Chapter Twenty-Four #2
could provide exactly the out she and Rosalie have been looking for.
Trying not to smile, Catherine leads Mother out of the Pump Room and around the corner, hiding them in a small alcove until
she can be sure Mr. Dean and his father will be gone from the street. She can see the anguish on her mother’s face, and her
hope curdles in her chest. It’s one thing to be the source of her unhappiness. It’s another entirely to stand there simply
watching the carriage crash happen with no way to help.
“Everything’s fine,” Catherine hears herself say.
Mother shakes her head, her eyes starting to drip, lips trembling. “It’s not.”
Catherine takes her shaking hands. “It is,” she insists. “You’ve made so many friends this season. Impressed everyone. Who
cares what some bumbling old man thinks he remembers.”
“He remembers it exactly,” Mother whispers.
“So what?” Catherine says, trying to keep her voice light. “It was twenty-five years ago. You’re respectably married now.”
“Clearly I can’t outrun the idea of being ravished in the bushes.”
Catherine squeezes her hands reflexively. “I thought the rumor was only that you kissed.”
Mother raises a shoulder. “Rumors always keep growing. By the time your father and I were leaving after our ignominious marriage,
I heard that I’d been caught doing . . . well, something no lady should ever do.”
Catherine opens her mouth, unsure of exactly what Mother’s referring to. Something worse than being ravished in public, unmarried, unbetrothed?
Mother lets out a watery giggle. “Oh, darling, I love that you’re still so innocent.”
Catherine snaps her mouth shut. She’s sure there are things about carnality that she still doesn’t know. Particularly with
a man, she supposes. But she knows.
But that’s not important now.
“I’m worldly,” she says, putting a little extra whine in her voice to make Mother laugh again.
“You are,” Mother agrees, looking a smidge put back together.
Catherine smiles. “And because I am worldly, I know that the people who actually matter and care about you won’t care a whit
that Lord Dean is an uncouth blabbermouth.”
“You’re right,” Mother says, tugging on Catherine’s hands to pull her in for a quick hug. “Let’s go home to your father, let him tell you all about how he nearly punched a man for saying something similar about a year after we got married.”
“Father what?” Catherine asks loudly.
Mother laughs, stepping back to lead Catherine down the stairs to the street.
“Who was it?” Catherine asks as they reach the courtyard and start walking back toward home.
“Some second son of a second son passing through on his way north. They met at the tavern. Said your father was lucky to have
gotten the spoiled fruit from a titled tree.”
“He did not,” Catherine says, aghast.
“Your father popped him one, sent him crashing over the bar, and everyone cheered.”
“I miss home,” Catherine admits, thinking of their rowdy local tavern, full of quarry workers with good hearts.
“I do too,” Mother admits. “But we’ve—well, today not withstanding—we’ve been doing well here.”
“We have,” Catherine agrees. “Do you think Father will go over there and punch Lord Dean?”
Mother laughs, the sounding ringing around them. It makes Catherine’s shoulders come down just a hair. Even if she couldn’t
prevent the humiliation, at least she can help cheer her up.
“I’ll have to persuade him against it. I am sorry, though,” she adds, squeezing Catherine’s hand.
“For what?”
“Well, Lord Dean remembering nothing about our family other than my . . . supposed indiscretion might make it harder—”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care,” Catherine says, trying not to sound too eager.
“Darling—”
“Anyone who judges you based on something someone said happened twenty-five years ago isn’t someone I want to marry, or be
related to by marriage.”
She said it. She actually said it.
“Just wait until the ton sees our tea. Everyone will forget all about him because they’ll be so impressed by your hosting
skills,” she continues, her whole body feeling lighter.
Mother laughs softly. “If you say so.”
“I do,” Catherine says, watching the way Mother’s shoulders roll back, the way she carries herself just a little taller than
before. “We’ll show them yet.”
“We will,” Mother agrees, pulling her hand up to tuck their arms together again. “You’re right. We can make sure they all
forget prior scandals by throwing the best tea they’ve ever seen.”
“Hear, hear,” Catherine enthuses, a warmth flooding through her chest. Mother sounds like she used to, back home. Bright,
and cheerful, and hopeful.
Maybe everything really will be all right. Maybe this was the best thing that ever could have happened. Maybe she’ll get to
tell Rosalie tomorrow that—
“A tea so wonderful it’ll force Mr. Dean to propose to you, and once you’re engaged, his father will simply have to cease
discussing the past. We’ll be the talk of the town then, for all the right reasons, won’t we?”
Catherine withers, forcing herself to nod, her stomach plummeting, hope splintering into jagged pieces.
She thought they’d turned a corner here—thought that Mother might finally be willing to stand on her own, be proud of herself, without needing Catherine’s marriage to be the picture-perfect celebrated story.
Instead, she has a single week to make sure Mr. Dean doesn’t propose.