Chapter Ten
Catherine
Catherine leans back in her chair, shifting in her stiff burgundy gown. Mother keeps nudging her to sit up straight, as if
Mr. Dean might look over at any second and be overcome by her posture.
She hardly thinks he’ll be looking at her. The theatre is absolutely stunning. The gold-plated railings around the rounded
boxes, the domed ceiling, cream walls, and deep red curtains that frame the stage and separate the boxes from the aisles are
all beautiful. The three chandeliers over the stage cast everything in a warm yellow glow, and watching the audience file
into the standing room in front of the stage has been quite amusing.
But Mother can focus on nothing other than the Tisends and Mr. Dean in the opposite box on the second level across from them.
It’s slowly driving Catherine mad.
Her escort, Mr. Sholle, doesn’t seem to mind her posture, and has been complimenting her repeatedly. He looks dapper in his
dark wool waistcoat and cream pantaloons, with dark knee-high boots. His chestnut hair has a lovely little flop to it, and
his eyes and cheeks are bright as he talks at her. He keeps nudging into her shoulder like he’s hoping to take her hand if
she puts her arm on the armrest. But she doesn’t want to encourage him.
Catherine’s at least looking forward to Romeo and Juliet. She’s hoping it will be a spirited performance. Because while Mr. Sholle has been talking, and Mother has been whispering, Catherine’s been trying not to stare across at Lady Rosalie.
She’s wearing a beautiful yellow gown, her hair wrapped and braided elegantly onto the back of her head, with loose curls
falling by her sharp cheekbones. Her diamond necklace and hair ornaments twinkle in the light from the chandeliers.
She’s absolutely entrancing, and Mr. Dean is paying her zero attention, which just boggles the mind. He and Mr. Tisend have
been talking for the past half hour, while Lady Rosalie looks perfectly bored.
Having only allowed herself a few seconds of ogling, Catherine goes to look away, but Lady Rosalie’s eyes suddenly find hers.
They stare at each other for a long moment, the rest of the room falling away. Then Lady Rosalie tips her head toward Mr. Dean,
who is nearly fully turned away from her to talk to her brother, and rolls her eyes.
Catherine has to stop herself from laughing. Lady Rosalie’s lips quirk upward, and then she looks pointedly away at the stage.
Catherine gives herself one moment longer, enjoying their little exchange, before forcing herself to turn back to Mr. Sholle.
To Lady Rosalie’s credit, he seems very taken with Catherine, which is flattering, but little more. Mr. Sholle is perfectly lovely, and a month ago she might have
even been excited by his attention. But his isn’t the attention that’s making her blush.
Worse, Mother is planning her marriage to another man in front of him—it’s hardly fair, and a little sad that he hasn’t noticed.
It’s very confusing, and it’s making her tired.
Mr. Sholle, thankfully, is a fan of the Bard and pays careful attention when the play finally starts, so she can relax into her seat and unclench her hands. Her anxiety slowly fades away to almost nothing. She should accept invitations to the theatre more often.
But midway through the fourth scene of the second act, she glances across the theatre, quite without thinking. Or at least,
that’s what she’s telling herself.
Mr. Tisend is watching the stage with rapt attention. Lady Tisend’s equally engrossed. But Mr. Dean—Mr. Dean is falling asleep.
She can’t help a quick giggle escaping, overly loud in the hush that’s fallen over the room. Mother nudges her and Catherine
bites at her lips, giving a guilty shrug. Mr. Sholle hasn’t noticed.
But Lady Rosalie has. She peers curiously across the theatre at Catherine, then glances at the stage, but there’s nothing
comical going on. Catherine can’t help but jut her chin in Mr. Dean’s direction. She watches Lady Rosalie look sideways and
let out an enormous sigh.
Catherine keeps her lips clamped together. Lady Rosalie looks back at her, exasperated. They keep staring at each other, even
though important things are happening on stage.
It feels like the look they exchanged at the pond. Her chest starts to go warm, a flush creeping up her neck as Lady Rosalie’s
regard turns from playful to . . . something decidedly different. It makes Catherine want to squirm in her chair.
She wishes she fully understood the overwhelming space Lady Rosalie takes up in her brain. The way a single look ignites something
that tingles from the top of her head down to her toes. She doesn’t feel that for anyone else. Not for the men. Not for the
women. What is it about Lady Rosalie that does this to her?
There’s a crash on stage and they both jerk, looking back to watch the third act. Catherine forces herself to keep her eyes on the stage. Forces herself not to wonder if Lady Rosalie is looking at her. She’s flustered enough already.
It’s a great relief when the curtain falls, signaling the start of the interval. She needs a moment to herself.
Mother turns to her, mouth open, and Catherine hurries out, “I need to visit the cloakroom.”
“Of course, dear,” Mother says immediately. “Mr. Sholle and I will escort you.”
Mr. Sholle rises gallantly and the three of them make their slow way around the back of the theatre and over to the women’s
cloakroom. Catherine slips inside, leaving Mr. Sholle and her mother talking in the hall, and breathes a sigh of sweet relief.
The cloakroom is sparsely populated, and Catherine heads for the water closets. It’s quiet, if not the best of locations,
and when she’s done, she lingers in the outer cloakroom, staring at her still-flushed reflection in the mirrors over the vanity.
Neither Mother nor Mr. Sholle have noticed, but she’s remarkably discomposed. All because Lady Rosalie looked at her?
And like she’s conjured her out of the air, Lady Rosalie sweeps into the cloakroom, brushing her curls from her face, her
expression pinched.
They stare at each other. The noise from the hallway and the few other ladies in the cloakroom registers like a dull roar,
but Catherine’s not sure she hears it at all. After a long, charged, strange moment, Lady Rosalie walks smoothly over to stand
beside Catherine, so they can watch each other in the vanity mirror.
“A good performance,” Lady Rosalie says, and her voice is rough.
“Very,” Catherine agrees, her own voice a bit high. She searches for something else to say—something witty, or observant, or—
“I cannot believe Mr. Dean fell asleep,” Lady Rosalie says in a loud whisper.
“I know!” Catherine says, turning to her. “How can you fall asleep during Shakespeare?” How can you fall asleep next to someone so beautiful?
“He was nodding off before the play even started,” Lady Rosalie grumbles. “Christopher was keeping him awake, but once the
play began, there was no getting him back.”
“Your brother, or Mr. Dean?”
Lady Rosalie laughs and Catherine can’t help but smile. “Both,” she says. “Christopher would have become an actor if it wouldn’t
have ruined the family, so he loves the theatre. It’s one of the few things he and my father agree on. That and opera.”
Catherine bobs her head, not quite sure how to respond.
“Anyway,” Lady Rosalie says, shaking her head. “How is Mr. Sholle?”
“Awake,” Catherine replies with a shrug. Lady Rosalie laughs again. “Enjoying the performance, if his conversation with my
mother is anything to go on.”
“He’s not talking to you?” Lady Rosalie asks, sharper, meeting her eyes in an instant.
Catherine swallows, her throat suddenly tight. “Not just now. I’m in here with you, you see.”
Lady Rosalie snorts, and it’s almost as lovely a sound as her laugh, which is absolutely absurd.
Why is this silly moment in the cloakroom her favorite of the entire evening so far? They’ve barely spoken, they’re standing
near the water closet, of all places, and she doesn’t want to leave.
The chatty women at the other end of the vanity bustle out, leaving them alone in the quiet together.
“He should be talking to you,” Lady Rosalie says firmly.
“Mr. Dean should be awake,” Catherine returns.
Lady Rosalie sighs. “Some evening.”
And somehow, it is. Here. In the cloakroom. It’s . . . lovely. This brief moment between them—no competition, no artifice,
no mothers looming. Just Catherine talking with a beautiful woman who looks amazing in the candlelight with her face all flushed
with excitement, and whose eyes are so—
Lady Rosalie reaches out to brush one of Catherine’s wilting pin curls from her face. Catherine sucks in a breath at the contact.
Even with her thin gloves, it’s like a spark skitters over Catherine’s skin. Soft, and tingling, and unexpected.
Their eyes lock. In the quiet stillness of this room, something shifts. Somehow they’re leaning toward each other, and the
butterflies in Catherine’s stomach are rioting and—
The door opens for another group of women to enter.
They step back unsteadily, Lady Rosalie’s arm dropping. Catherine twists her fingers together, and they hover there while
the group titters around them. Catherine glances at Lady Rosalie just as Lady Rosalie’s looking away from her, both of them
flushed. Catherine doesn’t know what to do with her hands, with her breath, with her face.
What was just about to happen? Were they really going to—
“Darling, are you well?”
Catherine flinches as Mother comes through the cloakroom door. Her voice is like a bucket of ice water and Catherine feels
instantly guilty, as if she’s done something wrong.
But she hasn’t. Has she?
“Lady Rosalie. Hello.”
“Mrs. Pine,” Lady Rosalie says, her voice even rougher than before, her curtsy unsteady.
“Sorry, Mother, we were . . . talking about the performance. Enjoy the rest of the play, Lady Rosalie,” Catherine says quickly,
giving her own halting curtsy before hurrying across the room to follow her mother out of the cloakroom.
The door swings shut on Lady Rosalie behind her. It feels like there’s something crawling over Catherine’s skin, an unease
that’s almost too much to bear.
Or is it disappointment?
It felt like— But that’s absurd. Lady Rosalie wasn’t about to kiss her. Lady Rosalie can’t want to kiss her.
Catherine must be confused.