Chapter Eighteen
Catherine
Catherine tugs the blanket tighter around her body, still shivering.
“I just don’t understand why you jumped in,” Mother bemoans.
“She thought she had to save the girl,” Father says, rolling his eyes in Catherine’s direction from where he’s comfortably
settled in his favorite armchair.
They’ve got her in the other armchair pushed as close to the fire as possible without singeing anything. Mother’s lying prostrate
on the settee. If she weren’t still interrogating Catherine, it might be a nice evening.
“She could swim,” Mother protests.
“Yes, but I didn’t know that,” Catherine says, snugging the slightly scratchy wool blanket tighter over her head. “And it’s
not like Mr. Dean was any help.”
“I still think it was a good sign he didn’t jump in for her.”
“You don’t think it’s rather a black mark on his character that he wouldn’t jump into a river for a woman he’s been courting
for a year?” Catherine asks.
“I think Lady Rosalie was being high-handed and ridiculous, and he lost his temper. Men lose their sense when they lose their
temper.”
Catherine sucks on her cheek and looks over at Father. “If Mother was at her most obstreperous, would you refuse to save her because she was being difficult?”
Father sighs and then looks to Mother. “Shall I lie, dearest?”
“Oh, stop,” Mother says, shaking her head.
Father grins at Mother, and then winks at Catherine.
“As ridiculous as it was, your heroics rather endeared you to Mr. Dean. I think we might see his affections shift permanently
onto your worthy shoulders,” Mother says.
Catherine bristles. Her heroics were for Rosalie and Rosalie alone. For her smile, and her bright eyes, and her happy, slightly
hysterical giggles. But she can’t think too long about that or she’ll start blushing, and it wouldn’t do to look anything
but lightly pathetic right now.
There’s a soft knock on the door and Miss Teit enters with a small tray.
“Letters for you,” she says, padding into the room to hand one to Father and the other to Catherine.
“Who are they from?” Mother asks.
Catherine takes hers, noting Christopher’s familiar script. “Mr. Tisend.”
“Mr. Dean,” Father says at the same time.
Catherine looks up, surprised. Why would Mr. Dean be writing to Father?
“Why is the Tisend boy writing to her? Did you give permission for this?” Mother asks.
“I did,” Father says as he opens the seal on Mr. Dean’s letter.
Catherine hastily cracks Christopher’s, determined to read it and, if need be, dispose of the evidence. Her letters are meant
to be personal, especially if Father’s given his permission for Christopher to write, but she wouldn’t put it past Mother
to try to intervene.
“He’s clearly keen on the Linet girl. Playing it awfully fast to be writing to Catherine as well,” Mother says shortly.
“I hardly think a few letters from Mr. Tisend will dissuade Catherine from your quest,” Father says, glancing up at Catherine.
“Right,” Catherine agrees, smiling innocently over at Mother.
“And it must bother Lady Tisend something fierce to know her son is writing to your daughter,” Father adds.
Mother’s lips twitch and Catherine withholds a sigh.
But her smugness at least gives Catherine enough cover to slip Rosalie’s tightly folded message inside her pile of blankets
and into her stays to read later. She wishes she could run upstairs and read it right now, but she’ll settle for quickly scanning
Christopher’s missive.
“Mr. Tisend writes:
I hope you will accept my apologies on behalf of my sister for your untimely swim in the Avon this afternoon. It was not her
intention to drag you into her frivolity, and we are both very sorry for your distress.
Please allow me to escort you on a promenade tomorrow in penance, and for the chance to see your delightful person.
With hopes and further apologies,
Mr. Tisend.
“That’s kind of him, isn’t it?” she asks Mother.
“Very kind, but you’ll have to postpone,” Father says.
Catherine looks over, surprised. She’d been counting on his encouragement.
“Mr. Dean has invited you to Sydney Gardens to hear a string quartet play tomorrow.”
“Oh, well,” Catherine starts.
“Write back and say yes,” Mother tells Father. “And you needn’t take the Tisend boy up on his offer. His sister did you a
disservice. You aren’t obligated to accept his apology on her behalf.”
“What if I want to?” Catherine asks, frustrated and tired. Father’s already penning a response to Mr. Dean.
“We ought not reward that girl’s behavior,” Mother says, frowning over at Catherine.
“Would you have just let Lady Tisend drown if she’d fallen into the river when you were my age, before everything happened?”
Mother’s eyes widen. “I— It— You are not close friends with Lady Rosalie,” she says tersely.
Mother has no idea how close they’ve become, but that truly shouldn’t matter.
“You would have swum the Channel for Lady Tisend once upon a time,” Father says softly, looking up from his letter.
Mother jerks her head to meet his eyes, frowning. Her father’s talent for remaining calm and collected when tempers are high
is one of his greatest strengths. Someone smiling serenely when you want to scream can been utterly maddening.
“Fine. You may allow the brother to apologize, but it needn’t be a public outing,” Mother says, her voice rough.
“But if I’m seen publicly with Mr. Tisend, especially after this . . .” Catherine trails off, swallowing hard. It’s just a
white lie. She can do this. “Especially after Lady Rosalie’s antics, might it push Mr. Dean toward me if he’s made jealous?”
She’s playing along, see? She’s buying into the scheme, into the revenge. Her stomach twists as Mother’s shoulders come down. As she’s placated by Catherine’s lies. They used to always be on the same side. A team. Girls together. It does something funny to her insides to lie to her like this.
“One promenade. But tomorrow, you go to the concert with Mr. Dean.”
“Yes, Mother,” she says, smiling wide enough for it to hurt her cheeks. “I’ll write to Mr. Tisend tonight.”
Mother nods and then turns to stare into the fire, body still tense.
Catherine just needs to dispatch of Mr. Dean, then the largest of the lies can end. And then maybe her stomach won’t feel
so twisted, and she can do more than squeeze Rosalie’s hand on the frigid river. Somehow.
Were she just here to listen to the beautiful music, the dreary afternoon wouldn’t seem so bad. They’re standing to the right
of the back patio of the Sydney Hotel on the soft grass. A grand orchestra has been set up in front of the hotel’s solarium,
and she’s been deeply enjoying their performance of Mozart’s twenty-ninth symphony.
But her legs are starting to ache, as is her back. She’d slouch, but Mother’s directly behind her, and anytime she’s so much
as shifted, Mother’s poked her with her fan.
It’s made it exceedingly difficult to search the assembled crowd for Christopher’s top hat. There’s no chance of spotting
tiny Rosalie among what must be half of Bath’s ton. Each time she’s tried to glance around, Mother’s given her a look, encouraging
her to make polite conversation with Mr. Dean.
He looks perfectly dapper today, in a clean gray suit with a shined top hat. But she doesn’t want to engage in more conversation.
“You were most heroic.”
“I was so impressed by your poise.”
“It was kind of you to help Lady Rosalie, though we ought to discuss your skills of self-preservation.”
Mother looks over the moon. Mr. Dean does seem further infatuated with her. How shocking that the only time she wasn’t trying
to gain his affection (or pretending to try for her mother’s sake) is the only time he’s given his praise, now, when she doesn’t
want anything to do with it.
Outside of discussing yesterday’s events, he’s spoken very little. That they both enjoy music might have charmed her earlier
in the season, but now it’s simply not enough.
She needs more from someone with whom she’s supposed to share a life than a vague mutual interest in music and a beautiful
physique. Looking at Mr. Dean doesn’t do half as much for her as simply holding Rosalie’s letter against her chest last night.
Her darling letter, hidden deep in Catherine’s desk, still threatens to heat her cheeks.
Rosalie’s beautiful looping script, her thanks for Catherine’s heroics and her admission of how much it meant to her that
Catherine jumped in to save her, when no one else did, made Catherine grin. Her sly words about how lovely Catherine looked
sopping wet, and how much she wanted to rip Catherine’s clothes off and huddle with her by the fire—
Suddenly everyone is clapping and Catherine realizes the concert has ended while she’s been lost in daydreams of Rosalie.
Mr. Dean has her arm and Mother’s on her other side before she can blink, already walking her toward the exit to leave the
park and head home. So much for intelligent discussion of the concert. The viola was flat the entire time. Doesn’t anyone
care?
More importantly, she hasn’t seen Christopher. She can’t leave until he and Rosalie find her.
Mother’s pace increases. They must be close and Mother’s intentionally trying to keep them apart.
She finally spots them about eight couples back. Rosalie raises her hand. She looks so beautiful, in a light pink gown with
a white spencer jacket, her dark hair curling around her face beneath her pink bonnet. She’s all smiles, waving far too enthusiastically.
Catherine has to snap her gaze forward as Mother practically yanks her ahead, dragging Mr. Dean with them. He looks entirely
unperturbed, which is frankly maddening.
She needs to stall. “Do you know where the stones for the hotel were quarried?” she asks Mr. Dean, slowing her pace to force
him to look down at her.
“I don’t,” he says with a shrug.
“Do you think . . . it was difficult to construct in the rain?”
“Not sure,” Mr. Dean replies.
Usually, architecture is an excellent bet with Mr. Dean. She’s heard him discuss it before with Christopher, and at the balls.
“Did you notice that the violist was a bit flat?” she asks, really dragging her heels. Enough for Mother to sigh at her.
“I didn’t,” Mr. Dean says affably.
Now she knows how Rosalie must have felt on the boat. You can’t get a rise out of this man for anything.
Nothing else for it. Catherine blows out a breath and trips over absolutely nothing, careening forward so that Mr. Dean and
Mother have to catch her.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. People bump into them as they get her back to standing, now fully stopped in the middle of the path.
“Young ladies do seem to be particularly clumsy,” Mr. Dean mutters, holding her arm steady. “Are you all right? Do you need
to sit?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Catherine says quickly.
“Miss Pine, are you quite all right?” Rosalie calls, dragging Christopher up to them.
“I’m really just fine,” Catherine repeats, turning to smile at her. Thank Christ. “Just overwhelmed by the beauty of the music
and the architecture. The hotel really is striking, isn’t it?”
“I was thinking the very same thing,” Christopher says, tipping his cap to her and her mother. “Mrs. Pine, I hope you’re very
well.”
“I am,” Mother says tightly. “Though rather tired.”
“I hope you weren’t up all night with chills, Miss Pine,” Rosalie says quickly. “I am so dreadfully sorry that my actions
put you in danger. And I’m so sorry, Mrs. Pine, about the damage done to her dress. Mother and I would be happy to replace
it.”
Mother looks like she’s swallowed something sour, but forces a smile. “That is kind, but deeply unnecessary, thank you.”
Rosalie looks back at Catherine. “And you’re sure you’re all right?”
“Just fine,” Catherine assures her, trying not to laugh. She can’t tell how much of Rosalie’s words are true or just to keep
them stalled there. “In warmer weather it might actually have been fun.”
Mr. Dean scoffs and Catherine suddenly remembers he’s still standing next to her. Still holding her arm at that.
“It was a ridiculous and dangerous stunt no matter the weather.”
“I’m really fine—”
Mr. Dean squeezes her arm. “You might strain to consider the effect your lapses in judgment can have on others more often, Lady Rosalie. To think of anyone other than yourself and your frivolous whims. Miss Pine did you an act of service, showing only her generosity and magnanimous personality.”
So there is some kind of fire, some kind of personality, hiding beneath all of those manners and blithe disregard. And it’s
ugly.
She can’t let Mr. Dean talk to Rosalie that way. Even if they weren’t—whatever they are—she’d want to defend her. No one talks
to her friends like that. And certainly no one gets to talk to her lover like that.
“While I . . . appreciate your fervor, Mr. Dean, I don’t hold any ill will toward Lady Rosalie and think she showed great
consideration in making sure I got out of the river first.”
Rosalie’s wide eyes slowly find Catherine’s and her lips quirk upward, while Christopher just grins over at her.
“You are too polite,” Mr. Dean says with a sigh. “But if you can kindly forgive such foolishness, who am I to argue? Lady
Rosalie, I apologize for my harsh words.”
His mood swings could give a person a sore neck.
“Thank you, Mr. Dean,” Rosalie says, her voice a bit high.
“That said, I must take my leave. If I may escort you and your mother home?” Mr. Dean asks.
“Oh, well,” Catherine starts.
“You may,” Mother says over her. “Mr. Tisend, Lady Rosalie, we have a dinner to attend. Good day.”
Catherine looks worriedly at Rosalie, who stares back, equally at sea while Mr. Dean and Mother turn Catherine around. This
wasn’t the plan. She wasn’t supposed to—what, impress him by having decency? She didn’t do anything!
She glances over her shoulder as Mr. Dean escorts them away, doubt creeping up her spine. Rosalie and Christopher watch them go, Christopher’s arm coming up around Rosalie’s shoulders.
Who knew basic human decency was Mr. Dean’s seemingly only soft spot? Especially as she’s no longer sure he’s all that decent
himself. Who says such things in a public park? And then changes their opinion in just a moment? Does he have no conviction?
Worse, what if his only conviction is asking her to marry him?