Chapter Fourteen
Catherine
The light is just fading when they arrive at Blaise Castle House. The rain has let up and the last of the sunlight breaks
through the clouds, casting the verdant, well-trimmed trees and manicured green rolling lawns that lead down to the edge of
the forest in a beautiful orange hue.
Catherine stands beside Lady Jones’ mud-splattered carriage in front of the large, sandstone stucco two-story main house.
She tries to take deep breaths, a little nauseous from the winding end to their ride. Or it’s the butterflies rioting in her
stomach.
Sitting beside Rosalie for the past few hours, swaying into each other, hands touching briefly, eyes meeting fleetingly before
they looked away—it’s left Catherine riled up, and eager, and terrified, and excited.
They’re finally here. It’s almost nighttime. And she and Rosalie are going to be truly alone again, soon.
“Ah, Lady Jones!”
Catherine turns. Lady Jones has just stepped down from the carriage and is smiling brightly at the approaching owner of Blaise
Castle House, Mr. Tarton. Lady Jones looks remarkably put together despite her discomfort from the journey.
“Mr. Tarton,” she replies, taking his hands as he reaches her. “So wonderful to see you. We thank you for your hospitality.”
“I would not pass up a chance to hear your stories for all the world. And I am always excited to share my grounds with new friends. I fear it’s a little late to head to the castle, but we’ll sup and talk and get up early tomorrow for a full tour?”
His long, narrow face is split in a charming smile, blue eyes sparkling. His white hair catches the sunlight almost like a
halo.
“Wonderful,” Lady Jones says, taking his arm. “Young people, follow us.”
Rosalie loops her arm through Catherine’s, interrupting her brief fantasy about Rosalie grabbing a saber and running through
the woods, Catherine’s hand in hers, to escape to the castle, chased by thieves, or pirates, or something equally ridiculous.
The very touch of her arm makes Catherine shiver.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Rosalie asks calmly.
“Very. You, ah, came here as children?” Catherine asks, trying to push the fantasy from her mind.
“Mr. Tarton has always been fond of Aunt Genevieve,” Rosalie says, walking them so frustratingly sedately through the front
portico of Blaise House, beneath the immense white columns. “She’s brought us here most summers for at least a week. Sometimes
we stay in one of the cottages, sometimes in the house. Mr. Tarton’s a lovely man.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Catherine says, trying to imagine visiting such a property each summer, before or after being home
at an estate the size of the Tisend lands.
The Pine estate is sizeable in its own way, but hardly this grand. Most of their land is rented out. She’s missed the rowdy
dinners they used to throw for their tenants.
“Christopher and I once played a game of hide-and-seek that lasted over a day,” Rosalie says, her voice ringing around the
grand entryway to the house.
Catherine takes in the high, two-story ceiling; the marble floors; the white walls covered in enormous landscape paintings. If the rest of the house is this grand, it wouldn’t be hard to hide somewhere sneaky.
“If I recall, Mother nearly had a fit when they couldn’t find me,” Christopher says, appearing at Catherine’s side.
“We had to search for seven hours. It was dreadful,” Rosalie replies.
“Where were you hiding?” Catherine asks, noting Mr. Dean following Mr. Tarton and Lady Jones toward the dining room without
a backward glance at their trio, as usual.
“There’s a little attic door hidden by an armoire at the back of one of the dressing rooms in the largest guest suite,” Christopher
says, smirking while Rosalie sighs.
“He shimmied behind the armoire and managed to tug it backward so it was nearly flush with the wall. Lucky he didn’t get stuck
in there and starve to death, honestly.”
“Oh, that was horrible,” Lady Jones says.
They’ve caught up with Lady Jones and Mr. Tarton in the massive, red-wallpapered dining room. Historic crests and more landscape
paintings line the walls between the tall windows looking out on the sprawling lawn. The table is nearly three times the size
of Catherine’s at home, bedecked with expensive silver candlestick holders and enormous floral centerpieces. It’s set for
just the five of them, but so opulent.
“Please take your seats,” Mr. Tarton says, beckoning them to join him at the far end.
Catherine ends up between Rosalie and Lady Jones, with Christopher and Mr. Dean across the table, Mr. Tarton at the head.
“You were both banned from playing anything in the house after that, weren’t you?” Lady Jones asks.
“When young Mr. Tisend sent us on a wild goose chase? Indeed,” Mr. Tarton agrees.
“My only defense was that I was seven. I think the mandatory history lessons for the rest of the visit were punishment enough,”
Christopher says.
“He could recite the entire chain of ownership in his sleep,” Rosalie says.
“Certainly made your father happy,” Lady Jones adds as the servants appear with the first course, a warming and decadent white
soup perfect for a rainy day.
It’s served in gorgeous bowls with what looks like a gold-leaf finish. Catherine barely wants to touch them, but her hungry
stomach forces her to daintily sip at the soup. It’s delicious, with more layers of flavor than any white soup she’s ever
had before. She can’t even identify them all.
“My wonderful chef, Mr. Partly, just returned from a month on the Continent. He got this recipe in a tiny village in Tuscany.
Isn’t it marvelous?” Mr. Tarton asks.
“It’s delicious,” Catherine tells him, enjoying his pleased nod, before he turns to Mr. Dean to discuss the various game on
the property.
“Were you ever one for hide-and-seek?” Lady Jones asks, ignoring that they’ve clearly lost their host’s attention.
“With my brother, Richard,” Catherine says. “But there weren’t nearly as many good hiding places as there are here.”
“Fewer opportunities to break things, I’d wager,” Christopher says with a grin. “I broke a Grecian urn once that a friend
of Father’s had bought at auction. I don’t think he spoke to me for a month.”
Catherine watches Rosalie and Lady Jones laugh. She didn’t realize there were items of such value at the Tisend house. Then again, how could she? It’s not like she’s been brought up with an eye for antiquities.
“Isn’t there a similar vase here?” Rosalie asks. “I know there’s a collection of Greek artifacts.”
“Really?” Catherine asks.
“Oh, Mr. Tarton has one of the best collections of art and antiquities. He’s considering turning part of the estate into a
museum.”
“Or selling the relics off to larger museums, certainly,” Mr. Tarton puts in.
“I’m sure there are Greek museums which would be eager to have the artifacts back,” Catherine says. “You could make an expedition
of it yourself.”
The whole table turns her way. Mr. Dean looks almost pitying, Mr. Tarton amused. Catherine stares back, unsure of what misstep
she might have made.
“The British Museum would be the first approach,” Mr. Dean says, his tone soft. “Mr. Tarton would receive the best return
on his sale with them. The Greeks would be far down the list, and who knows if they would even display the items properly.”
Catherine shrinks in her seat, uncomfortable with his patronizing look. Uncomfortable with his superiority. How would he know
which museums would do the best justice to an ancient artifact?
But as the silence stretches longer, Catherine’s self-assurance begins to wane. These people visit houses like this constantly.
Mr. Dean has traveled the Continent, as has Christopher. And while her brother did too, she certainly hasn’t. What does she
know, really?
“I think Miss Pine’s point is well taken.
The Greek museums would certainly want an opportunity to reclaim their artifacts,” Rosalie says, her shoulder brushing Catherine’s comfortingly as she leans close to grab the salt.
“Perhaps not the most lucrative of sales, but an opportunity for travel, and who doesn’t enjoy travel? ”
“Yes,” Lady Jones jumps in. “Did Mr. Partly make it to Greece?”
“He did,” Mr. Tarton says. “Then made his way back across the Continent. He did a meal for us that was all of the flatbreads
he encountered; it was to die for.”
Lady Jones begins peppering Mr. Tarton with questions, and Mr. Dean and Christopher fall into a conversation about various
collections they saw on their world tours.
Which leaves Catherine, red-faced, staring at her dinner. Rosalie and Christopher know everything about the history of this
house. Christopher and Mr. Dean have traveled, seen things, done things. And Lady Jones clearly knows just about everything, and everyone.
Catherine’s just a simple girl from the country, playing at a station she’ll clearly never reach. How could her mother ever
think she’d be sophisticated enough for Mr. Dean?
How could she privately think she’d be sophisticated enough for Rosalie?
Her chest grows tight and squirmy, and Catherine puts down her spoon. They’re not even through the soup course. All the tension,
all the questions, all the uncertainty that she’s been boxing up in her mind is spilling out and she’s stuck at this table
with nowhere to go.
“You were going to tell me what you thought about The Romance of the Forest.”
Catherine blinks, slowly bringing her eyes over to Rosalie, who’s looking back at her, a hint of a crease between her eyebrows. Catherine forces a smile, not wanting to worry her. At least one of them should enjoy the meal.
Just then, Mr. Tarton’s staff comes out to take away their soup bowls and remaining dishes. Catherine sits back, watching
the elaborate resetting of the table. They’ve never stood on so much formality in her house, and certainly not with so many
servants. She wonders if Rosalie’s dinners are like this.
“The woods here remind me of all the chapters in the abbey. It feels like you could wander off forever,” Rosalie says.
Catherine forces herself to focus on the one person at the table who wants to talk to her. The one person she wants to talk
to. Rosalie, who looks so pretty, even after a day of travel.
“It really does,” Catherine agrees. “Though I think you and I would be much more capable if left out in the woods. You’d think
Adeline might have made more attempts at escape.”
“I don’t know. I’d have wanted to explore the abbey more. Maybe hidden away until everyone was forced out, rather than become
a pawn in everyone else’s game,” Rosalie says, giving a grateful nod to the kitchen server who places a plate of spiced lamb
down in front of her.
Catherine smiles at her own server and looks down at the lamb. More potatoes, this time whipped into a creamy puree, over
which two spiced lamb chops have been artfully laid—it smells absolutely divine. Mr. Tarton takes his first bite and Catherine
quickly follows suit, trying not to groan.
It’s utterly delicious, like nothing she’s ever tasted before.
She absolutely doesn’t fit in with the rest of the table. Can’t possibly keep up with the discussion happening among Tarton, Lady Jones, Christopher, and Mr. Dean—something about exchequer bills—but at least the food is good.
Rosalie keeps asking more questions about The Romance of the Forest, pulling Catherine into a safe, special little world, filled with spices and fabulous food and Rosalie’s enthusiasm. If it
could be just like this, just the two of them, all the time, she wouldn’t be so worried.
Then again, when dinner finally ends, all of them stuffed to the gills, that sense of ease disappears. It is about to be just her and Rosalie again. And she doesn’t know what she’s meant to do, or say, or not do, or not say.
She doesn’t know what she wants, other than that she wants, a flare of need scorching up her chest and down her belly as Rosalie looks over her shoulder at her. Catherine’s following
behind while the housekeeper shows her, Rosalie, and Lady Jones to their rooms, on the opposite side of the manor from Christopher
and Mr. Dean.
She can’t look at Rosalie as they walk into their room. If she does, she might combust, or burst into tears, or scream. There’s
a large, four-poster bed with deep red curtains at the center of the room, with a small sitting space off to the side, all
of the furniture in the same dark maroon. An armoire is set along the wall with a large window overlooking the lawn. There’s
just a hint of moonlight filtering in, and the flickering light from the fireplace opposite the bed casts everything in a
warm, shimmery glow.
“Try to get some sleep,” Lady Jones says, standing in the doorway, the housekeeper behind her. “Don’t be talking books all
night.”
“We won’t,” Rosalie promises.
Lady Jones smiles and gives a little wave, then closes the door. They can hear her footsteps just down the hall, and the creaking of the door next to theirs.
They’re really alone. In this beautiful room. Just her, and Rosalie. Who looks so incredibly beautiful, backlit by the fireplace,
standing in front of the big bed.
What comes next? What comes after? How can she know who she’s supposed to be, or if she’s good enough, if she doesn’t know
what this could be, what this means, how Rosalie feels?
What if she’s bad at this? What if, what if, what if, what if . . .