Chapter Twenty-Four
Catherine
Catherine’s lip stings. She releases it from between her teeth, smoothing her tongue across the abrasion and staunchly not
thinking about how Rosalie bit her lip and did the very same thing. Oh, that she could be back in that room at Blaise House,
pretending just for one night that the future was bright and attainable.
Instead, she stares out at the Pump Room, her stomach down by her toes. Mother’s peering around hopefully, as if Mr. Dean
might pop out of the air and unceremoniously get down on one knee right there in front of everyone.
Not that he should, given that Lord Dean and Father have yet to meet. But that doesn’t seem to matter. Mother looks so happy, basking in the attention from every member of the ton. She’s convinced that a proposal will elevate their family status
to the top of Bath’s social world.
If Mr. Dean dropped to one knee in front of Catherine right now, she doesn’t know how she could reject him without ruining
the first true happiness she’s seen her mother have in God knows how long.
She’s getting itchy. Maybe the stress is making her break out in hives.
She hasn’t come up with a foolproof plan to suggest to Rosalie on their clandestine walk tomorrow. Worse, even if she did have a plan for how to divert Mr. Dean’s impending intentions, she doesn’t have the faintest idea of what comes after that—of
how to build the life she and Rosalie keep promising to figure out together.
Every time she tries to imagine it, she just sees Mother weeping against Father’s shoulder, ruined all over again.
“I’m thinking we ought to increase the number of musicians. Go for a sextet, maybe even an octet,” Mother says.
Catherine’s been thus far ignoring her monologue about their upcoming tea next week, tuning her out so she needn’t grapple
with the fact that if Mr. Dean were to make a public proposal, it would certainly be at her mother’s tea. Which leaves her
only a week to figure out her life, make space for Rosalie in it, and convince her parents to let her grow old with her.
“Do you actually enjoy the water?” Catherine asks desperately.
Mother turns her head to meet Catherine’s eyes. “What?”
“You savor your cup, but it’s so disgusting,” Catherine whispers, raising her still-full cup of sulphureous water, which makes
Mother laugh.
“You get used to it,” Mother promises.
“It’s been months and I still hate it. Are you really claiming you still have a tolerance from twenty-five years ago?”
Mother shrugs with a sly smile. “Perhaps.”
Catherine rolls her eyes. “I wish that were hereditary.”
“Oh, well, you got your father’s tongue, then. However much he pretends otherwise, he hates it.”
Catherine laughs, thinking of the way Father’s face scrunches at even the mention of taking the waters. “At least the baths
are helping.”
“Yes,” Mother agrees. “This has been a most advantageous move all around.”
Catherine’s shoulders go up. “Have you gotten a chance to read the next chapter of Trecothick Bower yet?”
“No. I’ve not read a book in, goodness, at least a month,” Mother says dismissively. “There’s always so much to keep up with
in the paper, and all the invitations have taken a lot of time, you know.”
“Well, I did finish it, and I thought—”
“Oh, those gloves would look lovely on you,” Mother says, gesturing with her cup to a young woman and her mother who are sitting
on a bench beneath one of the large dreary windows. “Maybe in blue?”
Catherine sighs. They used to spend hours debating the books they read together. Father and Richard would even read a novel
now and then and they’d spend whole evenings in fervid family discussion.
But now Mother’s content with the gossip columns and invitations and what laces Catherine should have on her slippers, which
no one will even see at the tea. Though Rosalie would care. If they could sneak off, maybe she could even see them. Unlace
them. Skirt her hand—
Mother comes to an abrupt halt, making Catherine spill her drink down the front of her jacket.
“What—”
She looks up and spots Mr. Dean at the door to the Pump Room, standing beside an elderly gentleman with his same long face,
sharp nose, and heavy brow line.
She has water down the front of her dress, Mother’s nearly hyperventilating, and there’s nowhere to escape. She’s stuck here, watching Mr. Dean and his father slowly approach them like the world’s worst impending carriage accident.
Mother hastily plops their cups onto a passing porter’s tray. She turns to Catherine and grabs her handkerchief, sopping up
as much of the water from her dress as she can.
“This could be it!” she whispers excitedly, looking utterly elated.
Surely he wouldn’t propose here, not now. Not without formally asking her father. They must be here for the waters. They must be.
But there’s no time to prepare as Mr. Dean and his father step up to them. Catherine turns, heart in her throat, and forces
what must be an uncomfortable-looking smile.
No one seems to notice.
“Mrs. Pine, Miss Pine, may I introduce my father, Lord Dean,” Mr. Dean says.
Catherine and Mother curtsy in sync, which is wildly coordinated for how unmoored Catherine feels.
Lord Dean is tall and thin, like Mr. Dean, but with wispy gray hair and sallow cheeks. The two of them side by side look like
a painting depicting the ravages of time.
“So pleased to meet you, Lord Dean,” Mother says.
“Have we met before?” Lord Dean asks, his voice surprisingly loud for such a frail face.
“I don’t believe so,” Mother says kindly. Her elbow jerks, almost jostling Catherine.
“I’m sure I’ve seen your face before,” he insists.
“Perhaps when I was a young girl,” Mother allows. “Mr. Dean, are you quite recovered?”
“Quite,” Mr. Dean says, smiling at Mother. “Father, Miss Pine is the young lady who saved me from choking at our tea. The one I was telling you all about. You’ve been corresponding with her father to find a time to meet?”
Catherine takes a deep breath through her nose, keeping her smile plastered to her face as Lord Dean’s lightly absent eyes
track over her.
“Smart young lady,” he says.
“Thank you,” Catherine replies, glancing at Mother and Mr. Dean, who look ready to recount the entire event, again. “Mr. Dean
has spoken of your estate north of York often, and coming from the country myself, I’m so curious. Do you prefer Bath to the
country, or vice versa?”
Mother gives her an approving look while Lord Dean ponders her question. She supposes it says something that he hasn’t outright
dismissed her.
“Father’s great-grandfather purchased the Dean estate, and we’ve summered there every year of my life. In fact, I was hoping
your father would be with you today, so they might discuss hunting this summer, amongst other things,” Mr. Dean says.
“How lovely,” Mother says. “Are you a keen hunter, Lord Dean?”
Lord Dean looks over at Mother, considering.
“Father’s won many of our local tournaments,” Mr. Dean says. “As a young man, he once brought down a twelve-stone buck.”
“How impressive,” Catherine says, working very hard not to frown at Mr. Dean. She can’t spend the rest of her life with this
man, she just can’t.
“I’d hoped as well, Miss Pine, that you might accompany your father to our estate if we arrange a hunting trip. Lady Rosalie
mentioned often how fond you are of your gothic novels. I think you’d enjoy the Dean manor.”
Catherine blinks, startled. “I do love gothic novels. Is it very gothic in design?”
“Exceedingly. Many dark corners and turrets and creepy old attics to explore.”
She is absurdly pleased to think maybe Rosalie had been thinking about her just as long as Catherine was obsessed with Rosalie
before they owned up to it.
Mother squeezes her elbow and Catherine looks up to find Mr. Dean smiling at her, looking eager. She must look too happy,
thinking about Rosalie. She schools her face, giving him a much-smaller smile.
“I know the Dean library is said to be expansive. I’m sure my daughter would enjoy an afternoon lost amongst its shelves,”
Mother says.
Discomfort twists through her at Mr. Dean’s enthusiastic smile.
“Of course. The library looks out on the grounds where we often set up archery. She might enjoy looking out the window every
few pages to see us shoot.”
She very much would not. Unless it was Rosalie shooting an arrow. Oh, how she’d love to see that.
“I’m sure she would. Wouldn’t you, darling?” Mother asks.
“I do remember your face,” Lord Dean cuts in, suddenly animated. They all turn to look at him, startled. “There were rumors
you and that naval fellow—the baron’s son—were involved, and then you were caught with him in the bushes and he made a tactical
retreat to save his own skin. The Pine boy took pity on you and secreted you away. Never saw your parents again after that,
heard they moved away.”
His voice booms around the room, stopping all conversation in its tracks. Every head in the room turns their way, gaping. A horrible, visceral silence hangs around them.
Mother goes stiff beside her, maybe not even breathing. Catherine glances at Mr. Dean, who’s staring wide-eyed at his father.
“We—” Catherine starts. “Um, we must—”
“Go,” Mr. Dean manages. “My father and I, that is. We must leave for an appointment. A pleasure to see you, and we so look
forward to the tea next week. Good day, Mrs. Pine, Miss Pine,” he says, his voice high.
Catherine dips into a curtsy, pulling Mother with her. Lord Dean looks quizzically at his son but doesn’t fight him. Mr. Dean
beats a hasty retreat from the room, frog-marching his father out.
Catherine and Mother stand for a moment, fully exposed, the whole Pump Room staring at them without any effort to pretend
otherwise. Mother’s pale as a ghost and Catherine isn’t feeling much better.
Slowly, and without looking like they’re trying to flee the room, Catherine gently guides Mother toward the doors.
Lord Dean being too scandalized by her mother’s past to allow his son to propose could be the solution to everything. This