Chapter Thirty
Catherine
Sunlight filters in through the crack in the curtains, and Catherine turns her face into her pillow. Even a bright, sunny
day cannot fix what’s been broken. The pain of yesterday still flares hard against her chest and all she wants to do is lie
in her bed until darkness takes over again.
“You will not!”
Catherine squints toward the door, muted yelling finally permeating her bubble of sadness. What on earth?
She shuffles out of bed, pulling her dressing gown over her chemise. She hurries down the stairs, tying her robe and running
an anxious hand through her hair. Are her parents fighting about her? Has Father decided he’s on her side? Does Mother want
her out of the house? Will they ever let her see Rosalie again?
“Will you stop insisting you’re right for two blasted seconds?”
“Not if you’re just going to insist they stay here!”
That’s not Father’s voice. Nor Miss Teit’s. The screaming keeps going, melding into a muddied furor until she hits the final
landing, staring down the staircase into their bustling and crowded foyer.
The entire Tisend family stands there in jackets and bonnets and pelisses. Her mother and Lady Tisend are circling each other in the middle of the room, still shouting at each other, while Christopher, Father, Lord Tisend, and Lady Jones linger to the side, watching.
“Genevieve has an entire wing for them, and they can live there for as long as they want until Christopher inherits,” Lady
Tisend shouts.
“Longer, if they want,” Lady Jones puts in.
Both Mother and Lady Tisend glare at her and she holds up her hands.
“Staying in Bath will be far less conspicuous than up and leaving together after the mess they’ve made with Mr. Dean!” Mother
insists.
Lord Tisend and Father exchange a look, both slightly amused and a little frightened. Of course, Christopher’s just grinning
like it’s all funny somehow.
No one has noticed her yet. No one has told her anything. No one came to wake her so she could be part of this yelling match.
No one has bothered to ask her anything.
Does no one care how she feels about having her life decided?
“You are doing it again,” Mother yells.
“Doing what?” Lady Tisend yells back.
“Declaring what you feel is proper for my family without even asking. You haven’t the right—”
“The only right answer is for the girls to go north with Genevieve, so neither of them has to live the same scandal—”
“That you put me through! It’s entirely proper for them to live at home. I don’t know why you’re so eager to send your daughter away—”
“I am not eager for her to leave!” Lady Tisend shouts.
“I’m not,” she adds, looking toward the door, where Catherine finally notices Rosalie hovering uneasily in the shadow of the large vase they keep to the side of the entry, watching the exchange with wide eyes.
She’s holding her bonnet, worrying it with anxious fingers.
As if she can feel Catherine’s gaze, Rosalie looks up. The moment she sees Catherine, her face lights up, eyes hopeful, cheeks
lifting. Catherine’s just in her robe and chemise, her hair probably still messy from sleep, but she feels beautiful under
Rosalie’s gaze.
It makes her brave.
She’s been waiting all season for the impossible. For someone to swoop in and save her, to tell her what to do and make it
all right. But that’s not going to happen. This imperfect life with their mothers screaming, their fathers amused and useless,
Christopher snickering—this is her goddamned romantic novel, and she’s not letting their mothers decide what becomes of them
without asking them first. She’s going to save herself, and Rosalie, and rewrite this damn ending.
“You don’t get to decide what happens to our lives, to my daughter,” Mother starts.
“Enough!” Catherine hears herself yell, marching down the stairs.
Her voice rings around the foyer and everyone turns to look at her. She stops on the bottom step and stares around at all
of them with her hands on her hips. “You cannot unilaterally make decisions about my life, about Rosalie’s life—however well-meaning.”
“Exactly. It is not your—” Mother starts.
“You can’t make decisions like this for us either. Much less without even talking to me about it,” Catherine adds, looking
to her mother, forcing the words out, even though they come out choked and tight.
Mother looks over at her. “Catherine—”
Catherine shakes her head and steps off the stairs. She takes a deep breath and gestures to the second floor.
“If everyone would please make their way up to our sitting room, so we may discuss this like civilized people for the love
of all that’s holy.”
Christopher and Lady Jones both laugh while Mother and Lady Tisend just stand there staring at her.
“Now, if you would,” Catherine prompts.
She waits, tapping her toe, while Lord Tisend and Father come and take their wives’ arms. Both of them grin at her while leading
Mother and Lady Tisend toward the stairs. Christopher and Lady Jones follow them up, giving her proud nods and smiles, and
Catherine feels the tension begin to leach out of her shoulders.
She doesn’t think she’s ever been that loud before.
She watches almost hazily as Rosalie drops her bonnet and walks quickly across the foyer, the two of them alone now. Catherine
opens her mouth, to laugh, to sob, to greet her, but Rosalie doesn’t give her a chance. She reaches up and cradles Catherine’s
face in her hands, pulling her into a deep, needy kiss.
Catherine wraps her arms instinctively around Rosalie’s delicate shoulders, holding on tight as her tongue slicks into Catherine’s
mouth. They both groan, the sound loud in the now-empty foyer, but it doesn’t matter. They’re together, and they’re kissing
in the middle of her house, unafraid. Catherine could stay just like this forever.
Eventually, Rosalie pulls back, looking up at her, her eyes wide and dark, lips red. “That was by far the hottest thing I
have ever seen.”
Catherine laughs, leaning in to rest her forehead on Rosalie’s. “Yeah?”
“You should be bossy more often,” Rosalie says eagerly.
Catherine leans down for one more kiss. “I’ll try,” she says, stepping back so she can take Rosalie’s hands. “Would you care
to tell me what the hell is going on?” she asks, instead of pushing Rosalie against the railing and rucking up her skirts.
“Well, my mother has decided we’re to move in with Aunt Genevieve for the foreseeable future and be scandalously in love away
in the country, if you’re interested.”
Catherine blinks at her. “Oh, um—”
“While your mother would much prefer we stay here, figure things out, and live at home, separately. I suppose we’d slowly
have to win her over to get to stay the night at either house together.”
“That sounds—”
“I’m a bit more partial to being lovers in the country, if you are.”
Catherine pauses, squeezing Rosalie’s hands. “Wait. You said we’d be scandalously in love in the country?”
Rosalie’s eyes go wide. “Oh. Yes. Um, if you’d like. I—I’d love to . . . love you in the country, if you’re willing.”
Catherine feels the grin spread across her face, her chest loosening, a giggle falling from her lips. “I’ll be in love with
you wherever we are, but the country would be nice.”
Rosalie’s face splits in an answering, beautiful, glorious smile, and they grab at each other, pressing their smiles together,
too happy to kiss properly, laughing.
She’s never felt this happy before. She’s never felt so herself. Never felt so supported, so cherished, so loved. And loving Rosalie—it’s like breathing the most wonderful mountain air, expanding, and brimming, and just on the pleasurable side of fabulously painful.
“I can’t wait to keep loving you,” Rosalie whispers as they pull apart to meet each other’s eyes.
“It’ll be a wondrous adventure,” Catherine agrees. “That we’ll start by . . . facing our mothers, together?”
“Exceedingly romantic,” Rosalie says, laughing as Catherine wrinkles her nose. “But like you said, we’ll decide together.
I’ll learn to speak up to my mother like you did, for you.”
Catherine sighs, smoothing Rosalie’s hair from her face. “Speak up to your mother for yourself.” Rosalie frowns. “You can
pretend it’s for me, for a while, for good practice.”
“Deal,” Rosalie says, her hands sliding down Catherine’s chest to tighten the belt of her dressing gown. “We decide?”
“We decide, together,” Catherine agrees.
Rosalie takes her hand and they turn and head up the stairs, fingers interlaced. Their slightly damp palms pressing tight
help bolster Catherine as they come around the staircase on the second floor, staring down the hall toward the sitting room
where Mother and Father are hovering just outside, the Tisend family’s voices murmuring within.
“I’ll be right inside,” Rosalie says as they reach the doors.
She squeezes Catherine’s hand and then lets go, walking into the sitting room, head held high. Catherine watches her go, elated,
and bereft without the press of her fingers. Then Mother shuts the door, leaving them in the relative silence of the dim hallway.
Father glances at Mother, nudging her gently. Mother opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, and the happy bubble in Catherine’s
chest starts to deflate.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” Catherine starts.
“We never said that,” Father says.
Catherine glances at him, calm and smiling, then looks back to Mother, who’s still just standing there, blank.
“I know it will be more difficult,” Catherine continues. “And it won’t look the way you envisioned for my future but I—I truly
hope you’ll still—that you can . . .” She falters as Mother just continues to stare at her. She can feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes again.
Father sighs and releases Mother’s hand to step forward, wrapping Catherine in his arms. The moment her cheek hits his shoulder,
she loses the fight with her tears, fisting her hands into the back of his simple brown housecoat.