Chapter Twenty-Two
Catherine
Catherine bounces on her toes, twisting her hands together as she waits on Amalie’s back stoop. Her gray pelisse is getting
damp in the light mist, and Miss Teit looks rather miserable waiting behind her in the cramped alley. But she has to try.
Amalie’s sly, knowing look from the baths has stuck with her all week as she’s followed Mother to event after event, all suspiciously
without the Tisends in attendance. She only managed to glimpse Henrietta once in Sydney Gardens. It’s like Mother’s found
a whole other social circle. One that only includes Mr. Dean.
A very tired kitchen maid opens the back door and peers out at her.
“Good morning, is Miss Linet available?” Catherine asks brightly. “Miss Pine calling for a walk,” she adds when the short
woman just keeps staring at her.
Catherine extends her calling card and the woman takes it, her face entirely blank, before slamming the door in Catherine’s
face.
In fairness, it is obscenely early. Mother’s still asleep; otherwise, Catherine’s sure she’d be on her way to a crack-of-dawn
knitting circle or something equally ridiculous.
But she just has to know. Has to try. It’s been days since she and Rosalie exchanged letters. She’s going through withdrawal.
Worse, they’re dangerously running out of time.
Amalie opens the door with a frown. She’s still in a morning robe over her dress, hair lightly mussed. “It’s not even nine
yet.”
“Want to take a walk in Sydney Gardens?” Catherine asks, eyes big, smile imploring. “On this . . . gorgeous day?”
Amalie squints at her, then looks up at the gloomy, gray sky. “This better be good,” she says, shutting the door on her again.
Catherine rocks on her heels, sucking on her cheek. She hopes it is. Hopes she hasn’t been reading absolutely everything wrong.
Hopes Amalie has come to trust her. Like her. Count her as a true enough ally to bare a soul to.
“Not a lot of morning people in your world,” Miss Teit observes after a quiet minute.
Catherine laughs, surprised, and glances over her shoulder to find Miss Teit grinning back at her beneath her short brown
bonnet. “I owe you,” Catherine says.
“You really do,” Miss Teit agrees. But the door opens before Miss Teit can name her price.
Amalie steps out, wearing a pretty blue pelisse and a white bonnet, Mrs. Linet standing behind her, looking exceedingly put
together already.
“Miss Pine,” she greets.
Catherine and Miss Teit curtsy. “Good morning, Mrs. Linet. Thank you for allowing Miss Linet to walk with me.”
“Of course,” she says. She and Amalie have the same green eyes and wide smile. “And please extend my congratulations to your
mother on your impending engagement. Are you excited?”
Catherine forces herself to smile brightly. Dear God, she hopes she can make this work. “Rather nervous, really.”
Mrs. Linet grins. “Of course. The anticipation can be unsettling. But I think soon enough you’ll be filled with joy.”
“Thank you,” Catherine says, hoping she sounds sincere and not simply terrified.
“Shall we?” Amalie prompts.
“Yes. We’ll have her back by eleven,” Catherine promises Mrs. Linet.
“There is no rush. Have fun.”
Amalie takes Catherine’s arm and steers her off the stoop and back down the alley, Miss Teit following behind at a leisurely
stroll.
Once they’ve stepped back onto the broad, damp, empty street and turned to head toward the gardens, Amalie squeezes her arm.
“So, what’s the matter?”
She promised herself she could do this. She could reach out and try, for herself, for Rosalie, and the hazy dream of a someday
future. She just has to summon the words.
“Can’t a girl just want to take a walk with a friend?” Catherine asks.
“Not before nine in the morning. What’s so urgent you had to interrupt my breakfast?”
Catherine swallows against her discomfort. Amalie is her friend. “I need your help.”
“That’s obvious. With what?” Amalie asks.
Catherine glances back at Miss Teit, who’s following them at truly discreet distance. Not that she thinks she needs to hide
from Miss Teit, but she wants to tell her in her own way, on her own.
“I need you to set up a walk with Christopher.”
Amalie stares at her as they walk for a moment. “. . . Okay.”
“And invite Rosalie along.”
“. . . Okay,” she repeats.
“We have things to discuss, but my mother doesn’t want me writing to Christopher anymore, and I need to—”
“All right,” Amalie says easily.
Catherine opens her mouth. That was too easy.
“What, did you expect me to not want to go on a walk with Christopher?” Amalie asks. Catherine hesitates. “Did you really need to get me out of the house
to ask for this? You could have written a note.”
Catherine winces. “Well, I, um, just wanted—”
“Unless there’s more to this request than you’re telling me.”
Catherine stumbles and Amalie catches her. “Like what?” she asks, heart thumping loudly as they stand still on the gray stone
sidewalk.
Amalie gives her a shrewd look. “Like maybe whatever you and Rosalie have to discuss is a little more covert than you’re letting
on?”
“Well—”
“And maybe you and Rosalie would prefer Christopher and I scarper off for a bit while you chat?”
It’s like something is squeezing at her stomach, roiling hope and fear and elation together. “I—”
“And you’d like to tell me what’s going on, but it feels like Rosalie already should have, and this is rather awkward?”
The words stick in her throat, confusion and relief swirling in her chest.
“It really has been obvious for ages,” Amalie says, her voice a bit softer.
“Has it?” Catherine mumbles.
“Rosalie’s never been this obsessed with anyone. And you may think you’re rather sly, but you can’t stop staring at her anytime you’re together.”
Are her cheeks actually bursting into flame? “You don’t mind?” Catherine whispers.
Shit. Shit. She didn’t mean to say—Rosalie’s the one who should tell her—she only meant to ask for help, not to—this isn’t her secret
to—
“Believe me, if Henrietta and I had felt anything the one time we kissed, we’d have run off into the mountains,” Amalie says
easily, glancing over her shoulder at Miss Teit, who has stopped to pretend to admire a shop window some thirty paces back.
“You and Henrietta?” Catherine manages to ask, her throat tight.
“Once. Just to see what it felt like,” Amalie says with a shrug. “You never kissed a friend?”
Catherine worries at her gloves, her face and neck still scaldingly hot. “I did,” she admits softly. “She didn’t feel the
same way.”
“And Rosalie does feel the same way?” Amalie asks, her voice lilting, knowing, just shy of teasing.
Catherine shrugs, meeting her eyes briefly. “I won’t kiss and tell. At least not if she hasn’t.”
Amalie shakes her head. She bumps her hip against Catherine’s as they head for the entrance to Sydney Gardens. “You both liked
it,” Amalie says.
“Yes,” Catherine whispers, glancing at her to find Amalie looking back, completely at ease, completely without judgment.
“And you don’t think it might feel the same with Mr. Dean?” Amalie asks.
“No,” Catherine says, quick, easy, sure. “Not at all. I—I don’t want to kiss anyone else. Ever,” she adds, letting the word slip through unbidden. Giving it joyous voice.
“Good,” Amalie says decisively, her calm, measured look melting into a true smile. “Rosalie deserves someone who wants only
her.”
“I do,” Catherine assures her.
Is this what it’s like to belong somewhere? To be accepted? Like a warm hug and a hot cup of tea and a beautiful sunrise all
at once?
She feels like she could fly. Mother was wrong.
“Good,” Amalie repeats, squeezing her elbow. “Rosalie’s spent our whole lives making sure Henrietta and I end up with the
right people. It’s only fair she does too.”
That warm feeling oozes slowly out of her chest. “I wish I knew how to make it that simple.”
Amalie hums. “It is more complicated than letting Mr. Dean pick his prize.”
“Oh, ick,” Catherine exclaims.
Amalie laughs and leads her across the street and around the Sydney Hotel into the verdant gardens. “I could help you out,
if you’ll return the favor.”
Catherine looks down at her. “Oh?”
“You think I haven’t already realized Christopher was inviting you on outings to make me jealous? I’m quicker than you think
I am.”
“I didn’t— He wasn’t,” Catherine protests. “At least, I don’t think he was.”
“Oh, Rosalie was, at least,” Amalie says with a shrug. “She’s effective, but not subtle.”
“So it worked?”
Amalie sighs. “Only because I’ve had my eye on Christopher, and when I decide on something, or someone, I decide. And I act,” she adds pointedly.
Catherine bobs her head. She’s trying. This is a start. Maybe someday both she and Rosalie can be as decisive as Amalie. Maybe
Amalie will help them build a world where they can be.
“Christopher’s a good choice.”
“He is,” Amalie agrees, smiling herself. “And if orchestrating a little liaison for you means Christopher and I might disappear
into the woods for a moment . . . I can be persuaded.”
The warmth returns to her chest, growing into something brighter, something like fiery hope.
“I have the last volume of The Children of the Abbey I can lend you, if that sweetens the deal,” Catherine says.
“Done. And I’ll bring my lady’s maid, who will happily go sit by the water and leave us all alone. Though yours seems great too.”
Catherine glances over her shoulder to see Miss Teit still standing by the patio of the Sydney Hotel, admiring the flowering
trees and paying them no attention whatsoever.
“She is.”
“Henrietta’s lady’s maid is a hoverer, but if you and Rosalie happened to be out with her and Mr. Rile, I doubt she’d notice
if you wandered off for a moment.”
“Good to know,” Catherine says. “And Henrietta wouldn’t . . .”
“Henrietta, bless her, has never noticed anything that wasn’t right in front of her—the lucky happy thing—but she’ll be overjoyed
to know Rosalie has found the right person. Whoever he, or she, may be.”
She hoped to make friends this season, but she never actually thought she would. Nothing that’s happened this season has gone to plan, but it’s turned out better than she could ever have imagined. At least if she can manage to dispatch of Mr. Dean.
“Have you and Rosalie talked about the future?” Amalie asks.
“That’s what the walk will be for.”
Amalie sighs. “Ridiculous. If you need to pass letters, send them to me, and I’ll forward them on. You’re such smart women,
it’s a little sad you don’t have it all planned out yet.”
Catherine bristles for a moment, and then her shoulders slump. “It wasn’t . . . We haven’t had a lot of time to talk.”
“And the time you had you spent a lot of it not talking, I imagine?” Amalie asks with a grin.
“Shut it,” Catherine says, laughing.
Amalie looks ridiculously pleased with herself, narrow face set in a smirk. But as she continues to tease, getting more information
out of Catherine than she’d have thought possible, Catherine feels like she can breathe again. Maybe they really can make
a new life for themselves, and fill it with people who understand. Fill it with the people who already know and care about
them.
All they need to do is convince their mothers to throw the old system to the wayside and ignore the gossip. And insult one
very boring, very self-centered, very wealthy son of a viscount. How hard could it be?