Chapter Eleven
Catherine stood just outside the library doors, her hands clasped around a steaming cup of tea that had gone cold while she issued early instructions to the staff.
The scent of lemon polish and aged paper greeted her as she stepped into the room, now carefully arranged for the day’s formal presentations.
Lamplight glowed over polished tables, each one designated for specific scholars.
The tall windows had been left unshuttered to provide the best natural light for mapwork and fine handwriting.
She made a quiet circuit through the space, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Pens, inkwells, spare quills, and clean blotters were stationed at each place. A fresh tray of coffee had already been brought in, and soon she would have to send for more.
The scholars were already hard at work. Some exchanged pleasantries, while others offered merely nods and settled quickly to their work.
William had claimed the central table beneath the portrait of the third Earl of Penwood. Ancient texts, their spines fragile with age, lay open before him. Catherine paused to refill his cup.
“Thank you, Catherine,” he said without looking up, his pen continuing across the page in a fluid, elegant script. “The binding on the Tacitus is quite fine. Better than the copy I worked from in Rome.”
Catherine smiled.
“I am pleased to hear it,” she said. “That volume belonged to the late earl of Penwood. He kept it wrapped in oilcloth for years before having it rebound.”
William gave a gentle nod.
“He was a wise man, Marcus’s father,” he said. “It is a fine tradition to preserve.” He glanced briefly at her then, his kind eyes twinkling. “You are keeping us all in good order. That is no easy task with this many competing egos.”
Catherine smiled, pondering the odd, foreboding chill that followed William’s harmless, humorous statement.
“I have observed that scholars, no less than footmen, prove most peaceable once one understands their particular ways,” she said, drawing a soft chuckle from him before she continued on.
James had claimed a wide table near the south windows. A series of maps had been unfurled and anchored with polished stones. Eleanor leaned beside him, pointing to a section with one hand while holding a well-worn field journal in the other.
“This ridge aligns with the old road system,” she said. “The amphora fragments came from just beyond it.”
James pointed at a specific spot on the map.
“That puts them in relation to the garrison post,” he said. “But not Roman manufacture, see? The glaze is local.”
Eleanor nodded.
“Which supports a theory of Celtic-Roman trade persistence well into the fourth century,” she said.
Catherine approached with a fresh pot of coffee.
“Might I refill either of yours?” she asked.
James grinned.
“You might save us from losing all sense of time,” he said.
Eleanor smiled at her.
“Catherine, you have created an atmosphere that rivals any university library,” she said.
Catherine returned her smile as she poured their coffee.
“That is high praise, Eleanor,” she said. “I shall endeavour not to disappoint.”
She moved next to Charles and Sophia, stationed near a smaller table with velvet-lined trays of brass and iron fragments. Charles had arranged a sequence of spearheads and buckles in what appeared to be formation rows.
“By size, then by function,” he said, more to himself than to Sophia, who nodded as though he had directly addressed her.
“And cross-referenced by provenance,” she said, holding up a sheet of careful notations.
Catherine observed in silence for a moment, noting the precision with which Sophia catalogued each item. Her hands moved with practised speed, though her manner remained composed.
“Lady Penwood – that is, Catherine,” Charles said, finally acknowledging her. “The lighting in this corner is most obliging.”
“I am glad it serves you,” she said. Should you have need of anything—”
“A scale, perhaps,” Sophia interjected before she could conclude. “For the weighing of materials.
Catherine smiled and dipped her head respectfully.
“I shall have one brought straightaway,” she said.
She turned to go, mentally noting the request. The door opened again behind her as Harold entered, already mid-discussion with Edmund, who trailed him by several steps.
“The provincial minting practices show remarkable variation,” Harold said. “And yet standardisation occurs more often than not, especially under Hadrian.”
Edmund nodded, but his eyes roved the room, searching.
Catherine met his gaze and offered a polite smile.
He returned it after a delay, distracted.
She could not read his expression—no resentment, yet a flicker that unsettled her.
Was it unease? Anxiety? A sudden thought struck her: was he uncomfortable at Penwood Estate?
Was she proving to be a bad hostess after all?
Henry arrived a few minutes later with a worn leather folio and several folded maps. He chose the smallest desk near the bookcase and began arranging his materials with great care, murmuring Latin passages under his breath.
Catherine brought him coffee as well.
“Pray do let me know if you should require anything further, Henry,” she said.
“Your kindness is balm enough, my lady,” he said. “This room is a sanctuary.”
She lingered a moment to observe him at work.
His notations were precise, the Latin effortlessly fluid.
He had no university title or formal distinction, and yet here sat a scholar of rare quality.
She supposed that reverends received all kinds of education to be able to minister to all kinds of people.
Though she was sure that none were as delighted by scholarly pursuits as Henry Brown clearly was.
As the library filled with the soft murmur of discussion, the rustle of pages, and the clink of porcelain, Catherine stood near the hearth and surveyed the room. Every guest had their place. Every lamp burned steadily. Every mind was engaged.
It seemed that the day had begun well. And though her role was still new, it was not unfamiliar to her.
She felt within it something more than service.
She felt as though she belonged right where she was, doing precisely what she was doing.
She was not merely managing a household—she was curating a symposium.
At the corner table nearest the fireplace, Edmund sat hunched low, his narrow shoulders tense beneath the worn brown of his coat. Documents fanned before him, some of which were official-looking, while others were worn at the creases.
Catherine’s eye caught the glint of an embossed seal on one parchment and the edge of what looked like an authentication ledger, though the way Edmund angled the page suggested a desire for privacy rather than collegial exchange.
She stepped closer.
“Would you care for coffee, Edmund?” she asked softly.
Her intent had been to avoid startling him. But he looked up so abruptly that his spectacles slid down his nose. One hand hovered over his papers, as if to shield them from view.
“Ah. Yes, Catherine,” he said. “Thank you.”
She poured quietly, setting the cup beside his inkstand.
“I hope you have sufficient light there,” she said. “We can draw the curtains further if needed.”
He shook his head.
“This situation suits me,” he replied swiftly, his gaze flickering toward Harold, who stood across the room in earnest discourse with James upon matters of stratigraphy.
Catherine’s smile was slight as she passed on, yet unease touched her. Edmund’s eyes followed not the labour, but the man.
What is he watching for? she wondered.
At the wide desk beneath the north window, Henry bent over a modest tray of local finds: pottery shards, rusted fittings, a small inscribed token. The vicar handled each with deliberate care, turning one piece of blackened iron in his palm.
“Interesting patina,” he said softly. “Not typical of third-century smithing. Perhaps repurposed by a later inhabitant.”
James leaned across from his own map table.
“You believe it was reused?” he asked.
Henry nodded.
“I cannot say for certain, of course,” he said. “But the wear pattern suggests successive use—possibly as a hinge bracket after its original function.”
Beatrice, seated nearby with a Roman domestic ledger, raised her brows in quiet approval.
“That would align with the layered habitation theories we discussed at breakfast,” she said.
Catherine felt a small ripple of pride. Henry’s manner remained self-effacing, yet his observations consistently pushed conversations forward.
“He has an unusual instinct for context,” Eleanor said as she passed. “One might believe he had formal training.”
Catherine smiled.
“I suspect long hours alone with parish records provide more archaeological insight than one might guess,” she said.
Near the shelves of translated classical texts, Harold had joined William and Sophia.
His stance was easy, his voice pitched in a mellow register that invited others to speak at length.
Catherine lingered at the edge of the room, adjusting a vase of early roses and pretending to study the fireplace lintel, though her ears remained keen.
“…and in your experience, Miss Whitmore,” Harold was saying, “how frequently have you encountered… shall we say… embellished catalogue entries in private collections?”
Sophia glanced at Charles, who continued arranging their sketches with precise hands.
“Often enough to be wary,” she said crisply. “My brother and I make it a rule to confirm the provenance ourselves. Reliance upon others’ attestations can prove unreliable, particularly where households are less exact in their oversight.”
Harold inclined his head as though in agreement.
“Quite so. Records may be shaped to flatter fashion—or to serve gain. One must tread carefully to distinguish honest error from deliberate misdirection.”
Catherine tucked the roses back into place, her hands steady while her attention pricked.