Chapter Thirteen
The long table in the west gallery had been cleared of its usual books and instruments, replaced now by the labelled items from Marcus’s collection and the careful presentation materials prepared the evening prior.
The morning sunlight struck across the polished wood floor, filtered through tall windows that cast faint shadows beneath the assembled scholars and guests.
Catherine took her seat near the end, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the familiar tension of preparation still humming faintly in her chest despite the calm outward order of the room.
They had organised the sequence of the morning with care. Marcus had insisted that each scholar’s specialty be afforded its proper frame, its rightful credit. Catherine had ensured the transitions would feel seamless, the documentation clearly visible, and the references prepared and cross-indexed.
William opened the morning with a discussion of poetic fragments inscribed on a pair of cracked lead tablets. His analysis of meter and linguistic form was thorough, but what struck Catherine most was the way he paused near the end and gestured toward her and Sophia.
“The interpretive structure,” he said, “benefited greatly from a reordering proposed by Lady Penwood. It altered the metrical emphasis in such a way as to reveal a more probable dedication structure. And Miss Whitmore’s translation assistance,” he added, with a glance toward Sophia, “provided clarity I might otherwise have missed.”
There were murmurs of approval. William bowed slightly and returned to his place.
James, by contrast, approached his presentation as though he were recounting an epic tale to an audience by firelight.
A set of carved figures thought to represent a Celtic-Roman fusion of ritual identities had already sparked disagreement during the previous days.
But he spoke with animation and ease, acknowledging various opposing theories without diminishing their merit.
He credited Charles for recognising a previously overlooked military inscription that tied the piece to a specific Roman outpost, and Catherine for identifying the cross-referenced entry in Marcus’s catalogue that aligned the figures with a related discovery made decades earlier in Somerset.
“I may hold strong opinions,” James said, smiling across the table, “but I have learned, quite recently in fact, that the strength of an argument improves considerably when one listens to several others.”
Laughter rippled across the room. James gave a slight, unstudied bow and resumed his seat.
Charles rose with a thick folder in hand and delivered a straightforward account of two bronze tokens believed to have been issued as rewards to local levies under a temporary conscription edict. His voice was plain, yet his findings were clear. When he concluded, he gestured toward Sophia.
“My sister’s assistance in correlating the distribution records proved invaluable,” he said simply.
Sophia blushed, but she nodded, visibly pleased.
Edmund rose next. His hair appeared more untidy than usual, and he fumbled with the clasp of his specimen box before producing a forged coin to accompany his remarks.
His voice faltered at the outset, yet in time his discourse on comparative etching styles and residual matter found its footing.
His insights were keen, his deductions exact; still Catherine watched him with care.
Not once did he meet Marcus’s eye. He stood hunched, guarded; and though his reasoning held, there was something unfinished in his bearing—something watchful.
His theories on forgery were persuasive, but his manner left questions unanswered.
Harold followed, smooth as ever. His theme was impossibly broad—cross-cultural ceremonial iconography—and he spoke as though he had studied every civilisation beneath the sun.
His voice was agreeable, his illustrations arranged in meticulous order, his delivery unforced.
Yet for all its polish, it rang of performance.
Catherine listened, her hands clasped before her, as he expounded each element with assured ease.
And yet, when she searched for the thread of genuine curiosity, she found none.
His knowledge was vast, but far too tidy, too complete.
It struck her not as studied inquiry but studied ambition.
When Harold concluded, there was a beat of silence.
Then Henry stood, a little awkwardly, and began his account of the excavation site behind the old chapel ruins.
His voice was quiet at first as he described the layer of loam, the shattered pottery fragment, the scorched earth.
He spoke of local legends, of the tools recovered and their probable dating.
As he continued, something in his manner shifted.
He stopped glancing at his notes and instead spoke from memory.
He spoke of walking the fields before dawn, of scraping back centuries with careful fingers.
He spoke not to impress, but to share something important.
When he concluded, he placed a small, chipped vessel on the table and said, simply,
“I believe this belonged to someone who lived here long before we named it Penwood.”
There was silence again. This time, it held something closer to reverence.
Catherine let her breath out slowly. The room, for all its posturing, had remembered itself.
These were not merely scholars presenting their findings; for a fleeting instant, they were true seekers, united about a mystery they longed to comprehend.
She glanced toward Marcus, who inclined his head once, his eyes steady upon her.
She lowered her gaze, permitting herself, just briefly, to smile.
She moved then through the gallery with practised grace, offering a quiet word here, a gentle smile there, sustaining the air of civility and purpose that had endured throughout the day.
The formal presentations had yielded to freer discourse.
Gentlemen and ladies gathered in shifting clusters about the display cases, bending close to examine an inscription, or debating matters of dating and origin in lowered voices and with furrowed brows.
Sir Hugo and Mr Rutledge—visiting scholars for the day’s presentations—argued cheerfully in one corner about the provenance of a certain stylus, while Miss Crawford listened, her brow lifted in sceptical amusement.
Near the west wall, Charles and James stood shoulder to shoulder in a heated discussion over inscription layering techniques, with Sophia between them offering soft clarifications that neither seemed to hear.
Catherine smiled faintly as she passed, ensuring refreshments remained available and no guest was neglected.
She kept her movements steady and her manner composed, but her eyes swept constantly.
Every object had been catalogued; its display location carefully aligned with the master inventory.
She had memorised the order, the structure, the positioning.
Nothing should be out of place. And yet, something was.
It began as a quiet impression, a faint unease she could not yet name.
Catherine found herself glancing again toward Edmund, who stood alone at the central table.
He stared at a bronze coin of uncertain origin, though his fingers did not touch it.
His posture was rigid, his shoulders drawn inward.
When he sensed her gaze, he looked up quickly and gave a sharp nod, too swift to be natural.
Then he returned to his study with renewed intensity, his hand now trembling ever so slightly as it hovered over the next piece.
His behaviour had grown increasingly agitated as the day progressed.
He had spoken less and moved more, his eyes darting from one group to the next with restless calculation.
When he did engage, it was with a strange sort of urgency, as though every conversation bore hidden stakes known only to him.
Catherine passed near him once more, pausing briefly.
“Do you require anything, Edmund?” she asked.
He started, as though she had spoken inches from him rather than across a polite distance.
“No,” he said quickly. “I am merely reviewing the arrangement. A few inconsistencies, perhaps, but nothing of consequence.”
She tilted her head but said no more. He turned at once and withdrew to the window, pressing both hands against the sill as though to steady himself.
Harold, by contrast, was as smooth and genial as ever. He moved among the guests like a gentleman at a house party rather than a scholarly convocation, dispensing compliments with practised ease.
“Lady Penwood, you possess unfathomable skill,” he said, approaching with his impeccable smile. “The orderliness of the materials, the clarity of the records—remarkable. I do hope you will consider publishing a volume of your system. It would be of great use to the field.”
Catherine smiled, though stiffly.
“You are kind to say so,” she returned, though she noted how his gaze lingered too long upon the central display before flicking back to her with polished brightness.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” he said smoothly. “It is only admiration for excellent work.”
With a graceful bow, he moved on, already angling toward another cluster of guests.
The afternoon wore on. The sun dipped lower, streaming through the tall windows in warm shafts that glanced off polished glass and lacquered wood.
Alone now, Catherine moved from room to room, conducting her final inventory.
It had become her quiet ritual at day’s end: to verify the integrity of the collection and prepare for the morrow.
Ledger open in her hand, she checked each entry against the display.
In the southern alcove, she stopped.
A small gold Roman ring, set with a carnelian intaglio of a reclining hound, was missing.
Her pen froze. Her breath caught.
She bent closer, unwilling to believe her eyes. Yet the label remained precisely in place. The adjacent bronze fibula and bone stylus had shifted, only slightly—enough to suggest fullness, but not enough to disguise the gap from one who knew its contents as intimately as she did.
She opened her notebook again, her hand beginning to tremble. There, in her own careful script, was the entry. Ring, gold, Roman, carnelian intaglio, No. 47, displayed south alcove, second tier, between fibula and stylus. She herself had placed it there. Now it was gone.
A chill stirred through her chest. Perhaps it had been moved for closer inspection?
Perhaps a guest had returned it carelessly, nudging the other pieces askew?
She searched swiftly but with care: beneath the velvet, along the shelf’s base, behind adjoining objects.
She checked each label, confirmed each entry.
Foolishly, she told herself it might yet reappear, misplaced in the earnestness of study.
But the gap remained. The label stood alone.
Her throat tightened. She straightened slowly, unsettled. The familiar room seemed altered, its warmth edged with unease. If the ring had not merely been displaced, if it had been taken—
She pressed her palm against the ledger to steady it, willing her thoughts to order. Her steps quickened, near-silent upon the rugs, as she crossed the long room and the corridor beyond.
At the threshold of the adjoining study, she paused.
Marcus stood near the hearth with William and James, the three in animated discourse.
William gestured broadly, James’s brow lifted in pleased surprise.
Likely they spoke of future projects—Celtic and Roman intersections, perhaps, or the ecclesiastical transformations of the fourth century.
Catherine stepped forward, her voice low, weighted.
“Marcus.”
He turned at once, his brow furrowing. Reading her face, he set his glass aside.
“Yes, Catherine?” His tone was already alert.
“I must speak with you privately,” she said. “At once.”
It was all she uttered, quietly, evenly. Yet it was enough.
Marcus nodded, his expression grave.
“Of course.” He turned to his companions. “Pray excuse me.”
Both William and James regarded her with surprise at the sudden change of temper.
James half parted his lips to speak, but Rosalind entered from the adjoining room, remarking cheerfully to someone just behind her.
Alexander followed close after, his brow knit in mild puzzlement as his gaze passed between Catherine and the others.
Catherine did not look their way again. Her gaze remained fixed upon Marcus. He did not falter, but moved toward the door without hesitation, following her from the room.