Chapter Five
The scent of toasted bread and orange marmalade greeted Catherine as she stepped into the breakfast room. Morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows, illuminating the polished wood floors and the quiet, ordered elegance of Penwood’s domestic life with a cool clarity.
At the far end of the table, Marcus sat surrounded by a neat arrangement of correspondence, a folded newspaper, and a silver teapot already steaming. He looked up as she entered and stood at once, setting aside his pen.
“Good morning,” he said.
Catherine gave him a polite but warm smile.
“Good morning,” she said in return.
She moved toward her place, noting that the footman had already laid a cup and saucer beside the covered dishes.
Marcus motioned to a servant behind him, who stepped forward and poured tea into her cup.
At her plate rested the small glass jar of plum preserves she preferred, beside a basket of warm rolls.
I specifically requested this be served at our wedding breakfast, she thought, surprised.
“You remembered,” she said softly.
Marcus shrugged.
“I observed,” he said. “It seemed a modest effort, given the number of things you must now adjust to.”
His words, plain as they were, held something more. Catherine took her seat.
“Nevertheless, I am grateful,” she said.
He shrugged again, more sheepishly, folding the morning sheet and setting it aside.
“The steward sent the revised inventory for the west orchard,” he said. “The figures for the expected yield differ from those of last autumn. I suspect a late frost has unsettled the count, though Garrett mentioned possible poaching near the north gate.”
Catherine’s brow furrowed slightly.
Would it be useful to compare last year’s weather records with this season’s estate journal?” she asked.
Marcus nodded.
“I had not thought of that,” he said. “We keep weather logs with the agricultural notes. I shall ask Garrett to bring them to the study.”
They ate in companionable quiet for several moments before Marcus returned to the topic at hand.
“As for the Society gathering, I asked Mrs Thornberry to place the visiting scholars in the north wing,” he said. “It offers distance from the family quarters, and the view of the gardens may keep them in good humour despite the inevitable disorder of unpacking trunks full of manuscripts.”
Catherine nodded thoughtfully.
“Will any of them bring artefacts for discussion?” she asked.
Her husband returned her nod.
“Several have already sent word,” he said. “Some intend to present new findings, so I shall need the larger drawing room cleared and rearranged for the occasion.”
Catherine gave an affirmative tip of her head.
“I shall speak with the housekeeper after breakfast,” she said. “And I should like to prepare a formal tea for that afternoon, if you think it suitable.”
Marcus smiled, mimicking her gesture of approval.
“I do,” he said.
Their gazes met across the table, the silence between them carrying no discomfort. Two days had already begun to shape a habit—not love, but something ordered and deliberate, like consideration and shared intent.
The door opened, and Rosalind entered, a trace of wind brightening her cheeks.
“Have I missed the eggs?” she asked.
Catherine laughed, gesturing to the table.
“You are just in time,” she said. “Sit here, if you like. There is tea, and I believe they brought up the currant scones.”
Rosalind smiled brightly, taking the seat beside Catherine and helping herself to the food.
“I walked all the way to the hedge maze,” she said as she settled into her chair.
“There are daffodils blooming beside the sundial. I shall sketch them later, if the weather holds.” She reached for the teapot and poured her own cup, then leaned toward Catherine with a conspiratorial tone.
“Mrs Thornberry saw me with a pencil tucked into my bonnet and asked if I were drawing maps of the estate. I suspect she fears I am cataloguing the weaknesses in her flowerbeds.”
Catherine snorted, noting the amused smirk on Marcus’s face as he pretended to return to his meal.
“She might welcome the advice,” she said with a smile. “Or she might send the gardener to stand guard.”
Rosalind laughed.
“He already watched me suspiciously from the yew walk,” she said. “I waved, and he dropped his shears.”
Marcus closed a letter and placed it atop a stack of others.
“I am pleased to hear the gardens are in bloom,” he said. “The botanist from Cambridge arriving next week will likely walk through every bed with a magnifying glass.”
Catherine turned from her cousin back to her husband.
“Shall I warn the footmen to sweep the paths more carefully?” she asked.
He shook his head fervently and made a sour face.
“No,” he said. “If they disturb the specimens, he will complain twice as much.”
Rosalind reached for a roll.
“Then let him stumble through nettles,” she said bluntly. “I have no patience for men who inspect flowers as if they might reprimand them for growing imperfectly.”
Catherine saw Marcus glance toward Rosalind then, as if measuring her reaction to Rosalind’s irreverence.
His mouth did not lift in a smile, but something in his expression softened.
She held his gaze for a breath before turning to spoon preserves onto her plate.
In that brief exchange, she felt the beginnings of understanding.
He watched her as if studying a passage, he had read once before but never fully understood.
And with his attention, she felt steadied.
Later that morning, they closed the study door behind them with a quiet click, muting the morning activity in the rest of the house.
Catherine followed Marcus across the carpet to the large desk where correspondence lay sorted into neat piles, each labelled in his firm hand.
He motioned toward the chair opposite his own.
“Shall we begin with the guest list, or would you prefer to look over the lecture schedule first?” he asked.
Catherine sat, glancing down at the documents he had on display.
“Let us begin with the list,” she said. “If we know who is arriving when, the rest will fall into place more easily.”
Marcus opened the uppermost folder and passed her the first page. They worked in companionable silence for some time until Marcus reached behind her for a volume shelved to her left. As he leaned forward, his coat brushed against the back of her gown. The contact was brief but distinct.
Catherine stilled. The brush of fabric across her back held no significance beyond proximity, yet it sent a tremor of awareness through her. She felt Marcus draw back as quickly as courtesy allowed, though the air between them now felt altered.
“Pardon me,” he said.
Catherine cleared her throat, hating the flush she felt spreading on her cheeks.
“Of course,” she said.
She lowered her eyes to the page before her, though the names upon it seemed suddenly blurred.
Her thoughts, once orderly, unravelled into scattered impressions.
The warmth of his nearness lingered; the faint scent of his shaving soap and cologne still touched her senses.
This marriage had been intended as rational, practical, nothing more.
Yet each small exchange between them suggested the possibility of something she scarcely knew how to define.
Marcus resumed his seat and cleared his throat, as well.
“Miss Talbot’s letter includes mention of her preference for quieter lodgings,” he said steadily.
Catherine took a deep breath, forcing her thoughts back to the work at hand.
“Then I believe the south rooms would suit her best,” she said. “They overlook the herb garden and stand apart from the guest wing. She will find them peaceful.”
He nodded and made a notation.
Catherine tucked a loose curl behind her ear as she reviewed another name on the list. The motion, automatic and unthinking, caught Marcus’s attention entirely, and he looked up from his notes.
She did not see his expression, but she felt the shift in the room again.
He looked at her not with affection, but with interest.
She lifted her eyes.
“Shall we discuss the menu for the reception?” she asked.
He blinked and set down his pen.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe Mrs Thornberry suggested a buffet arrangement for the opening evening. It would allow guests to converse more freely.”
Catherine nodded, scribbling notes on her own paper.
“And it spares the staff from another formal supper,” she said. “We must consider the demands this week will place on them.”
Marcus gave her another approving nod.
“You think with admirable practicality. I value that. I have managed these affairs alone before, but with your assistance, I begin to see what I missed.”
The compliment, though simply given, struck her. It was not praise for appearance or manner, but for the clarity of her judgment.
She allowed herself a small smile.
“I have long been an observer,” she said. “Even without a position of consequence, one learns what is required to make a household run.”
Marcus studied her for a moment before answering.
“You see more than logistics,” he said. “You understand how people function within them. That distinction matters.”
They returned to their work, but a new comfort had grown between them.
Catherine suggested preparing a small written itinerary for each guest, and Marcus approved it at once.
When they turned to the matter of seating for the lecture evening, he listened closely as she observed which scholars were likely to clash and which might, with careful placement, be drawn into fruitful discussion.
Her judgments were not only accurate but remarkably shrewd.