Chapter Seven
By the time the builders had arrived to speak with her husband, Catherine had jotted down a few ideas for how she wanted to change the parlor and a few of the other rooms. She was glad that Benjamin had given her free rein to do whatever she wished, trusting her judgment implicitly.
She had to wonder if it wasn’t just because he didn’t want to be bothered with the project, more concerned about repairing the roof and structure of the manor before it began to crumble about their ears.
Although she was still annoyed about her current situation, Catherine was glad to bring some life back into this magnificent house. She had always been an advocate for the preservation of English history and Fontaine Hall was a grand example of that.
After the workers had taken notes and promised to return the following day with materials to begin work, they took their leave. When they were gone, Benjamin approached her. “I noticed that you didn’t mention altering the nursery.”
Catherine put a hand to her stomach. “I actually forgot about it, truth be told.”
He held his arm out to her. “Let’s go inspect it now, shall we?”
She accepted his offering, and together, they made their way to the third floor.
Half of the main section of the sprawling estate was dedicated to heirs of Fontaine Hall with a massive room containing a few slate boards stacked neatly in a box in the corner, as well as a rocking horse that looked ready for a small child to climb onto its back.
There were other various toys and books scattered about.
Adjoining this room was a bedchamber, presumably for the governess, and a few more closed doors down the hall Benjamin told her were additional chambers.
“How many children have grown up here?” Catherine had meant it as more of a jest, but he seemed to ponder her question.
“I would say close to fifty since the estate and grounds were granted to my great-great-great grandfather.”
Her eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Indeed. The Fontaine men have generally been known for their desire to procreate. Or, at least, practice the art.” He lifted a brow at her and she narrowed her eyes at him.
“I don’t care to have fifteen children when I have yet to deliver one.”
“Duly noted,” he murmured with an amused twist of his lips. “We should concentrate on a healthy delivery before we consider if we want any more.”
‘We.’
It was a simple enough word, but it caused butterflies to scurry about in her chest nevertheless.
As Catherine glanced about the room, some of that trepidation ceased because she could almost imagine the expanse filled with happy, smiling faces.
Some with their mother’s blue eyes and others with the father’s dark coloring.
She brought David to mind and realized that, although she hadn’t thought much about it until now, he also had brown hair and eyes.
It could be that their child might look a lot like her husband and the parentage never taken into question due to a “premature” birth.
At least, she hoped that was so. Otherwise, their forced union might never have come to fruition.
While she had always chomped at the bit because of an arranged marriage, she was finding herself softening toward the man she was due to spend the rest of her life with.
He was turning out to be more considerate than she might have dared to believe and his prowess in bed was nothing short of wondrous.
If she might allow herself to calm some of her distrust, she wondered if they might be able to live harmoniously together.
It would be too easy to picture the fairytale ending she had always dreamt for herself but never imagined to be possible.
Instead, she knew the harsh reality. That over time, the normal practice was a detached association like her parents shared.
She had observed society long enough where she knew it was the same for most other couples.
If she hadn’t been so astute to witness the notes passed about from one to another, or the lingering glances in the same proximity, the gossip she’d overheard at the edges of the ballroom proved her theories.
Marriage was nothing but a business arrangement that had nothing to do with matters of the heart.
Love was reserved for the illicit lovers and the mistresses.
“Catherine?”
She looked at Benjamin when her name registered. His brow was creased in concern. “Are you feeling all right?”
She forced a smile. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I was speaking to you for the past five minutes and you looked as though you had bitten into an unripe kaki.”
She gave a slight sigh. “I’m sorry I wasn’t being attentive. Please, what were you saying?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You seem tired. You should rest. We can discuss further improvements tonight, after you’ve rested.”
Catherine wanted to argue that she felt perfectly well, but he had given her a valid excuse for some time alone, which she found she desperately needed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
He escorted her back to her room. At the doorway, he took her hand and kissed her lightly on the back of the hand. “I will come to check on you later to see if you are feeling like coming down to dinner. If not, I can have the servants bring us a tray and we can eat in your sitting room.”
“That is very thoughtful of you.” Her chest ached, but she knew what had caused this. Guilt.
Once he’d taken his leave of her, Catherine closed the door and shut her eyes.
Something was bothering Catherine and Benjamin had a good idea of what it was.
She had been fine until they had entered the nursery, so it was either one of two things.
She was either nervous about the upcoming childbirth or she hadn’t wanted to think about filling up the nursery with more babies.
It could have been a combination of the two, but if he had to bet money, he would put it on the latter.
She still hadn’t acclimated herself to their marriage, and if her insistence about Mrs. Dove-Lyon was any indication, she might never allow her conscience to be settled. She was still feeling cheated somehow, although he’d done everything he could to make the transition an easy one.
Entering the study, he sat at his desk and gathered a sheet of vellum from one of the drawers. With his pen in hand, he dipped the tip in the ink and let it hover over the page for a moment until he figured out what he wanted to say.
There was only one man in London whom he could imagine sending a message to delve into the information that Catherine wanted so keenly regarding the matches that the Black Widow had contrived.
That man was Cordell Steele. He was a former Bow Street runner who had decided to strike out on his own to make a name for himself as a private inquiry agent.
Steele had gradually earned the respect of the former associates he’d left behind as well as acquired some rather high-notice cases that could have turned deadly.
Clients narrowly missed scandals that could have headlined the papers for weeks, perhaps months.
He was always the first man mentioned when it came to any sort of delicate inquiries and this was certainly one of those.
Writing out a brief missive, Benjamin folded it and called for a footman. When the servant entered, he handed him the sealed note. “Make sure this reaches the hands of Mr. Cordell Steele in Soho and no one else. Is that clear?”
The man inclined his head and quit the room.
Now all that was left to do was wait. Benjamin didn’t think that Steele would deny his request, if just for the simple curiosity of it.
No doubt it would be an easy enough task to track down a few of the couples who had been paired through the machinations of the Lyon’s Den proprietress.
Of course, he’d also ensured to mention he would be well compensated for his efforts.
It would be money well spent if it erased the unease that had settled about Catherine this afternoon. He hoped resolving this issue might remove her reservations completely, but he wasn’t purchasing a miracle. Trust would have to be built in time.
Staring at the top of the mahogany desk, he gathered another sheet of paper.
This time, he was even warier about what to write as he set the pen to the paper, but he knew it needed to be done.
It was time for an apology long overdue.
He couldn’t decipher if it would be received, or perhaps the message thrown into the fire once it was delivered to the recipient, but he could no longer ignore the harsh way he’d treated his stepsister.
He had to try to make amends with Beatrice or it would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Catherine deserved someone who was honest and forthright, not plagued by the demons of his past actions.
If he didn’t attempt to try to do the right thing, a husband plagued by demons was all she would ever have.
As he sealed the letter, he stared at the front, where his masculine script had noted Beatrice Scott, Lady Garrison, Castle Gerard, Scotland.
He tapped the edge against his palm for a moment and then rang for another footman to deliver his second note before he lost the courage to do so.
As he watched the servant depart, he had to clench his fist to keep from calling out. But he forced himself to remain silent until the man had left the manor and it was too late to recant his decision.