Chapter Twenty-Six #2
“Mr. Dean, Mr. Tisend was just telling me how eager he was to show you his uncle’s lake,” Amalie announces, appearing back
in the circle with Christopher in tow, and holding two almost overflowing wineglasses. “Miss Raught,” she says, holding one
out for Henrietta.
Mr. Rile grabs it for her with a grin, still going on about the Raught lands. Amalie then muscles in next to Catherine, forcing
Christopher in beside her.
Mr. Dean frowns over at them. “I’m not sure I’ll have the time after all, Mr. Tisend, but I might—”
“Oh, do let me implore you,” Christopher says gamely, nudging Amalie to make her stop smiling. “In fact, I’ve got a schedule
planned, if you’d be willing to discuss it. I’m sure we can find a time.”
“Now?” Mr. Dean asks, glancing around, his arm still tight on Catherine’s elbow. It’s starting to hurt.
“My fishing compatriot leaves the day after tomorrow. It won’t take but a minute. Miss Pine doesn’t mind, does she?”
“Not at all,” Catherine says, hoping she sounds demure instead of desperate.
She slides her arm out from Mr. Dean’s, forcing herself not to knead at the sore crook of her elbow. Christopher gestures
across the room. Mr. Dean nods to Catherine and follows Christopher’s lead. Which leaves Catherine, Amalie, and Henrietta
standing alone in the cluster of men.
Go, Henrietta mouths at them. “Yes, I think my father’s planning to stock the lake,” she adds, louder, for Mr. Rile.
“Come on,” Amalie whispers, taking Catherine’s hand.
And then they’re walking the perimeter of the room while Amalie sips her drink, trying not to look like they’re searching
out Catherine’s mother. Catherine notices Rosalie in the far back corner, trapped with her mother and the gossiping Mrs. Plory.
Rosalie catches her eye, giving her a disheartened shrug. Catherine frowns back, but she can’t focus on Rosalie’s side of
the equation, not when the band is striking up in the hallway. If they don’t find her mother before Mr. Dean hears the band,
she’ll find herself seated for tea service and they’ll be ruined.
“There,” Amalie says urgently, tipping her glass toward where Mother’s standing by the doors again.
“Thank Christ,” Catherine says, heading across the room, Amalie’s hand still clutched in hers.
Now she just needs to work into a good panic and draw Mother back into the cloakroom. Shouldn’t be hard; she’s been halfway
into panic since before they arrived.
“Incoming,” Amalie hisses.
Catherine glances to the left and sees Mr. Dean heading for them, slipping something out of his pocket. Oh, God, it’s a box.
A small box.
“That’s a ring box,” Amalie whispers.
Catherine keeps moving—what else can she do?—dragging Amalie up to her mother.
“Darling, turn around and smile,” Mother says, her eyes alight. “This could be your moment.”
Catherine looks to Amalie, horrified. They turn together to see Mr. Dean not ten feet away. Across the room, she can see Rosalie
watching, her eyes wide, mouth open in distress.
Did their fathers already talk? Does she turn him down, right here, right now, in front of all of these people? Oh God. She
might be sick.
“I’m sorry,” Amalie whispers.
Catherine glances at her, opening her mouth to say she is too, before Amalie stumbles. And throws her glass of wine down the
front of Catherine’s dress.
They stare at each other for a silent moment. Amalie raises an eyebrow. Mr. Dean is still coming toward her. There’s wine
all over the front of her beautiful dress. There’s . . .
Oh.
She lets out a piercing shriek and starts slapping at her dress. “Oh my goodness!” she wails.
Amalie holds her hands up, eyes wide in faux horror. Go bigger.
“Why would you do that?” Catherine shouts. “Look at what you’ve done to my dress!”
“I’m so sorry, so very sorry,” Amalie says loudly, sounding properly devastated. “I’ll replace it. Mrs. Pine, I am soooo sorry,” she adds as Mother steps forward, taking Catherine’s shoulders.
“It’s ruined,” Catherine whines loudly. She screws up her face, sniffling. She’s not sure she can quite work up real tears, but she can
look the part. “Mother, looook.”
“I see, darling,” Mother says tightly, squeezing her shoulder hard. “It will wash out.”
“No it won’t!” Catherine cries. “It’s ruined. Ruined!”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Mr. Dean stop in his tracks, staring at her, before turning on his heel and stalking
away, slipping whatever it was back into his pocket.
Score one for female hysterics.
“I’m so embarrassed,” Catherine continues, covering her face with her hands.
“Come now, darling. We’ll—we’ll just step out.” Catherine feels pressure on her shoulders and lets Mother start pushing her
out of the tearoom.
“I’m so sorry!” Amalie says, almost shouting, following after them. She keeps up a steady slew of apologies until they reach
the cloakroom.
“That is quite— Miss Linet,” Mother stays, stopping just before the door. “We will get this sorted. Please go enjoy the tea.
We will be back shortly.”
Catherine gives an exaggerated sniffle and Mother sighs, pushing her into the cloakroom. Catherine looks over her shoulder
just in time to see Amalie wink before the door swings closed.
“Utterly ridiculous. You’ll bet she’s paying for this dress,” Mother mutters, pushing Catherine further into the empty cloakroom.
Catherine spins, facing herself in the mirror. There’s wine down to her chemise. She’ll pay for the dress herself if this
works. And get Amalie a present.
“There was nothing on the floor. I don’t understand how it even happened,” Mother continues, unlacing the back of her dress.
Catherine shrugs. “I don’t know.” She keeps her eye on the door in the mirror, hoping, praying, that Rosalie will come through.
“Mr. Dean was walking over. Miss Linet is never allowed in our home again.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Catherine argues.
“He had a ring in his hand, I saw it,” Mother says gruffly.
So did Catherine. Thank Christ Amalie had the wits to get her out of there.
“Up,” Mother commands.
Catherine lifts her arms and together they carefully maneuver the dress over her head, leaving her in her stays, petticoat,
and chemise.
“Maybe I can pat some of it out,” Mother says, eyeing the massive stain down the front. “Grab me a towel.”
Catherine hurries to the stack of towelettes in the corner and brings two back.
“Here, there’s better light,” Catherine says, directing her mother to lay the dress on the vanity closest to the water closet,
which gets a smidge of sunlight through the transom over the door.
Mother grabs one of the towelettes and they both begin to blot at her dress.
“If we just had some water,” Mother mutters, biting at her cheek as she dabs a bit too forcefully.
“There might be some in the closet?” Catherine suggests a little too eagerly.
Mother merely gives her an affronted look. In fairness, it’s a terrible idea. But they need to move. If they’re in here when—
“I just do not understand why you insist on acting this way,” Lady Tisend snaps in a shouting whisper as she backs through
the cloakroom door.
Rosalie follows after her, taking in the tableau of Catherine in her shift, bent over her gown and blotting with her mother.
Mother’s gaze snaps to the door. Her eyes widen, and Catherine’s never seen her move so fast. In a blink, she’s got Catherine’s
dress in her arms, towels and all, and begins shoving Catherine into the water closet.
She goes, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. The door swings shut before Lady Tisend turns around, and they’re left
standing in the cramped water closet, holding her sopping dress. The dim daylight coming in from the high windows only makes
it more pathetic.
Catherine glances at Mother and finds her looking far too pleased.
“What on earth has gotten into you?” Lady Tisend’s voice is clear as a bell.
“What do you think happened?” Mother whispers, inching closer to the door to eavesdrop.
“You’re enjoying this?” Catherine can’t help but ask.
They were each in charge of getting their mothers here separately. Who knows what shenanigans might have occurred on Rosalie’s
end. With Christopher involved, anything’s possible. Though Amalie certainly was a wild card.
Catherine needs to stop Mother before she starts to open the door to eavesdrop more effectively. Catherine reaches out for Mother’s elbow and the door slams open. Catherine yanks Mother back just in time for Lady Tisend to barrel into the cramped room, Rosalie right behind her.
Catherine and Mother stumble backward. Rosalie pushes her mother into the center of the room, then spins and gives the door
a good shove. Catherine hears the squeak of the wood against the tiled doorstep.
It’s firmly stuck into place, just like it was when she got trapped at the first ball of the season. Success.
. . . Of course, she didn’t imagine success would look quite like this.