Chapter Twenty
Catherine
“A delivery for you, Miss Pine.”
Catherine looks up from where she’s been pushing porridge around in her bowl to find their valet, Mr. Archer, standing in
the doorway to the dining room holding the largest floral arrangement she’s ever seen. He totters into the room, depositing
the enormous vase beside her place setting.
“And the Chronicle, sir,” Mr. Archer adds, a little breathless, handing the paper to Father.
Catherine stares up at the giant arrangement. The flowers are a riot of color, peonies and roses and hydrangeas all vying
for beautiful attention. She stands slowly, noticing a card sticking out from the top of the bouquet. A bizarre hope rises
in her chest, but Rosalie wouldn’t have sent these. They’re gorgeous, but far too showy for her taste. And it would raise
a number of questions she’s not yet ready to answer.
Upon seeing the tidy script on the card she knows immediately they’re not from Rosalie. Worse, when she breaks the seal, she
finds a note from Mr. Dean.
My dearest Miss Pine,
Please accept these flowers as simply the beginning of my thanks for your quick-witted heroics. Were it not for you, I would be lying among these flowers today. I owe you my life.
Generations of Dean heirs and their wives thank you. My mother would thank you, as would hers; both of them were strong, quick-witted
women, like yourself. They would be most gratified to know that the Dean line will not end with me, thanks to you.
The card goes on, but Catherine stops reading, all that hope turning leaden in her stomach. He’s just being self-aggrandizing,
speaking about his family. His favorite topic. It can’t—it can’t be more than that, surely.
“Who are they from?” Mother asks, far too close.
Catherine jumps and Mother plucks the card from her hands. She looks to Father for help, but he’s peering at the paper, totally
oblivious.
“Mother, it’s not—” Catherine starts.
“Darling, you’ve got him,” Mother says, beaming at her, the letter clutched to her chest. “He wants you to be the next Dean
woman. To bear his heirs!”
“He does what?” Father asks, looking up from the paper, Catherine caught between them and her rapidly growing nausea.
“Mr. Dean has written to thank Catherine for saving his life and here, look here,” Mother says, rounding Catherine to thrust
the letter under Father’s nose. “He’ll propose by the end of the month, I’m sure of it.”
Catherine’s tempted to smash the vase to the floor and run out of the room. Damn it all to hell. All she did was save him
from choking. Any reasonable person would have. If Mr. Dean had been less focused on being absolutely atrocious to Rosalie,
maybe he wouldn’t have choked at all.
Father looks up and meets her eyes. “He wasn’t the only one impressed,” he says, passing her the paper while Mother leans over his shoulder, pointing to the note.
Catherine takes the Chronicle with trembling hands. What on earth does that mean?
She scans the front page, moving down to the notations of the weekly events. And there, staring up at her in print:
At the Dean concert held yesterday at the Upper Rooms, great commotion was seen when the young Mr. Dean, standing in as host
for his father, appeared to choke on a small finger sandwich. He was promptly saved from asphyxiation by the quick action
of the object of his rumored affection, one Miss Pine. New to Bath, not much has been ascertained about the young Miss Pine,
but surely now the ton knows the measure of her mettle as one poised, quick-thinking, and heroic young woman.
“Oh, my dear, you’ll be the talk of the town! We must arrange a meeting presently, somewhere very public.”
Catherine jumps again, Mother now staring over her shoulder. She passes her the paper and shifts down the table, hiding her
face in her enormous collection of flowers.
She didn’t want to impress anyone. She didn’t want to attract attention. She didn’t mean to make Mr. Dean fall for her, or
worship her. He was just choking. She would have done the same for anyone. Mother, Lady Tisend, Rosalie—
Catherine shudders at the very thought of whacking Rosalie like that. The image of her in the river still hasn’t left Catherine.
She was perfectly fine then, and Catherine’s still had nightmares of her drowning. Now she supposes she’ll be adding bleak
visions of Rosalie choking to her repertoire.
“That was very quick thinking on your part,” Father says, pulling Catherine from her spiraling thoughts.
“It wasn’t worthy of all of this,” Catherine says, feeling a little relieved when Father gives her an understanding smile.
“It shouldn’t be so heroic to help someone.”
“People are naturally cruel,” Mother says. “Which makes you stand out even more for your kindness.”
Mother’s still staring down at Mr. Dean’s note, pacing behind Father’s chair.
“Do you really believe that?” Catherine asks. “That people are naturally spiteful?”
Mother looks up at her, her face going soft too. They’re both looking at her like they did when she was a child with a wild
fancy.
“People rarely choose to help others when given the chance in a place like this,” Mother says gently.
Catherine forces herself to nod and sit back down. She stares into her porridge, thinking about how Christopher jumped at
the chance to help Catherine and Rosalie. How Amalie and Henrietta take every opportunity they can to talk Rosalie up, to
invite Catherine into their friendship. How Lady Jones so kindly invited her to join them at Blaise Castle.
People aren’t inherently selfish. At least, not all people.
“Well, we should all go get ready for the baths, should we not?” Father suggests.
Catherine nods, leaving Mr. Dean’s letter on the table, as if she can leave him behind for the day as well.
The soaking dress Mother and Miss Teit help her into is hardly the most fetching.
Made of the same brown linen as Father’s soaking suit, it hangs simply on her frame, weighted down by the small iron pieces sewn into the hem to keep her modest. Mother and Miss Teit slip a tailored brown jacket over her shoulders as well, which lightly accentuates her waist.
She looks just like any other woman on her way to bathe, until Mother reveals the most ridiculous bonnet, done in white and
blue with an enormous gray feather. Catherine will look like a drowned peacock.
Rosalie would adore seeing her in this monstrosity. She’d laugh and laugh.
Not that Catherine would even be able to find her once they’re at the baths. The vaulted stone bath chamber is full of gently
rising mist, members of the ton floating in and out of sight in their own silly hats and wigs. It’s impossible to see anything
distinctly.
Catherine walks down the entry steps carefully, grimacing as the warm water rises up her costume, sticking it to her legs
and pressing in. She breathes slowly in the steam, unnerved by the murmur of unidentified voices.
She follows Father as he wades across the expansive bath, heading to his favorite perch where they’ll sit and nibble on the
little bowl of nuts Catherine’s clutching hard above the water. She knows the copper bowl will float, but she never trusts
it. She tries to relax, just a little, and take comfort in the anonymity of the steam.
That is until Mr. and Mrs. Pilney pop out of nowhere. “We must congratulate you, Mr. Pine, on your most remarkable daughter,”
Mr. Pilney says, his round face red and sweating.
Mrs. Pilney nods rapidly, her own rather extravagant blue bonnet bobbing precariously close to the water. “Such quick thinking.”
Catherine grimaces a smile.
“We are most proud of her,” Father agrees, while Mother beams beside her, her curls already going limp beneath her less-ostentatious
bonnet.
Catherine tries to focus on how comfortable Father seems, standing in the warm water. On how much better he’s been doing since
they came to Bath.
“What a compliment to your house,” another gentleman says, stepping up on Father’s other side. “I hope Mr. Dean has written
to thank her.”
Catherine’s shoulders are steadily climbing toward her ears, discomfort swirling in her stomach.
“He has,” Mother says quickly. “And sent an enormous bouquet of flowers.”
“Oh, how lovely,” Mrs. Pilney crows.
Catherine looks around as more and more of the bathers seem to take note of them, rushing over to compliment her parents.
With the hot, sulphureous steam, the sweat dripping down her neck, the warm water pressing on her clothes—she’s starting to
hyperventilate.
“Mr. Pine, might I have a word?”
Catherine turns, surprised and almost relieved to see Mr. Sholle pop up beside Father.
“Of course,” Father says, wading to the side, which only closes the crowd in further around Catherine and Mother.
Catherine turns her head, just able to hear as Mr. Sholle leans closer to Father.
“I realize Miss Pine’s attentions have fallen elsewhere and simply wanted to make known that I formally rescind my intentions to court her.
I would not want to compete with a friend in Mr. Dean, nor foist unwanted attentions on your dear daughter, but neither did I want you to wonder why I have made myself so scarce. ”
Father says something inaudible. Catherine’s stomach roils. Mr. Sholle is formally withdrawing his courtship, like the rumors
about Mr. Dean’s imminent proposal mean she is somehow already his property.
Anger slithers up her spine. She wants to snap that she is the only person who should be deciding whether or not she gets
courted. What right does Mr. Sholle have to decide this on her behalf?
Not that she wants him to court her either. But still. They’re all acting like she’s a prize, complimenting her parents. As
if it’s their accomplishment that she . . . did the simply decent thing and prevented a man from choking.
“Mr. Tisend will rescind next, you mark my words,” Mother whispers, turning her head toward Catherine, even as she smiles
to someone on her other side.