Chapter 19 #2
Tristan only chuckled. “Miss Madeline, my library is supposedly strictly limited to the classics and those that I require for managing my estate. However, I am told there might be some novels of that nature behind some of the books on law.”
“Ha! I knew it!” Madeline was not in the least bit embarrassed by her request. “I knew your husband was secretly a hopeless romantic as well!”
Lord Marlow, who was so intent on slicing his ham, suddenly cupped his ear to ask, “What? What is that?”
“Cathy’s husband, the Duke, Grandpapa!” Madeline shouted. “He likes romance books.”
The baron smiled at that, relief seemingly appearing on his wrinkled face. He looked at Tristan with respect and, hopefully, recognition.
“A cook!” the baron exclaimed, clapping his hands with glee. “It is about time we have a decent one in the family. The last one could not even boil an egg without setting off a little fire. Welcome to the family, my boy! Let us have venison next time!”
Cathy groaned and covered her face with her hands, clearly mortified.
“Madeline said that the Duke has a lot of books, Norman!” the baroness shouted, trying to lean forward to reach her husband.
“Ah! I hear you, wife!” the baron replied, slightly looking disappointed. “Books are all good and well, but can he cook?”
Madeline could no longer help it. She burst out laughing, a laughter Tristan found so infectious.
It was loud, but necessary to break the rising tension he felt in Cathy and Lady Marlow.
Tristan could not help but join in. He could feel Cathy start to loosen up, and he was taken aback by how happy it made him to see her smile like that.
Soon, she was more open to communicating with her family more naturally.
That is more like it.
“Pass the tarts, Portia. I believe I have had too much of the pheasant, and I believe I need something to rid my tongue of its taste,” Madeline grumbled, as she tackled the offending meat with her knife and fork.
Her sister did not even blink. She still seemed riveted by the book on Stoic philosophy on the dinner table. Her fork continued its impressive navigation over her plate with efficiency even without her looking.
“Then, Grandpapa was right. We need a new cook, Maddy,” Portia commented. “Unfortunately, we could not present His Grace as one.”
“That would be terrifying for me to end up as your cook.”
His lips twitched at the idea. He looked toward Cathy, who appeared to be just as amused as he was, instead of red with humiliation. Her shoulders shook with silent glee. The behavior did not seem to belong to the Duchess of Baxter, but to a young woman who had found herself at home.
“She is quite right, Maddy,” Cathy teased, “and besides, the pheasant is delicious, but perhaps slightly dry. It is nothing to fuss about. Save your breath for something more substantial for Portia, like a debate on Greek tragedy.”
Madeline groaned. “Apologies. I do not know what has become of me,” she apologized, while reaching for a tart so quickly it was clear that her appetite was not affected at all.
Meanwhile, Tristan had nothing to complain about.
He held his wine glass loosely, happy to observe the scene now that his initial discomfort was gone.
At Baxter Hall, everything was proper, a silent performance.
Here, the air was buzzing. Alive. It smelled of lavender and roast meat, but most of all, it smelled like comfort.
He observed how capable Cathy’s hands were in providing her family with comfort. Her hands gracefully placed a large portion of tart onto Portia’s dish while the girl read her book.
“Eat, Portia,” her eldest sister said gently.
It was clear that it was a masked command.
It seemed that Cathy was accustomed to being a motherly figure to her younger sisters.
The thought created a tight knot in his chest. His wife was a mother, father, and even a steward for her sisters, even when she was still a young girl herself. She held the family together.
“You cannot live on books alone. You are growing too slim. Do you really want to faint in the midst of reading about Marcus Aurelius?”
Then, she turned to Selina. Her youngest sister was wrestling with a stubborn piece of ham, her brows furrowed in concentration. Her knife did not seem strong enough to neatly slice it into pieces.
“Patience, Selina, one long press and slice at a time. Do not look like you are sawing a large tree in the middle of a forest.”
Her sister obeyed and was soon content. Tristan watched the exchange, his mind spinning.
He had spent his life treating the word “family” as a mere legal term.
It was nothing more than a way to pass on titles and wealth.
Meanwhile, dinners were cold affairs. Seeing Cathy like this evoked feelings he never knew he had.
He grew up with a lot of luxury, while she barely had anything to hold on to.
The Marlows donated most of their money to charity.
So, even her grandparents could not provide the sisters with the money they needed for a good Season.
However, just when calm seemed to have descended upon the dinner table, Lady Marlow admonished her husband loudly. Her voice cracked like a whip, but Tristan suspected that it was necessary for managing the baron.
“Are you finally going to eat those peas, Norman? We have already moved on to the dessert!”
Lord Marlow seemed focused on a single pea in the midst of much smaller ones. However, his wife’s voice shook him out of his reverie.
“W-what? Of course, I am keeping the peace. I am no longer at war.”
Cathy groaned, as if she were waking from a spell.
“I am glad that you are no longer at war, Lord Marlow,” Tristan offered, making sure his voice was loud enough for the old baron to hear. “My apologies for not being good enough a cook to take over a marvelous dinner. My skills are quite limited, but I am enjoying the current meal.”
The baroness watched the exchange like a hawk, her sharp eyes following the interaction between Tristan and Cathy. When the laughter died down, she ushered her eldest granddaughter out of her chair. Tristan curiously followed the two with his gaze.
What happened?
“Yes, Grandmama?” Cathy asked, although she had little idea what her grandmother wanted. It was in the way the older woman peered at her, her eyes narrowed.
“Well, Cathy,” the baroness whispered, her voice sounding like a loud rasp. “Have you fulfilled your duty? Have you stopped playing the uptight martyr and secured your position in your husband’s bed?”
Cathy felt the blood drain from her face. It was not the topic she would have liked to discuss, only a few feet away from Tristan.
“I am sorry, Grandmama, but no. Not yet.”
“Well? What are you waiting for? Certainly not the time when your husband has moved on to someone else!”
“I understand, Grandmama,” Cathy whispered, feeling hollow. “I... I will make sure I do it tonight.”
Suddenly, all the familial happiness she felt earlier was gone.
The departure almost felt like a heavy weight on her chest. She hugged her sisters as hard as she could. There was a desperate intensity in those hugs, she was well aware. She inhaled deeply when the carriage door shut, and they began to leisurely roll back home to Baxter Hall.
Cathy sat as far from Tristan as the opposite velvet bench allowed, finding being alone with him again strangely awkward.
“Was it dreadful?” she asked, her voice ending with a squeak. She did not like sounding fragile in front of him.
“It was not dreadful at all, Cathy,” he said, his voice sounding sincere.
Cathy could not help but feel disbelief.
“You do not have to lie to me. My sisters are loud, and one of them was trying to find out if you have any scandalous novels. One cares more for her book than the rest of us. The last one believes in fairy tales and love. Grandpapa is deaf and also fancies himself to be in another world at times. But truth be told, I know he is not senile. And Grandmama…”
She sighed.
“It is clear you all are comfortable with each other, and I can see that you are willing to lay down your lives for one another. You have something enviable, Cathy.”
Cathy looked into his eyes, searching for the lie. However, what she saw was a willingness to listen.
“They are loving,” she admitted.
“Yes, and this is something to be proud of, not ashamed of. How many families do you know that can really be themselves around each other?” he asked.
“I do not know. I suppose I assumed that all families are the same behind closed doors?”
“You could not be farther from the truth on that, Cathy. My parents, for one, always conducted themselves formally. Even when alone or in front of me. Dinners were awkwardly quiet to say the least.”
“I never... I always remember my grandmama arguing with my papa at dinner, and my mama trying to enforce peace at the table. I suppose I was afraid that something similar might happen tonight.”
“I would never put you in such a position, Cathy.” Tristan took her hand in his.
“Thank you. We lost our mother when we were still young. Everything fell apart, then. I found myself trying to do anything to care for my sisters, and I just... feel responsible about everything that has to do with them.”
“What about your father, then?” Tristan asked.
Cathy’s spine hardened. The memory of mounting debts and empty chairs rose from her, together with her walls rising up around her.
Harleigh Quinten had never been much of a father to her and her sisters, and yet, she had always felt responsible for him, too.
“My papa has been the object of jokes in the ton. If it were only because of his pedigree, I would have defended him. But everyone knows about his gambling and drinking problems. After my scandal, he simply emptied our coffers and vanished.”
A tear escaped, but she wiped it angrily. It tracked a path through the rouge she carefully applied on her cheek.
“It is normal to feel angry, Cathy. He left you all to fight on your own without a penny to your name.”
“I know. I should be so angry. But you know what is worse? I know should hate him; I know I should feel furious with him, but instead, all I feel is worry. I am worried about where he is and what he is doing. I just... do you think that makes me crazy?”
“No, Cathy. I think it makes you wonderful and kind. But I do not like to see you worried. I will find him for you,” Tristan promised, his eyes dark and serious.
“What?” she asked, surprised by such a promise, one that sounded like a deadly vow.
“I promise you that I will find your father, and I will bring him back,” Tristan reiterated.