Chapter Eighteen #2
Marcus sat at his desk, surrounded by parchment and folios. His coat was slung over the back of a nearby chair; his cravat loosened at the throat. The warm lamplight threw his features into gentle relief, casting a glow over the furrow in his brow and the quiet tension in his jaw.
He looked up at the sound of her entrance.
“Catherine,” he said quietly, “you could not sleep either?”
She shook her head and stepped inside, drawing the door shut behind her.
“I tried,” she said. “But my thoughts would not be stilled.”
Marcus gestured toward the settee near the hearth.
“Please, sit,” he said softly. “The fire is nearly out, but the embers should still offer some warmth.”
Catherine complied, smoothing the skirt of her dressing gown as she sat. She glanced toward the open books on his desk.
“You are organising the authentication records again,” she said.
Marcus nodded, and Catherine noticed how gentle and kind his eyes were.
“It soothes me,” he said. “There is precision in cataloguing. A kind of order the rest of the world rarely affords.”
She clasped her hands in her lap.
“Do you think he suspects we are watching him?” she asked, at last allowing her worry to show.
He leaned back in his chair, the shadows shifting across his face.
“He is too polished to show it, but I believe he senses something has changed,” he said. “His questions today were more pointed. His interest in the storerooms could no longer be disguised. He is either planning an immediate move, or he has, in fact, grown suspicious.”
Catherine took a deep breath.
“Edmund will do his best,” she said quietly. “But it must be tonight or tomorrow. If he attempts to leave—”
“He will not leave,” Marcus said with an earnest, confident look. “We will not allow it.”
Silence settled between them for a long moment. The embers cracked softly in the hearth, and somewhere far off, a floorboard groaned under the weight of time.
“This is not at all what I once pictured our marriage to be,” Catherine said at last. “Scholarly gatherings shadowed by suspicion, late-night vigils by lamplight—none of it was what I foresaw.”
Marcus’s mouth curved faintly.
“Nor the ease between us,” he said.
She looked up quickly, then softened.
“No,” she said. “Nor that.”
He studied her in silence for a moment, his gaze steady in the firelight.
“It was meant to be practical,” he said quietly. “And yet, whenever you enter a room, I forget that it was ever only that.”
Her breath caught.
“You are overtired,” she murmured.
“No,” he replied, his tone firm but gentle. “Only truthful.”
She looked at the books, the desk, the flickering hearth light.
The familiar comforts of scholarship had anchored her for years, but this was something else. This was not a matter of ink and knowledge, but of heart.
“I do not know what to say,” she said.
Marcus blinked, as if bringing himself out of deep thought. His expression trembled before he gave her another small smile.
“You need not say anything,” Marcus said. “Only know that I am glad I chose you as my wife in this marriage of convenience. It does not feel forced or uncomfortable. It is pleasant and comforting, even in simple moments like this.”
She stood slowly. He rose as well.
They stood a pace apart, the silence between them thick with all that had gone unsaid.
“We must focus on what comes next,” Catherine said at last. “For the sake of the guests. For the safety of the collection.”
Marcus nodded, though something unguarded lingered in his eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “You are right. We must focus on this right now. But do not worry. I am certain we can put an end to any theft that has happened, or any that might.”
She hesitated, then turned toward the library shelves.
“I will stay in here a little longer, if that is all right,” she said. “I find comfort in books.”
I find comfort in you, and in the space that belongs to you, she thought, burying the thought before it could appear on her face.
She thought Marcus would point out how she could find more books in the library, but he did not. Instead, he merely nodded.
“And I find comfort in your strength,” he said.
He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, creating another warm thrill through her body.
She marvelled at how close the two of them were growing. Even with impending trouble, she had allowed herself to become attached to her husband.
“And I in yours,” she said softly, giving him another small smile.
Marcus nodded once more.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “We will manage this together, with the help of trusted family.”
She turned toward him again, and for one breathless instant, they stood nearer than ever before. The embers flared, throwing a sudden glow across the room, yet Catherine did not draw back.
She could not tell whether Marcus felt what she herself was beginning to feel—whether their marriage meant to him what it was coming to mean to her. Yet for the moment it was enough: the ease between them, whether in labour or in silence.
Perhaps, when this unhappy business was concluded, there might be time to speak of what had altered between them. For now, as she had reminded Marcus, their duty was clear. They must bring Harold to account—before it was too late, if indeed it was not already.