Chapter Four
Catherine
Catherine paces the hallway outside her bedroom on the third floor of their new townhouse, the floorboards creaking unfamiliarly
beneath her feet. The sound of the pianoforte fills the house. Catherine twists her fingers together, hoping that this time
BANG.
Mother’s shout of rage rings up the staircase and Catherine winces. Mother’s been practicing for hours. She wants to best
Lady Tisend. Wants to rise to her cruel challenge, and utterly impress the ton, proving that she has returned triumphant after
leaving Bath in such haste all those years ago. Why she’s chosen such a fiddly, technical piece, Catherine doesn’t know. Catherine
hasn’t had even a minute with the pianoforte.
She’s confident in her choice of music, but it would be nice to get a chance to run through it even once before the concert
tomorrow. She’s not as intense as Mother, but she does want to impress the ton. And Mr. Dean, of course, the whole purported
reason for the performance.
But mostly she wants Lady Rosalie to know that Catherine will meet any challenge she tosses out.
She’s not going to let Lady Rosalie decide her season, no matter how clever she seems nor how beloved she is in Bath.
Mr. Sholle? He’s perfectly respectable and nice, but not enough to distract Catherine.
Not that Mr. Dean seems much better, really. Mr. Sholle couldn’t ask enough questions, but it sounded like Lady Rosalie was
prying information out of Mr. Dean with a crowbar. Who walks away from someone like Lady Rosalie to talk about hunting?
Mother misses the final run, again, and screams.
It’s time for a break.
Catherine pads down the stairs and heads for the sitting room, only to find her father sitting despondently on a chair just
outside the doors in his housecoat. Mother starts over, yet again.
“Should I?” Catherine asks when he looks up at her.
“No, no, let her get it out of her system. When she’s exhausted all her anger, she’ll get it. She always does.”
Catherine can’t help but smile. Father loves her mother so ardently and fully, even twenty-five years after their wedding,
foibles and faults and all.
“Then let’s at least give her some privacy,” Catherine suggests, holding out her hands.
Father hesitates, his big brown eyes unsure, brows creasing. Catherine nods encouragingly and he takes her hands. She helps
him out of his chair and wraps her arm around his waist. Together they head back down the hall to his study.
Only half of Father’s books have been unpacked, sitting disorganized on the deep brown shelves that line the walls.
Portraits are still waiting to be hung between the shelves, and there are stacks of files and papers on his desk to go through.
The light from the windows that look out on the street help make the space bright and airy.
Catherine feels her shoulders come down, at peace here.
She helps Father over to his aged brown leather armchair. Rarely does she appreciate being a few inches taller than he is,
but being able to help him as his condition has worsened has been a blessing.
Father groans softly and shifts in the chair while Catherine settles onto the far stiffer settee Mother insisted on buying
new for the study. It’s cream with red fleur-de-lis, and while it’s pleasant to look at, it lacks in comfort.
“Don’t judge your mother too harshly for her . . . intensity about this concert,” Father says.
Catherine nearly jumps. She’d been expecting some companionable quiet. “I don’t. Though I’d love to better understand what—”
“She just wants everything to be perfect for your first season.”
Catherine sighs, curiosity batted down, again. “The season will be perfect. I’m here with the two of you. We’re settled, and
you’re feeling so much better, aren’t you?” she asks.
Father smiles, his eyes crinkling and cheeks dimpling. “I am, I am. The waters really do help.” He laughs when Catherine grimaces,
thinking of the pungent waters from the Pump Room. “You do get used to them.”
“How many years does that take?”
“I think I was twenty-four?” he replies.
Catherine laughs. “But that’s when you left Bath.”
“Perhaps it’s the absence that has made my heart grow fonder,” he says, chuckling. “But they are helping, as are the baths.
You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I know,” Catherine says quickly.
As if she could stop worrying about him. He’s been in such pain, for years. And now they’re here, and Mother’s on this quest to get revenge on Lady Tisend, and it’s taking up all of their time. She knows he’ll do anything to make Mother feel better, including lying about how he’s really feeling.
“And your mother will be back to her normal self,” he continues. There’s another loud crash of keys from the sitting room.
“Once the concert is over.”
For all her admonishments over the years, Mother has some very colorful expletives stored away.
“Maybe I should, or you should—” Catherine starts.
“Or maybe there’s a present for you on the desk,” Father cuts in, smiling sneakily.
Catherine sighs, torn between helping Mother and seeing what Father’s gotten for her. Father raises an eyebrow and Catherine
lets curiosity win out. She jumps up and scurries over to the desk, delighted to find a neatly wrapped package in the distinctive
shape of a new book.
Catherine can’t help it, quickly tearing into the wrapping. The Old English Baron by Clara Reeve stares up at her and Catherine grins.
“You spoil me,” she says, holding the book to her chest.
“As is my right,” Father says.
Catherine walks back to the sitting area and bends down to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Now take that upstairs and read until your mother comes out of her fugue state.” He grins up at her
as she groans.
“Father,” she admonishes. He’s always making such terrible puns.
“Go.”
Catherine hugs the book once more to show her appreciation before heading out of the study. She ignores Mother’s curses and banging, forcing herself up the stairs with the promise of a good story.
She has her own library to finish unpacking in her new room, but she bypasses the boxes by her bookshelves, her freshly made
four-poster bed with the new blue curtains, and her vanity.
The large picture window along the side of her room that looks out on Great Pulteney Street has a built-in window seat covered
in a paisley fabric. It’s the perfect cozy place to hole up and forget that she only has such a luxurious room because her
father couldn’t climb daily to the third floor to take the primary bedroom.
But as she starts to read about Sir Philip Harclay, she finds she can’t picture him the way she ought. She should be picturing
a broody, stalwart young man, returning home from knightly adventures. Instead, he’s short, and fiery, and bears a striking
resemblance to a certain lady dressed in breeches and a tunic.
Catherine slams the book shut, closing her eyes tight. She has to stop letting Lady Rosalie pervade her every thought. It’s
not healthy. It’s not productive. And it’s not going to help her do anything but get more bothered. Hot and bothered and—
No. Lady Rosalie is her adversary, no matter how pretty, persuasive, cunning, and witty she may be.
Catherine keeps her eyes closed and forces herself to mentally go through her own upcoming performance. She’s decided to play
the much less technical but far more lyrical Nocturne No. 14 in G Major by John Field. She’s hoping her musicality will win
points with . . . well, with whomever she decides she’s trying to impress tomorrow.
Because like the hero in her new novel, the face that comes to mind when she imagines playing isn’t Mr. Dean’s. Instead, she keeps seeing a pair of icy gray-blue eyes beneath dark brows that are more expressive making a snide remark than most people manage when talking about love.
She had completely forgotten that Lady Rosalie had offered to teach her a dance. But the reminder came this morning on a beautifully
embossed calling card. What was she thinking, knowingly walking into the Tisend home early, with no society set around them
as a buffer? And what are her mother and father supposed to do while they practice? Chat idly about the rumor that nearly
ruined Mother’s life?
Mother’s gripping so tightly to Father’s arm that Catherine’s worried she’ll cut off his circulation. Her own nails are digging
into her arms through her gloves. But Father, cheerful as ever, knocks on the door, and there’s no going back.
The door to the massive Tisend townhouse opens before she can gather any composure and they’re quickly ushered into a cavernous
foyer and relieved of their cloaks. Unlike their narrow townhouse, which is still half unpacked, with art everywhere while
Mother dithers over placement, the Tisend foyer is immaculate. High columns ring the two-story space, with enormous ocean
landscapes hanging on the walls. Catherine turns her head rapidly, trying to take them all in. The one of the ship being swallowed
by waves is rather ominous.
The butler ushers them through a tall arch that opens onto an expansive ballroom.
It looks almost like the dance hall at the Upper Rooms, but more lavish.
Three chandeliers hang down from the ceiling, casting shimmering patterns over the assembled chairs, all wrapped in beautiful white linens.
Twenty of them sit facing a raised dais with chairs for musicians and the largest pianoforte Catherine has ever seen.
The whole scene is surrounded by the most beautiful flowers in blues, whites, and soft yellows.
She has to perform in this lush space. Has to impress here. Has to prove she and her mother are as worthy of regard as the
Tisends. How can she possibly—how can they possibly—prove their worth when no level of perfect performance can make up for what they clearly lack in wealth and power?
“Got what she always wanted, didn’t she?” Catherine hears Mother murmur.