Chapter Ten #2
Catherine allowed her ear to remain tuned to the scholarly exchange, even as her eye tracked the rhythm of the servants. The fish course was set down without a clatter, and the wine refreshed with quiet efficiency.
At her side, Beatrice regarded her with an expression of growing approval.
“You manage the room well, Lady Penwood,” she said. “Few new hostesses escape their first evening without at least one mishap.”
Catherine inclined her head with a modest smile. The evening was still young, and she knew there was ample time for some small error to arise, but she refused to dwell on the possibility. Instead, she chose composure, answering only with quiet grace.
“It is thanks to Mrs Thornberry and the servants,” she said humbly.
Beatrice waved away her modesty with her hand.
“And to your own impressive, calm sense of command,” she said.
Catherine looked toward Marcus, who had just leaned toward James to ask something about burial mounds in northern Gaul. There was a quiet ease in his demeanour that had not been there a fortnight ago.
When he saw her looking, he gave her an imperceptible nod and the smallest of smiles.
Eleanor turned toward Catherine across the table.
“Did you assist with the research displayed in the library?” she asked. “The categorisation shows a firm hand.”
Catherine nodded.
“We worked together,” she said. “Marcus’s knowledge guided the content, but I helped organise the materials.”
Eleanor gave the other women a knowing look.
“It shows,” she said. “You have an instinct for it.”
Catherine felt warmth rise in her chest at the sincere approval. She had not expected to care so deeply about the opinions of these people, yet their regard carried weight. It was not for her alone that she wished to succeed, but for Marcus also.
William raised his glass.
“To the Lady and Lord of Penwood, for their hospitality, and for assembling such a formidable company,” he said.
James eagerly joined the toast.
“Hear, hear,” he said.
Eleanor lifted her own glass, smiling.
“To scholarship,” she said.
Shy Sophia raised her glass a little hesitantly.
“And to shared purpose,” she said softly.
As glasses were lifted and voices rang in polite toasts, Catherine met Marcus’s eyes across the candlelit table. He did not smile, but there was something a recognition and a shared sense of triumph.
This evening had only just begun, but already Catherine felt the first assurance that together, they were equal to the task.
Henry sat at the far end of the table, near one of the tall candelabras, the soft flicker of which illuminated the faint threadbare edge of his jacket cuff. Despite his quiet manner, every time he spoke, the room hushed.
“I once discovered a fragment of Roman tilework buried near the churchyard in Little Hartcombe,” he said, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of his water glass.
“The tesserae formed a pattern remarkably similar to those found in the villas of the Cotswolds. Perhaps a local artisan trained under Roman influence.”
William leaned forward.
“Did you document it?” he asked.
The reverend nodded.
“In my journal, yes,” he said. “And I drew a rough sketch. I submitted the record to the Antiquarian Society some years past, though I doubt it held their attention for long.”
William gave him a look of sophisticated awe.
“That speaks to a thoroughness many trained men overlook,” he said. “You must share the details with us while you are here.”
Henry offered a self-effacing smile and dipped his head in acknowledgement.
“I would be honoured,” he said.
Catherine sipped from her wine glass, allowing her gaze to drift down the table.
Henry’s modesty was striking and so different from the carefully honed polish displayed by men like Harold.
The older gentleman, seated beside Sophia, had just turned a deft conversational thread toward Roman engineering.
“We marvel at aqueducts, but I find the genius of their infrastructure lies in small innovations,” Harold said. “Lead piping, for instance. Ingenious for their time, though not without its dangers.”
James held up a finger as a thought struck him.
“Did you see the fragment near the Bath site last year?” he asked. “The one with the markings along the interior rim?”
Harold nodded.
“A brilliant find,” he said. “It confirmed theories I held for years.”
Catherine noticed Edmund watching Harold, but not with admiration. Edmund’s fork rested untouched beside his plate, his posture tense.
“Edmund,” she said, trying to include him in the conversation. “Have you visited the Bath site yourself?”
He blinked, startled, then nodded.
“Once,” he said. “Briefly. The soil preservation techniques they use there are impressive.”
Beatrice looked up from her meal, intrigued.
“Your study on subterranean damp conditions was referenced in the Society’s quarterly,” she said across the table. “I found it most helpful in adjusting storage recommendations at our local museum.”
Edmund flushed.
“I am gratified to hear it,” he said. “I had not thought the observations would prove of practical use beyond theory.”
Beatrice arched a brow, her smile wry.
“Practicality is no slight to scholarship,” she said. “Roman children did not learn their letters from theory alone.”
A ripple of laughter moved around the table. Catherine glanced toward Marcus. He caught her eye only briefly before turning back to William, yet the faint warmth in his expression spoke of pride.
I am not embarrassing him, she thought with wonder. He is pleased with the progression of things thus far.
Beatrice’s voice rose again.
“What strikes me most about Roman domesticity is the presence of order in both pedagogy and daily labour,” she said. “Children learning household roles early, education built into rhythm.”
Eleanor nodded firmly as if in agreement.
“Much like your own approach at Weston Academy,” she said with warmth.
Beatrice gave a dignified nod.
“We modelled some practices from antiquity,” she said. “There is no reason not to learn from what endured.”
William smirked, though he did so with tenderness.
“Did you also keep a Latin day?” he asked with amusement.
Beatrice held her head higher still.
“Tuesdays,” she said. “Though most of the pupils loathed it.”
Laughter circled the room, soft but genuine. Catherine rose briefly to signal the footman for more wine, then returned to her seat as another thread of discussion formed about burial rites.
“Cremation versus inhumation,” Sophia said, passing a page of notes to her brother. “There is variation, of course, but we are seeing increasing evidence of hybrid practice in the second century.”
Charles glanced at the page.
“Which supports the idea of localised ritual adaptation, even within legions,” he said.
James gestured to the siblings with exuberance.
“Your excavation at Caerleon suggested as much,” he said.
Charles gave a brief nod.
“Though it is still early for definitive conclusions,” he said.
Sophia lifted her glass but did not drink.
“It is always early, it seems,” she said. “Yet we must keep assembling the fragments.”
Catherine felt the pressure ease from her shoulders. The conversation moved fluidly, full of insight and good-humoured challenge, and she had managed to guide it without dominating.
Her seating plan had encouraged the right pairings. The menu had pleased their guests, and the rhythm of service had supported the tone rather than intruded upon it.
It seemed she had established herself as a competent wife and hostess, after all. And the appreciation in Marcus’s eyes was all the confirmation she needed.