Then it was her turn.
“I, Catherine, take thee, Marcus, to be my wedded husband,” she said, speaking carefully. “To have and to hold from this day forward—for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—to love, honour, and to cherish, for as long as we both shall live. And to this I give you my troth.”
She faltered only once, steadying herself with a breath. She could do this. She would do this. Not only as obligation, but as intention. She meant to honour this vow, despite the absence of affection between them.
The vicar nodded and gestured to Alexander, who stepped forward with the small silver box. Marcus lifted the ring and held it carefully between his fingers.
“With this ring I thee wed,” he said, repeating the words supplied. “With my body I thee honour, and all my worldly goods with thee I share.”
He took her left hand. The gold band was slender and warm from his touch. As he slid it into place, Catherine’s breath caught. This was his grandmother’s ring, carried through two generations before her. The band fit perfectly, as though it hadbeen waiting for her. Surely it had been meant for a woman who loved Marcus without question. So why did it feel so right upon her finger? Or was her mind at last losing its hold on the calm rationality that had carried her through the morning?
The vicar lifted his arms; his voice steady as he declared the final words: “By the vows exchanged and the promises made this day, I pronounce you husband and wife.”
It was done. In the span of a few minutes, Catherine had become bound to Marcus Pemberton for the rest of her days. She glanced at him, searching for any flicker of recognition that the same realisation had struck him—but again she found that distracted air in his expression.
Together, they turned to face the small gathering of witnesses. The register lay open on a table beside the altar. Catherine signed her new name and title carefully, the quill trembling only slightly in her grasp. Marcus followed. Then Thomas, his features alight with brotherly pride, and Alexander, who gave Marcus a brief, approving nod as he stepped back.
Rosalind hurried forward, throwing her arms around Catherine and holding her fast.
“I am so proud of you,” she whispered.
Catherine returned the embrace.
“Thank you, Cousin.”
Mrs Thornberry approached with her hands folded. Though she had spoken little during Catherine’s brief stay, her manner now was warm and assured.
“Welcome, Lady Penwood,” she said. “We are honoured to be at your service.”
Catherine smiled, touching the woman’s arm.
“Thank you, Mrs Thornberry.”
The housekeeper gave a small curtsey.
“The staff is prepared. Whatever you require, you have but to ask.”
Catherine glanced at Marcus, who stood beside her in composed stillness. He did not reach for her hand nor offer any familiar gesture, yet there was respect in his gaze—and something akin to relief. She bore now a name of her own, a home, and a place in the world that was neither borrowed nor transient. And she meant to prove herself worthy of it.
Chapter Four
The dining room at Penwood had been appointed with quiet elegance. Though smaller than the great hall reserved for formal occasions, its balanced proportions and pale panelling lent the chamber an air of comfort rather than of grandeur. A cloth of white linen lay over the long table, while vases of lilacs and early roses from the estate gardens lent a cheerful note amid the gleam of polished silver and fine porcelain.
Catherine entered, holding onto Marcus’s arm. He guided her toward the head of the table with attentiveness that startled her.
As he pulled back her chair and waited for her to sit before taking his own seat, she read something quiet but resolute in his expression.He means to uphold his role as husband not merely with legal propriety, but with personal regard,she thought.Such attentiveness has not been required of him—yet he offers it freely.
Mrs Thornberry and the footmen moved about efficiently, serving each guest with practised precision. The dishes were well chosen, comprising a selection of fresh breads, eggs in cream, broiled trout, stewed fruit, and a syllabub flavoured with elderflower. The housekeeper had accomplished a feast both refined and intimate, absent of ostentation but rich in thoughtful detail.
Catherine allowed herself to relax beneath the murmured conversations as Rosalind turned toward Alexander.
“Lord Elmsworth, I had meant to ask you,” she said. “Have you seen the Roman coin Lord Penwood uncovered last month? It was found near the old hedge behind the orchard.”
Alexander leaned forward with interest.
“Indeed?” he asked with keen curiosity. “That stretch of ground borders what I believe to have been a Roman road. What sort of coin was it?”
Rosalind paused thoughtfully for a moment as she recalled.
