Chapter 14
"Your mother is here."
Four words that could strike terror into the heart of any young woman, but particularly one who'd just spent the morning being fitted for a wedding dress that cost more than most people's annual income.
Catherine stood frozen in the doorway of her aunt's morning room, still wearing her pelisse from the trip to Madame Delacroix's. Her aunt Vivienne stood by the window, her usually cheerful face drawn with tension.
"Here?" Catherine managed. "In London?"
"In this very house. In my best parlor. Drinking my tea and looking like she wants to burn the place down.
" Vivienne turned from the window, and Catherine saw something she'd never seen on her aunt's face before—genuine anxiety.
"She arrived an hour ago, demanding to know what I've done to corrupt you. "
"Corrupt me?"
"Her words, not mine. Apparently, I've filled your head with romantic nonsense and encouraged you to throw away your future for a fleeting passion."
Catherine’s heart clenched, her breath catching somewhere between her lungs and her throat.
She sank into the nearest chair, the world tilting slightly as her legs gave way.
The velvet upholstery did little to steady her.
“How did she even know?” she whispered, staring at the rug as though it might offer answers.
Vivienne gave a small, incredulous laugh—the kind that was more air than sound. “My dear, you’re marrying a duke in two weeks. The announcement was in every paper from here to Edinburgh. Did you truly think she wouldn’t find out?”
“I’d hoped to write to her after the wedding,” Catherine murmured.
It sounded weak even to her own ears. She had imagined crafting that letter carefully; soft words, measured phrases, a perfect mixture of contrition and hope.
Perhaps, if written after the vows were said, her mother’s wrath would have burned itself out by then. Foolish. Naive.
“Coward,” Vivienne said gently.
“Absolutely.”
Vivienne crossed to the sideboard with the purposeful elegance of a general moving across a battlefield. She uncorked a decanter and poured herself a brandy, never mind that it was barely noon. “She’s furious about Sir Reginald.”
Catherine let out a humorless laugh. “Of course she is.”
“She claims you’ve humiliated him. And worse—he’s apparently threatening to call in certain debts.”
Catherine froze. The chill that spread through her veins was immediate and absolute. “What debts?”
Vivienne turned, glass in hand, her expression tight with concern. “She wouldn’t say. Just kept muttering about your selfishness and your father’s legacy. Catherine, is there something I should know?”
Catherine opened her mouth to reply, but her voice seemed to have deserted her.
She thought of her mother’s ledgers; those endless columns of figures that had kept the Westmont estate barely afloat after her father’s passing.
Of the letters Catherine had intercepted, heavy with financial desperation cloaked in politeness.
Her mother had always considered debt a private matter, a humiliation to be managed behind closed doors.
If Sir Reginald truly had his hands in that particular mire, then. ..
The sharp crack of the door opening made both women jump.
Lady Margaret Westmont filled the threshold like a storm cloud given human shape.
She was dressed head to toe in black, her bonnet ribbons tied with military precision, her expression that of a woman who had long ago lost patience with the world and found righteous anger a suitable substitute for air.
There was something almost judicial in her severity, like Justice herself, all austere grace and unyielding discernment.
“Mother,” Catherine managed, rising automatically, though her knees protested.
Lady Margaret’s gaze swept the room—Vivienne’s decanter gleaming half full, Catherine still pale and half-seated, the uneasy quiet that hung like smoke. Her lips thinned.
“So.” The single syllable sliced through the air. “This is where my daughter hides while dragging our family name through the mud.”
Catherine’s throat closed around a dozen responses, each one useless. “Mother...”
“Don’t mother me.” Lady Margaret’s voice cracked like a whip. “Get your things. Sir Reginald has graciously agreed to overlook this… escapade if we return immediately.”
“Escapade?” Catherine rose slowly, the word burning. “Is that what you’re calling my betrothal to a duke?”
“I’m calling it what it is—a foolish girl’s attempt to escape her responsibilities.” The older woman’s eyes were like fire. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Did you think you could simply run away and leave me to clean the wreckage of your decisions?”
Catherine could hear her heartbeat in her ears.
Her fingers dug into the back of the chair for balance.
Every word hit like a physical blow, dragging her back to girlhood—those endless lectures about propriety, reputation, sacrifice.
She’d thought distance might dull their sting. But she’d been wrong.
“Margaret,” Vivienne began carefully, moving between them like someone approaching a snarling dog, “perhaps we should all sit down and discuss this calmly.”
“Don’t you dare,” Margaret snapped, turning on her sister with sudden fury. “This is your doing, Vivienne. It always is. You’ve filled her head with nonsense—books and poetry and talk of independence. You’ve encouraged her wildness, her romantic delusions.”
Vivienne’s composure slipped; her chin lifted in defiance. “I’ve encouraged her to think for herself. Something you never allowed.”
“I taught her duty. Responsibility. Family honour.”
“You taught her to be a martyr, just like you.”
The sisters faced each other across the room, decades of resentment crackling between them. Catherine had known they were estranged, but she'd never witnessed their animosity firsthand.
“I did what was necessary,” Margaret said, each word clipped to precision. “Not all of us could afford to marry penniless barons for love.”
Vivienne’s laugh was sharp and disbelieving. “Harold wasn’t penniless, and you know it. You’re the one who chose position over happiness.”
“I chose security. Stability. A future for my children.”
“Child,” Vivienne corrected, her tone biting. “You have one child, Margaret. One daughter you’re trying to sell to the highest bidder.”
Margaret’s nostrils flared. “How dare you?”
“How dare I?” Vivienne cut in, stepping forward, voice rising with long-suppressed fury. “How dare you! You vanish for years and then appear out of nowhere, demanding Catherine throw away her chance at happiness because you made some backroom deal with that butterfly-obsessed bore?”
“Sir Reginald is a respectable gentleman with a fortune that could save...” Margaret stopped short, the sentence strangled in her throat. Her jaw tightened.
“Save what?” Catherine asked quietly.
The words slipped out before she could think better of them. Both women turned to her as though they’d momentarily forgotten she existed. Her mother’s glare was pure frost; her aunt’s eyes held pity.
“What needs saving, Mother?” Catherine pressed, her pulse thudding in her ears.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Doesn’t it?” Catherine rose from her chair, every nerve taut. “I’m the one being bartered for it.”
Margaret’s color deepened. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I?” Catherine demanded. “Then tell me why Sir Reginald’s money is so important. Tell me what debts he’s threatening to call in.”
“That’s family business,” Margaret said sharply.
“I am family!” The words burst out of her, trembling with fury. “Or am I just currency to pay for Father’s mistakes?”
The word mistakes fell into the silence. Margaret went utterly still, her expression freezing in place.
“What do you know about your father’s mistakes?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous.
“Nothing,” Catherine said. “Because you never tell me anything. But I’m not a fool, Mother. The estate went to Cousin Frederick, yes—but there should have been something. Investments. Income. Instead, we’ve lived on borrowed money and Aunt Vivienne’s kindness.”
“We are not dependent on anyone,” Margaret snapped, but her voice wavered.
“Aren’t we?” Catherine took a step closer, refusing to look away. “Then why does Sir Reginald’s money matter so much?”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Catherine could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantel, each second dragging out her dread.
When Margaret finally spoke, her voice was different—tired, stripped of its usual hauteur. “Your father left debts,” she said bitterly. “Significant debts. Gaming debts, mostly, though there were also some unfortunate investments.”
Catherine felt the world sway beneath her, as though the elegant morning room had tilted on its axis. “How much?” she whispered.
"Two thousand pounds."
Vivienne gasped. "Margaret, my goodness. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you? So you could look at me with pity? Poor Margaret, married for duty and still ended up with nothing?"
"I would have helped!"
“I don’t want your help,” Margaret said, her voice shaking not with weakness but with rage held barely in check. “I don’t want anyone’s help. I want my daughter to do her duty and marry the man who has agreed to clear those debts.”
The words fell like stones. Catherine felt each one strike...cold, heavy, final.
“You sold me,” she said softly. The stillness of her tone made both women freeze. “You literally sold me to Sir Reginald.”
“I secured your future,” Margaret snapped, as if the distinction mattered.
“You secured your comfort.” Catherine rose, and for the first time she met her mother’s glare without flinching. “You couldn’t bear the thought of accepting help from Vivienne, so you sold your daughter instead.”
“Everything I’ve done has been for you!”