had I been the hostess today, I am certain my tongue would be more tangled than your embroidery.”
A low chuckle passed between them. Catherine then reached for Priscilla’s cup and offered it with careful politeness.
“Would you prefer sugar?” she asked.
Priscilla lifted her chin with a dignity that seemed greater than the moment required.
“One, thank you,” she said, her smile faint and cool. “All is arranged most tastefully. And you seem quite at ease in these new surroundings.”
Catherine managed another polite smile.
“I hope to learn quickly,” she said. “I count myself fortunate in these new arrangements.”
Priscilla stirred her tea without replying, though her eyes flicked briefly toward Marcus.
Catherine felt his attention and met it with a brief glance of her own.
His expression revealed little, but something in the steadiness of his regard made her wonder what impression she had left upon him.
Had he marked the restraint in her manner?
Or had he begun to understand that her quiet dignity was not a facade, but the means by which she held her course?
She returned to her plate, her gaze straying to Alexander and Rosalind opposite.
Their exchange had grown easier, the halting courtesy of strangers replaced by a quiet familiarity.
Catherine noted the warmth in Rosalind’s smile as she lifted her glass, and the softened timbre in Alexander’s replies.
When the meal concluded, the party rose. Footmen cleared the last of the plates, and Mrs Thornberry appeared in the hall with news that the carriages stood ready to convey the guests.
Thomas approached Catherine near the hearth while the others collected their wraps and gloves.
“I trust all has gone as you hoped,” he said.
She looked up at him, catching the trace of remorse that lingered in his eyes, and offered him a reassuring smile.
“More than I hoped,” she said.
He gave her hand a light squeeze.
“If you need anything, you know where to find me,” he said, unable to disguise his concern. “But I believe you are in good hands.”
Catherine embraced her brother. She was still unsure whether she could say he had made the right decision. But she was not filled with dark, cold dread, as she had expected. That, she supposed, would have to be enough.
“I believe so as well,” she said.
His eyes softened with affection, and he leaned down to kiss her cheek.
“You are beginning a life of your own now,” he said with quiet pride. “You are mistress of your household—hold to it with confidence and let no one persuade you otherwise.”
She nodded and steadied her breath.
“I look forward to managing my own affairs,” she said, surprised by the confidence in her own voice.
Priscilla entered a moment later, her expression arranged into something resembling a smile.
“My warmest congratulations,” she said.
“Thank you, Priscilla,” Catherine replied with equal composure.
There was no warmth in Priscilla’s words, nor affection in her parting embrace. Yet Catherine felt no sting. Relief of departure gleamed too openly in Priscilla’s eyes. She had long wished Catherine removed from her sphere. That the occasion suited them both made civility easier.
When the farewells concluded, the small party moved to the drive. The carriage stood ready in the gravel, the coachman adjusting the last strap while footmen attended to the luggage. Catherine stood beside Marcus, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm.
Alexander approached, clapping Marcus gently on the back.
“With your leave, I shall remain a few more days,” he said. “You will want assistance with the Society’s arrangements—and I should enjoy some time in the archives, if you are willing to share.”
Marcus nodded with a small but sincere smile.
“Very willing,” Marcus said.
Catherine inclined her head without speaking.
She was certain her new husband would welcome his friend’s support before hosting so demanding a meeting.
Rosalind, too, would not depart but remain for several days, her steady presence promising to make Catherine’s first days at Penwood far easier.
She said nothing aloud, yet her expression betrayed agreement—and perhaps, Catherine thought, even a spark of excitement, as her cousin’s glance strayed toward Alexander.
The carriage began to roll forward, wheels crunching over the gravel. Thomas leaned out to give one last wave. Catherine returned it, watching until the trees obscured his figure.
Marcus turned to her, his eyes sheepish.
“Shall we go in?”
Catherine looked to the house, its facade bright in the late-morning sun, the stone mellowed by years of warmth and care. A true home. No longer borrowed nor provisional. Her own shared only with the man she had married.
She met Marcus’s eyes with a self-assured smile.
“Yes.”
He offered his hand. She placed hers within his, and together they turned back toward the door.
They had pledged their lives to one another.
Now it was time to begin that shared life.
And though she could not yet be certain, she dared to wonder—might it prove as comfortable as she had begun to believe?