Chapter Fifteen #4
“What? Lord Timothy should be aware of the resources at my disposal.”
To his credit, Lord Timothy did not flee. “I assure you, Your Grace, my intentions—”
“Yes, yes—honourable and pure as snow. Nevertheless, Thomas goes.”
After the party had departed, Edmund turned to Adrian with approval. “You’re learning.”
“Learning?”
“How to let go while maintaining control. It’s an art form—and one you’ll need to master in about eighteen years.” He glanced meaningfully at Marianne’s still-flat stomach.
“Eighteen years,” Adrian repeated faintly.
“More or less. Though daughters are trouble from birth—if Marianne was any indication.”
“I was a perfect child,” Marianne protested.
“You once persuaded the stable boys to teach you to land a proper punch so you could strike the Ashworth lad for pulling your braids.”
“He deserved it.”
“That’s my girl.” Edmund’s pride was unmistakable. “Though you’ll have your hands full if this one inherits your temper and Harrowmere’s stubbornness.”
“We are doomed,” Adrian said gravely.
The morning passed with Edmund regaling them with stories Marianne would have paid handsomely to suppress, while Adrian listened with the fascination of a man discovering new treasure.
“And then there was the time she reorganised my entire warehouse system,” Edmund continued. “She was twelve.”
“Papa, please—”
“Twelve years old and ordering my grown men about—moving crates according to her new efficiency plan. The remarkable thing? It worked. Improved our loading time by thirty per cent.”
Adrian turned to her, intrigued. “You reorganised a warehouse at twelve?”
“It was terribly inefficient,” Marianne admitted. “The heavy goods were kept far from the loading dock, and the fragile ones were stacked absurdly high—”
“She drew diagrams,” Edmund said proudly. “All neatly coloured and labelled, with calculations for the most efficient arrangement.”
“I was bored,” she muttered.
“You were brilliant,” Adrian said, genuine admiration in his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“Oh yes, because ‘I reorganised warehouses as a child’ is precisely the sort of thing one shares during a courtship.”
“It is, if one is courting me. I find competence quite arousing.”
“Adrian!” She glanced at her father, mortified.
Edmund laughed. “Goodness, you two are well matched. Your mother would have delighted in this.”
The mention of her mother softened the moment. She had been indisposed of late—nothing too grave, but enough to keep her largely confined to the country.
“Mother will be so pleased about the baby when she’s feeling stronger,” Marianne said gently.
“Aye. If she were here, she’d already be driving you mad with advice and lists for every conceivable occasion.” He smiled faintly. “The physician says she has good days and bad.”
“Is she any better?”
“The same.”
“Well, I have some lists myself, though,” Marianne admitted.
“Of course you do.” Adrian pulled her closer. “What kind of lists?”
“Things for the nursery. Possible names. Questions for Mr Peterson.”
“See? Practical.” Edmund rose. “Speaking of practical, I’ve brought some items. Had them brought in through the garden door to avoid gossip.”
“Items?” Adrian asked suspiciously.
“Baby things. Marianne’s cradle, a few gowns she wore as an infant. Your mother kept them all—couldn’t bring herself to part with them.” His voice roughened. “Thought you might like to have them.”
Marianne blinked back tears. “Papa…”
“None of that. Pregnant women cry at everything, and I have not the constitution for it.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, it’s sensible—no need to buy new when perfectly good things exist.”
But they all knew it was more than practicality. It was continuity—past, present, and future linked by simple wooden cradle rails and soft, worn linen.
“Thank you,” Adrian said quietly. “It means a great deal.”
Edmund nodded once, then clapped his hands together. “Right, then. I’ll take my leave. Let you two get on with the business of growing my grandchild.”
When he was gone, Marianne turned to her husband. “You wrote to him about strawberries?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
“Everything. Every symptom, every concern, every possible complication I could think of.”
“Adrian—”
“He must not have laughed—much. And I know he will provide useful information about what to expect, as well as what is normal or concerning.” He pulled her onto his lap, hands settling on her waist. “Did you truly reorganise his warehouse at twelve?”
“It was chaos. I merely imposed logic.”
“My brilliant wife.” He kissed her neck. “Our child will be terrifying.”
“Or terrified, with you hovering constantly.”
“I prefer ‘protective observation.’”
“Through hedges?”
“That was one time!”
She laughed, leaning back against him. “What do you suppose Catherine and Lord Timothy are discussing at this very moment?”
“Something excruciatingly dull about architectural stress points.”
***
As it happened, Catherine and Lord Timothy were indeed discussing architecture—but not in quite so dull a fashion as Adrian imagined.
They stood before the Elgin Marbles, Catherine sketching while Timothy explained the mathematical principles behind their creation.
“See how the ancient Greeks understood proportion instinctively? The divine proportion appears everywhere in these pieces.”
“It’s beautiful,” Catherine murmured, pencil racing across the page. “How mathematics becomes art.”
“Or how art is simply mathematics made visible.” He moved closer, ostensibly to see her sketch better. “Your understanding of perspective is remarkable.”
“Years of practice. When one sketches ruins, one must understand how things fit together—even when they’ve fallen apart.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
She looked up, startled by his perception. “Perhaps.”
“You’re not ruins, Lady Catherine. You’re reconstruction—taking the broken pieces and shaping something new, perhaps stronger than before.”
Thomas looked studiously away as Catherine blushed.
“That’s a lovely way to put it,” she said softly.
“An accurate one.” His voice was gentle, sincere. “I’ve studied enough architecture to know: the repaired sections often become the strongest. The fractures, once mended, are points of greatest resilience.”
“You’re comparing me to a building?”
“I’m comparing you to art. Layered, complex, and more beautiful for having history.”
“Lord Timothy—”
“Timothy,” he corrected softly. “Surely, when discussing art and mathematics, we might forgo formality?”
“That would be improper.”
“So is the way I think of you.”
Catherine’s breath caught. “Lor—”
“I apologise. That was too forward.” But his contrition did not quite reach his eyes. “Shall we move on to the Egyptian collection?”
They continued through the museum, their conversation flowing easily between academic discourse and something far more personal.
Thomas followed at a discreet distance, politely pretending not to notice when Lord Timothy’s hand brushed Catherine’s as they reached for the same guidebook, or how the space between them seemed to narrow with each successive exhibit.
***
Meanwhile, back at Harrowmere House, Adrian was in full protective mode.
“You need to rest,” he declared, as Marianne attempted to review household accounts.
“I am with child, not made of glass.”
“The physician said—”
“Light activity. Reviewing accounts is hardly strenuous.”
“The strain of numbers could be harmful.”
“Adrian, I reorganised warehouses at twelve. I think I can manage a few columns of figures.”
“That was before you were carrying precious cargo.”
“Precious cargo?” She laughed. “You make me sound like one of my father’s merchant ships.”
“You are infinitely more valuable.” He took the ledger from her and closed it with finality. “Rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Then read. Something calming.”
“Fine.” She picked up the nearest book—Catherine’s abandoned gothic novel. “Perfect. Nothing more soothing than mysterious counts and crumbling castles.”
Adrian frowned. “That might be too stimulating. The suspense could affect the baby.”
“Adrian Blackwell, if you do not stop this instant, I shall affect you with this book—to the head.”
“Violence. Definitely too stimulating.”
She hurled a cushion instead, which he caught easily before sweeping her into his arms.
“I can walk!”
“I know. But I like carrying you.” He sat with her on the sofa, his hand immediately finding its habitual place over her stomach. “How long before we can feel it move?”
“Months yet.”
“But it’s there. Growing.” Wonder softened his voice. “Our child.”
“Are you going to be this astonished for the entire pregnancy?”
“Undoubtedly. Is that terrible?”
“No,” she said gently. “It’s rather wonderful in fact.”
Some while later, Catherine and Lord Timothy returned, both of them glowing with happiness and intellectual stimulation.
“How was the museum?” Marianne asked.
“Educational,” Catherine said, in a tone suggesting it had been anything but.
“Enlightening,” Lord Timothy added, his gaze fixed solely on her.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “Thomas, report.”
“They discussed architecture, Your Grace. And mathematics. And art.” Thomas’s expression was perfectly neutral, which only made the subtext clearer.
“And?”
“And Lord Timothy was a perfect gentleman.”
“But?”
“No but, Your Grace.”
Adrian looked doubtful but let it pass. Lord Timothy took his leave with promises to call again on the morrow, and Catherine floated upstairs in a happy daze.
“She’s falling in love,” Marianne observed.
“She’s falling into something,” Adrian replied darkly.
“You fell too—rather quickly, if I recall.”
“That was different.”
“Because it was you?”
“Because it was us.” He drew her close. “We are permitted to be exceptional.”
That evening, as they prepared for dinner at the Ashfords’, Adrian fussed over every detail of Marianne’s attire.
“This neckline is too low. You’ll catch a cold.”
“It’s August.”