Chapter Eight #2
Marcus watched as she returned to her materials, sorting the place cards into smaller sets. Her movements were unhurried, efficient, and entirely her own. She did not ask permission to lead, and no one in the household questioned her right to direct.
“Do you require my approval for any of these final decisions?” he asked.
She glanced up.
“Only for the library supper on the second evening,” she said. “Some of your colleagues may prefer conversation in a more informal setting. I thought it might allow for deeper discussion without the pressure of public formality.”
Marcus nodded slowly.
“That was my hope as well, though I had not thought how to achieve it,” he said. “Yes. Arrange it as you see fit.”
She gave him another heart-fluttering smile.
“Then everything is in order,” she said. “The staff knows the schedule. All meals are confirmed. The rooms are prepared.”
He crossed to her side and looked over the seating chart.
“I am told this level of calm on the eve of such an event is not typical,” he said softly.
She looked over at him, her tone gently teasing.
“I am told you are not a typical earl,” she said.
Their eyes met with sudden intensity. He marked the gentle curve of her cheek, the quiet assurance that had grown so habitual she no longer appeared aware of it.
She has become indispensable, he thought. To my work, to this household—even to my peace of mind.
He returned to the table, suddenly anxious in that moment, and picked up one of the artefact labels.
“You placed this one beside the Samian ware bowl,” he asked. “May I ask why?”
Catherine tilted her head, glancing from him to the artefact.
“Because the ridge of the fragment matches the curvature precisely,” she said. “I compared them earlier. The glaze also suggests the same source.”
He looked again and saw she was correct.
“You truly catch what my eye passes over,” he said.
She said nothing but gave a small nod, returning to her list.
Marcus watched her for another moment before turning back to his own work, the papers in his hands somehow lighter now.
Tomorrow, they would open Penwood to men who had published widely and judged harshly. And yet, with Catherine beside him, Marcus felt more prepared than he ever had alone.
***
The dining room felt larger than usual as it awaited the arrival of their guests, though the smaller table set for two, with fresh linen and a silver candelabrum, created a sense of intimacy rather than vacancy.
Marcus stood as Catherine entered, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable, though she had come to recognise that stillness as a kind of regard. She took her seat opposite him, her posture correct but not stiff, hands folded lightly in her lap as the footman poured wine and withdrew.
Once they were alone, Marcus looked at her with muted pride.
“I believe Mrs Thornberry has outdone herself again,” he said. “She insisted you not be troubled with tonight’s menu.”
Catherine smiled, thinking fondly of how swiftly the housekeeper had warmed to her.
“I am grateful for her good sense,” she said with a faint smile. “I have little appetite for decisions that are not strictly necessary this evening.”
Marcus nodded, his look of quiet regard lingering.
“You have made quite a number of them today,” he said. “I confess myself impressed.”
Colour touched her cheeks, though she laughed.
“Some of them even turned out to be sound.”
“More than sound,” he replied gently. “You have given this week a precision and calm I could not have achieved alone.”
Pleased yet unsettled by the earnestness in his tone, she waved her hand lightly.
“Your memory of the week may be too indulgent.”
“It is not,” Marcus said, firm but not severe. “I am very exact when it comes to such things.”
She met his gaze across the candlelight.
“Then I shall accept the compliment in the spirit offered.”
They fell silent as the first course was set before them. When the servants had withdrawn, Catherine folded her napkin with a quiet sigh.
“Tomorrow feels very near all of a sudden,” she said, reaching for her wine.
His brow furrowed faintly.
“Are you uneasy?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted. “I know your colleagues will not expect fanfare, but they will look to this household for signs of sound judgment. That includes me.”
His eyes warmed, steady and unwavering.
“I believe they will see what I see,” he said. “When we married, I hoped only for the prevention of disorder. Instead, you have brought more than steadiness. You have given shape to what was only potential.”
The words lingered between them, leaving her without any prepared reply.
“I only hope I shall not falter when it matters most,” she said softly.
“You have not faltered yet,” he replied, studying her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
Then, without ceremony, he reached across the narrow table and placed his hand lightly over hers. The contact was not dramatic or performative. Yet it stole the air from her lungs all the same. His hand was warm and steady. Her own remained still beneath it. She did not pull away.
Later, as they parted in the corridor outside their chambers, he paused beneath the glow of the lamps.
“I hope the gathering proves rewarding for you as well as for me,” he said. “You have earned the right to enjoy it.”
Her cheeks warmed again; she dared not hope he might reach for her hand a second time.
“Thank you,” she said. “I believe I shall.”
Marcus bowed, his gaze lowering briefly to her hand before he let it pass.
“Good night, Catherine.”
She curtseyed, concealing her faint disappointment.
“Good night, Marcus.”
She watched him retreat toward his study, then turned to her own chamber.
Her thoughts were not turbulent, only full.
She had braced herself to endure Penwood; instead, she had begun to belong to it.
He had not spoken of affection, nor had she.
Yet she had seen something of it in the warmth of his eyes, and in the way his hand lingered over hers longer than courtesy required.
It had not felt protective. It had felt personal. Cherishing.