Chapter Sixteen
“No, no, no—Timothy, you cannot possibly believe a Gothic arch would suit a music room. The acoustics alone would be abominable.”
Catherine Blackwell’s voice carried through the morning-room doorway with such animated conviction that Marianne paused in the hall, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her stomach, which had at last begun to show properly these past two weeks.
The change in her form still caught her by surprise each morning when Sarah helped her dress—the evidence of life growing within her both thrilling and faintly terrifying.
The corridor was filled with the soft spill of morning light through the tall windows, casting geometric patterns across the Persian runner that had graced the house for three generations.
Harrowmere had taken on a new quality these past months—less mausoleum, more home, with Catherine’s laughter echoing through rooms long accustomed to silence.
“But consider the visual impact,” came Lord Timothy’s earnest reply, full of that particular energy that overtook him whenever he spoke of architecture.
“Imagine the way light would filter through pointed windows during afternoon practice—the golden beams across the floor, the shifting shadows that would move with the music—”
“Light is all very well,” Catherine interrupted, and Marianne could practically hear her rolling her eyes, “but if the sound is thrown awry by those pointed ceilings, what use is visual poetry when the auditory experience is ruined? Music is meant to be heard, Timothy, not simply performed in aesthetically pleasing surroundings.”
“Then we compromise. Romanesque arches with Gothic windows. The best union of art and science.”
“That’s architectural heresy!”
“That is architectural innovation. The great masters did not become great by obeying every rule.”
“The great masters understood that form must follow function, and the function of a music room is music!”
When Marianne entered, she found the pair bent over what looked to be architectural plans spread across the entire breakfast table, sketches scattered like fallen leaves across the white linen cloth.
Catherine had a pencil tucked behind one ear, another between her teeth, and an ink smudge upon her nose that betrayed hours of work.
Her morning gown—a soft lavender muslin that flattered her complexion—was already rumpled from leaning over the table.
Timothy’s normally tidy appearance had fared little better: his cravat hung loose, sleeves rolled high, auburn hair in wild disarray from constant exasperated fingers.
His gestures were animated as he pointed to various elements of his drawings, his expression one of scholarly battle waged with affectionate ferocity.
The morning room itself bore evidence of their architectural debate—books on construction were stacked precariously on every surface, additional papers covered the window seat, and someone had actually drawn calculations directly on the tablecloth in what appeared to be charcoal.
“Are you two designing a cathedral or a home?” Marianne asked with fond exasperation as she lowered herself carefully into the one unoccupied chair. Her new shape required a little more care in such manoeuvres, but she managed it with grace.
“Timothy has been granted permission to renovate the dower house on his father’s estate,” Catherine explained, not looking up from her work. “It is to be our home after the wedding. He insists on a music room but refuses to see reason about the ceiling.”
“I am listening,” Timothy protested, his green eyes bright with academic fervour. “I am simply disagreeing. There’s a difference between not listening and not acquiescing to your every architectural whim.”
“It is not a whim when it rests upon sound mathematical principles!”
“And it is not obstinacy when it rests upon aesthetic vision and structural integrity!”
They glared at one another across the table, but Marianne could see the affection beneath the argument—the amused glint in Catherine’s eyes, the twitch of laughter Timothy tried valiantly to suppress.
Adrian appeared in the doorway, immaculately dressed despite the hour, surveying the chaos with the long-suffering air of a man resigned to domestic disorder. His gaze swept the scene—the plans, the books, the defaced linen—and he sighed.
“Why,” he asked with deliberate patience, “are there mathematical equations on my breakfast table? And is that—did someone draw on the tablecloth? That is Irish linen!”
“They’re load-bearing calculations,” Catherine said absently, scribbling another figure. “Timothy believes we can remove a wall to expand the morning room. I am proving that such a change would require additional beams that would ruin the proportions entirely. The tablecloth can be washed.”
“Or replaced,” Timothy offered helpfully. “I’ll gladly purchase a new one.”
“With what funds?” Adrian inquired dryly. “Last I heard, you were a second son with limited income until your architectural practice is established.”
“With my future funds from said profession, then. Consider it an investment in marital harmony.”
“Marital harmony achieved by ruining my breakfast?” Adrian raised a brow.
“Marital harmony achieved by demonstrating that my future wife is wrong about support beams.”
“I am not wrong!” Catherine declared. “Look at these calculations—”
“Naturally,” Adrian said, crossing to Marianne’s side with that easy grace that still had the power to undo her. “How foolish of me not to recognise load-bearing equations at breakfast. I suppose next you’ll be conducting chemical experiments over tea.”
His hand found her shoulder automatically, thumb stroking gently in that absent way that told her he wasn’t even conscious of the gesture.
These small touches had become constant—his hand at her back when they walked, fingers brushing hers at dinner, the way he’d pull her against him whenever they were alone.
It was as if he needed the constant reassurance of her presence, especially now with the baby making itself known.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked, already forgetting the chaos around them.
“Round,” she said cheerfully, patting her stomach. “Wonderfully, gloriously round. I can no longer see my feet when I stand, Sarah had to let out another seam in this dress, and I become winded climbing the stairs. It’s marvellous.”
“You’re glowing,” he corrected, bending to kiss her temple with unguarded tenderness. “Radiant. Magnificent. More beautiful every day.”
“I’m spherical,” she countered. “I saw my reflection earlier and thought someone had hung a portrait of a blueberry in a gown.”
“A beautiful blueberry.”
“Adrian, that is not the compliment you think it is.”
“You’re beautiful in every shape,” he said simply, his hand drifting to her rounded middle with reverence. “Especially this one.”
“You two are insufferable,” Catherine said, fond despite herself. “Timothy, tell them about the windows before Adrian starts composing sonnets to Marianne’s ankles.”
“I would never compose sonnets to her ankles,” Adrian replied with dignity. “Her ankles are far more suited to heroic couplets.”
“You are all absurd,” Marianne laughed, covering Adrian’s hand with her own. “The windows?”
“Yes!” Timothy seized the opportunity eagerly. “Stained-glass inserts throughout the music room—not biblical scenes or pastoral nonsense, but mathematical designs. Logarithmic spirals in coloured glass, the divine proportion rendered in blue and amber.”
“That is…” Adrian hesitated, visibly torn between rivalry and admiration. “Actually rather ingenious. Provided you can find a craftsman precise enough for it.”
“I know someone in Venice,” Timothy said, his excitement mounting. “Signor Bellini, a master glazier I met during my studies. He once created a rose window based entirely on mathematical ratios—it’s so perfect that professors take students to study it.”
“Of course you do,” Adrian said, resigned but amused. “I suppose next you’ll tell us you correspond with the ghost of Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Timothy replied solemnly. “Though I do own copies of his notebooks on architectural principles.”
“Show Adrian the bedroom plans,” Catherine said brightly—then went scarlet to the roots of her hair. “That is, the layout of the private quarters. The arrangement of rooms. The entirely proper architectural considerations for domestic comfort. The—”
“We understand,” Marianne said gently, hiding her smile behind her teacup. “Though I notice you are most particular about rooms you have not yet seen. One might almost suspect you have been thinking about your future home rather extensively.”
“Timothy sent me the existing floor plans,” Catherine explained, her colour still high but her chin lifting in defiance. “It is a perfectly proper correspondence about architecture. We discuss load-bearing walls and window placements—nothing remotely improper.”
“With a three-page digression on the symbolism of roses in Tudor construction,” Timothy said with a grin that made him look even younger than his six-and-twenty years. “Which, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with roses being Catherine’s favourite flower.”
“That was relevant historical context,” Catherine protested. “The Tudor rose as an architectural motif speaks to the union of aesthetics and political power—”
“You drew hearts in the margins.”
“They were geometric demonstrations of proportional scaling!”
“They were hearts, dearest. Very small ones. With our initials inside them.”
The endearment slipped out naturally, and Catherine’s blush deepened even as her lips curved into a smile.
Such casual intimacies had grown increasingly common as their courtship progressed—always chaperoned, but genuine.
The way Timothy’s hand lingered when helping her from a carriage, the way Catherine leaned toward him when they spoke, the private glances that needed no interpreter.