Chapter Ten
Catherine paused beneath the arched entry as Alexander and Rosalind reappeared through the side garden gate, their cheeks touched with colour from the afternoon’s brisk air.
Rosalind removed her gloves with a quiet smile, and though her manner was composed, Catherine noticed a light in her cousin’s expression that had not been there earlier.
Before she could remark upon it, the approaching rattle of carriage wheels stole her attention. Another conveyance had turned in at the gates.
A footman stepped forward to open the door.
The gentleman who emerged moved with exacting precision, posture erect, expression coolly neutral.
Even as he adjusted his cuffs, Charles Whitmore surveyed the house in a swift glance that lingered not on its grandeur but on the spacing of windows, the depth of the steps, the age of the stonework.
His gait indicates a man of the military—perhaps artillery, Catherine thought idly.
He then handed down a young woman in a plain travelling coat whose fingers bore the dark traces of ink. Even without forewarning, the stark resemblance between them would have revealed her as his younger sister, Sophia.
“Miss Whitmore,” Catherine said, stepping forward with a welcoming smile.
“Welcome to you—and to Mr Whitmore. We had not expected you until tomorrow.”
Sophia gave a respectful dip of the head.
“Lady Penwood, I presume,” she said, so softly that Catherine had to strain to hear her. “Forgive us the sudden change. Charles had a meeting cancelled this morning, so we were able to depart earlier.”
Catherine shook her head, her smile widening.
“It is no trouble at all,” she said warmly.
Miss Whitmore dipped her head again, averting her gaze.
“Thank you, Lady Penwood,” she said.
Catherine introduced herself, offering the same informality to the Whitmore siblings that she had to everyone else. Then, she ushered them inside, motioning for a maid.
“Your chamber overlooks the pleasure grounds,” she said. “I trust the light will be to your liking, though you may adjust the shutters if it proves too strong for close reading.”
Charles offered a crisp bow.
“Lady—I apologise. Catherine,” he said. “Your household appears to function with admirable efficiency.”
Catherine nodded, her ebbing nervousness returning.
“We endeavour to maintain order without sacrificing comfort, Mr Whitmore,” she said. “Marcus and I are pleased you could join us.”
He said nothing further, only nodded, but the approval in his gaze was apparent.
Rosalind took Sophia’s arm in friendly fashion and offered to show her upstairs. Sophia accepted, allowing the two women to retreat just as the fourth carriage rolled to a halt.
The man who descended moved less like a soldier and more like a wire wound too tightly. Mr Edmund Price’s eyes flicked from the front columns to the tiled mosaic at the entrance, his mouth twitching as though preparing for debate. He carried a leather case close to his chest.
“Edmund,” Marcus said, greeting him warmly as he stepped out from the entrance hall. “It has been some time.”
Edmund nodded, looking as if he wished to avoid something. Or find something.
“Too long,” he said, though his fingers clutched his case as though any moment might require retreat. His eyes landed on Catherine, and he gave her a grimace of a smile. “You must be Lady Penwood.”
“Catherine, please,” she said, trying not to tire of hearing herself say it. “We are honoured to welcome you to Penwood. Mrs Thornberry will show you to your room when you are ready.”
He offered no pleasantry, only a nod. As he passed, Catherine caught a faint scent of musty vellum and old pipe smoke. He kept looking around as if he was carefully assessing every person and artefact in the manor. Whatever haunted him did not seem imaginary.
Another carriage followed in quick succession. Harold Fitzwilliam stepped down as though arriving at a London salon rather than a countryside estate. His silver-brushed hair caught the late sunlight, and his smile bore the easy weight of experience.
“Lady Penwood,” he said with warmth as he took her hand. “I understand that this gathering was your doing. If true, I am already impressed.”
She nodded, curtseying as she gave him her name.
“Your compliment is gracious, Mr Fitzwilliam,” she said. I hope Penwood proves worthy of your time.”
The gentleman bowed deeply, as if on a stage instead of at a gathering of intelligent peers.
“Call me Harold, please,” he said. “And I have every confidence that it will be more than worthy.”
Catherine ought to have felt reassured by the easy calmness Harold exuded.
Yet as he stepped inside, she noted the precision with which his eyes travelled over the room—as though each object were measured in silence.
It struck her as curious, almost like a scholar making notes. But to what end, and why?
The final carriage was modest, but the man who emerged wore no embarrassment for it. Henry Brown descended carefully, his worn satchel clutched against one side. He paused to gaze up at the archway and then the stone lintels with clear appreciation.
“Good afternoon, Reverend,” she said, once more wearing her warm hostess’s smile.
He turned to her and offered a bow that was low but unexaggerated.
“Good afternoon, Lady Penwood,” he said with the gentlest and friendliest voice she had heard all day. “I am much obliged to you for the invitation. My learning may fall short of the others’, but I hope to profit by close observation.”
Catherine shook her head, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as he reached her.
“We are pleased to welcome earnest minds as well as accomplished ones,” she said.
His gratitude warmed his face as he followed Mrs Thornberry inside.
Catherine smoothed her gloves and turned toward Marcus, who stood by the registry, his pen hovering.
“Is everyone accounted for?” she asked.
He glanced around the room, then at the registry again before nodding.
“Yes,” he said. “Though James and Eleanor are already arguing over the nomenclature of Romano-British pottery.”
She allowed a faint smile.
“Then the symposium has begun ahead of schedule,” she said with a nervous laugh.
He looked at her then, longer than necessary.
“You have made them feel welcome,” he said. “That will matter more than you think.”
Catherine held his gaze, heart lifting, though she offered only a quiet reply.
“I have a most capable example near at hand,” she said.
***
That evening, the long dining table glittered beneath the soft glow of candlelight, each place setting arranged with meticulous care.
Catherine moved with quiet efficiency, ensuring each guest found their place without confusion. With Mrs Thornberry’s help, everything had been timed to the minute.
Tonight must unfold without incident, Catherine thought, smoothing the folds of her light green evening gown as though she might press her nerves into submission as well.
“Lady Penwood,” William said warmly as she passed behind his chair. “Permit me to commend the seating arrangement. I find myself beside James and opposite your husband—excellent company in every direction.”
Catherine smiled.
“I am gratified to hear it, William,” she said. “It was my hope that such a configuration might promote lively and agreeable discourse.”
The professor nodded with approval.
“And you have succeeded,” he declared, lifting his soup spoon. “We were just speaking of Tacitus and his account of Boudica.”
“A fierce subject to begin a meal,” James observed with a dry smile as he joined them. “But one impossible to resist. The Roman treatment of native resistance is ever fertile ground for dispute.”
William turned toward Marcus.
“Would you agree, my lord, that Tacitus presents her less as a historical figure than as a moral exemplum?” he asked.
Marcus inclined his head, his manner thoughtful yet composed.
“In part,” he said. “Yet we must also acknowledge that without him, her revolt might scarcely have been remembered at all. His rhetoric shapes the tale, but it does not strip it of worth.”
Eleanor’s eyes brightened at his reply.
“Well said. The very fact that we debate the framing centuries later is proof enough of its enduring power.”
Sophia cleared her throat, so softly that Catherine almost missed it.
“And yet,” she ventured, “her image has already been pressed into quite different service in more recent writings.”
Charles laid down his spoon with deliberate precision.
“Indeed. Because resistance lends itself easily to romance,” he said. “Divorced from its realities, it makes for stirring verse. But in truth her forces were poorly supplied, ill-organised, and fatally flawed in their strategy.”
James raised an eyebrow, lowering his fork.
“Yet they burned Londinium to the ground,” he said.
Charles nodded once.
“A temporary victory born of surprise,” he said. “That involved no real military structure.”
William leaned forward.
“But her symbolic value outweighs her tactical failures,” he said. “In cultural history, symbols often outlive the facts.”
Catherine noticed Sophia flipping through a small leather notebook, her fingers gliding along the pages until she paused.
“We catalogued a brooch last year bearing the Iceni pattern in the northern fields,” she said. “The decorative flourishes align with descriptions from second-century commentaries, which may reflect evolving Roman views of tribal aesthetics.”
Marcus turned to her, clearly intrigued.
“You made a drawing of it?” he asked.
The young woman nodded.
“Yes. I sketched it carefully, and I brought the portfolio with me. If you wish, I can show it after dinner.”
Marcus gave a genuine smile for the first time since their guests arrived. It brightened his face so much that Catherine almost forgot he had spectacles.
“Very much,” he said.