Chapter Nine
Sunlight spilled through the fanlight above Penwood’s great door, catching the polished surfaces of the hall as Catherine stood at its centre, issuing quiet direction to the footmen arranging floral displays for the incoming guests.
The arrangements, drawn from Penwood’s gardens and greenhouses, had been selected to reflect not extravagance but consideration. She had chosen fragrant lavender and rosemary for the scholars who would prize calm and clarity, white peonies for those more visually inclined.
The scent was clean, pleasing, and not overwhelming. Still, she found herself pressing her palms down the front of her morning gown with unnecessary frequency.
Her dress, a sober creation of pale blue silk trimmed in ivory piping, lay smooth against her frame, yet her hands returned to it, fingers brushing the fabric in a manner that betrayed the quickness of her pulse.
Carriages had begun to wind their way up the long gravel drive, their progress audible even before glimpses of dark lacquered bodies appeared between the trees.
This is the day, she thought as the realness truly set in. The culmination of every plan, every coordination between Marcus and me since our wedding. And though Catherine knew she had prepared for every eventuality, the weight of that first impression remained.
These people were scholars. They were Marcus’s peers with names printed in journals, whose opinions could shape reputations for decades.
Their scrutiny would fall not only on Marcus, whose work she admired deeply, but on Penwood itself, and on the woman who now served as its mistress.
The thought steadied her: she must do her part with care, for his sake and for the household that was now hers as well.
Mrs Thornberry approached, her step unhurried but her expression animated.
“The guest registry, my lady,” she said, offering the worn leather-bound book that smelled faintly of lavender oil and age.
Catherine accepted it with care. The pages had been updated with meticulous neatness. Room assignments were listed in her own hand, reviewed and refined over many late nights with Marcus. Every name was in place.
“Thank you, Mrs Thornberry,” she said. “You have outdone yourself.”
The older woman gave a small laugh.
“Penwood has never seen the like, my lady,” she said. “Not even when the late countess entertained for the bishop. But I believe we are ready.”
Catherine nodded once, then flipped to the current page and scanned the final list:
Mr Edmund Price—south wing, third floor. Quiet, well-insulated. Perfect for a man known for requiring silence.
Harold Fitzwilliam—chamber just above the library. Close access to the catalogues and study table, as requested.
William and Beatrice Hartwell—the blue suite. Elegant, stately. Suitable for senior guests of honour.
Mr James Morrison and Eleanor Morrison—the garden-facing chambers with wide windows and excellent morning light for map work.
Charles and Sophia Whitmore—the north wing, far enough from traffic to offer privacy for the aloof siblings.
Rev. Henry Brown—a modest room near the servants’ stair, just as he preferred. He valued economy over comfort.
It appeared that every detail had been addressed, though a few changes had been made. Catherine was relieved that Mrs Thornberry knew more about each guest’s preferences and needs than she did. Without the housekeeper’s experience, she likely would have been lost with such decisions.
The sound of a door closing echoed faintly through the corridor.
Catherine looked up just as Marcus emerged from his study, several folios tucked under one arm.
His dark coat hung open, revealing a slightly rumpled waistcoat and a cravat that bore the unmistakable signs of nervous fingers.
There was something in the way his hair stood just awry at the crown that sent an unfamiliar warmth through her.
He was earnestly nervous, from the looks of it. And yet he looked every inch the capable, intelligent, and noble scholar that he was, in a way that had nothing to do with his title.
Before she could think, Catherine stepped forward.
“Allow me, Husband,” she said softly, testing the word before guests who might judge their reaction arrived.
Marcus stilled.
She reached up and adjusted the fall of his cravat, her fingers brushing the pulse point just beneath his jaw. The contact was brief but vivid. She felt the catch in his breath, and something of her own breath caught in answer.
Neither of them moved.
Her hand lingered a moment longer than necessity allowed. His gaze met hers, intent and searching, as though the roles between them had shifted by some subtle degree.
A long moment passed before he cleared his throat.
“Thank you,” he said. “I was not aware it had jostled loose.”
Catherine gave him a slow dip of her head.
“It had,” she said with a quiet smile, lowering her hand.
He offered a small nod and adjusted the folios under his arm.
“The first carriage appears to be approaching,” he said. “I believe that is the Hartwell coat of arms.”
Catherine turned to the windows.
“Then let us greet them together,” she said.
As they moved toward the front doors, side by side, she felt something shift within her. At first, marriage to Marcus had been a safeguard, a way to claim her place in the world. She had not expected to admire him this deeply, nor to feel this bond building each day.
The professor’s carriage rolled to a stop in the driveway promptly at the appointed hour. Catherine, standing just within the entry hall, smoothed the cuffs of her gown and lifted her chin as the liveried footman opened the door.
William Hartwell stepped down first. A man of dignified bearing, his hair shone silver in the morning sun, and wire spectacles perched comfortably on his nose. He took in the front of the house with a look that was more pleased curiosity than critical appraisal.
Mrs Beatrice Hartwell followed, descending with the composure of someone long accustomed to commanding servants and pupils with a single glance.
Her gaze swept across the drive, the hedges, the flower arrangements within the vestibule, and finally, the line of servants discreetly stationed just inside.
There was a glint of appraisal in her eyes, but not unkindness.
Catherine advanced with practised ease.
“Professor and Mrs Hartwell,” she said with a warm smile, extending her hands in welcome. “It is a pleasure to receive you at Penwood. I hope your journey from Oxford was a comfortable one.”
The professor nodded.
“Indeed, it was,” he said. “You must be Lady Penwood. My wife and I have long anticipated this visit, and it is truly a pleasure to meet you. I confess I have been eager to see the Roman artefacts your husband has mentioned in his letter.”
Mrs Hartwell curtseyed, surveying Catherine with the same scrutinous eye with which she had studied the front of the estate.
“And I have been equally eager to see how a newly married couple might manage a household while hosting a gathering of this scope,” she said, her eyes sharp but not unfriendly. “So far, I am encouraged.”
Catherine met her gaze directly, allowing the barest curve to touch her lips.
“I am grateful for your confidence,” she said. Your suite has been prepared in the blue rooms, where I trust you will find both comfort and quiet. Mrs Thornberry will see to any requests you may have.”
As William and Beatrice were shown upstairs, the rumble of wheels on gravel announced the second carriage.
Mr James Morrison alighted before the horses had fully stopped. A stout man with wind-reddened cheeks and a vigorous red beard, he wore a broad grin as he clapped Marcus on the back.
“Lord Penwood, you book-hoarder,” he said in a thick Scottish accent. “You never said the countryside round here was so fine.”
Eleanor stepped down more cautiously as Marcus returned the greeting, but her eyes were already alight with delight as she caught sight of the estate’s southern elevation.
“Look at that, darling,” she said, gripping his sleeve. “Those windows must catch every scrap of morning light. Perfect for laying out parchment maps or comparing inscriptions.”
Mr Morrison patted his wife’s arm with endearment.
“Indeed, Eleanor,” he said with a chuckle. “And if you are half as organised in unpacking as you were in packing, we shall have our materials laid out before noon.”
Catherine stepped forward as Marcus guided their guests inside, curtseying politely.
“Mr and Mrs Morrison, welcome,” she said. “My name is Catherine Pemberton, and I am the Countess of Penwood. I hope you find your garden rooms suitable. We felt the lighting would be ideal for any reading or charting you wish to do while you are here.”
Mr Morrison gave her a cheery grin as he introduced himself and his wife.
“We are eager to see whatever you and Lord Penwood have arranged,” he said.
Mrs Morrison’s eyes turned toward Catherine with sharp focus.
“You have arranged the guest quarters yourself, Lady Penwood?” she asked.
Catherine took a deep breath, quickly enough to avoid pausing for too long.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “I consulted Marcus regarding each guest’s particular preferences or scholarly needs. We wished your stay to be as conducive to work as it is agreeable in comfort.”
Mrs Morrison looked at her for a long moment, then gave a nod of approval.
“Thoughtfully done,” she said in the same heavy accent as her husband.
As each guest settled, Catherine circulated with practised efficiency. She turned smoothly as Mrs Hartwell approached with her gloves tucked into one hand.
“May I inquire whether the library will remain open for private study during the week?” she asked.
Catherine dipped her head graciously.
“Of course,” she said. “You and Mr Beckett may make full use of it any time you like. I believe you will find the eastern desk most agreeable, as it receives the morning light.”
Mrs Hartwell nodded her head with a small, appreciative smile.
Catherine crossed to where Mr and Mrs Morrison stood near the base of the staircase.
“Your trunks are being taken to your rooms,” she said. “Will you require access to your cases of documentation before dinner?”
Mr Morrison thought for a moment.
“If they might be delivered to the study, I should prefer to review them before the evening,” he said jovially. “If it poses no trouble to you or Lord Penwood.”
Catherine raised her eyes to Marcus, who shook his head fervently.
“Not at all, Mr Morrison,” he said. “You have but to ask.”
Catherine took her cue and nodded.
“I shall see to it at once,” she said warmly.
As she directed a footman toward the proper chamber with a swift word and a gesture, Catherine felt the pressure rise in her chest like a tether pulled too tight. Still, her expression never faltered.
As laughter stirred faintly among them, Catherine stepped back, letting her eyes survey the gathered guests. Her smile remained steady, composed, though beneath her calm exterior her pulse beat with a force she feared might betray her.
She caught Marcus’s eye across the hall as Mr Morrison asked him about artefact provenance. His eyes held steady on hers for a moment before his mouth tilted in what she recognised as a small, private expression of reassurance. The exchange gave her fresh steadiness.
Late in the afternoon, as the guests gathered in the drawing room for tea, Catherine carried herself with all the confidence she could still muster.
“Can we have more wood added to the fire?” Mrs Hartwell asked, despite the warm temperature outside.
Catherine nodded, motioning for a maid without delay.
“Of course, Mrs Hartwell,” she said.
The woman studied her for a moment before giving her a small but warm smile.
“Please, Lady Penwood, call me Beatrice,” she said.
Catherine’s heart stuttered at the invitation of such informality. Surely, that was an indication that she was not doing terribly.
“Thank you, Beatrice,” she said. “And I insist you call me Catherine.” She paused, glancing around the room. “In fact, I insist you all do.”
The accumulated guests murmured their consent, each echoing Beatrice’s request for use of their given names.
Catherine wanted to relax—no one would grant such permission without respect—but she could not shake the sense that everything was a test, and that she was failing it. She only hoped her fears were exaggerated.
When Marcus joined her near the hearth, he leaned slightly toward her and spoke in a low voice.
“They admire you already,” he said. “It is evident.”
She looked at him askance.
“Because the tea arrived promptly and no one has been mislaid in the wrong chamber?” she asked with the effort of a jest.
Marcus chuckled, though his eyes were warm and encouraging.
“Because you are more than efficient,” he said. “You are thoughtful in your arrangements and gracious without pretence. That is what they will remember.”
The heat that rose in her chest had little to do with the fire.
She looked around at the guests she and Marcus were meant to host and guide for the next several days. Scholars and thinkers, full of passion for history and curiosity about the world, each bringing high expectations. Yet none had seemed displeased.
Had she and Marcus been worried for nothing?