Rosalind looked at him with intrigue.
“You speak with great conviction,” she said.
He answered with a jestingly smug tilt of his brow.
“I have made a study of such things,” he said.
The remark drew more soft laughter, and the atmosphere settled once again into quiet merriment. The light through the windows fell across the table in delicate stripes, softening thesilver and glazing the crystal. The dining room, though modest by noble standards, held the warmth of a home beginning anew.
Catherine glanced around the table. She saw her brother’s quiet pride, Rosalind’s evident relief—and then Marcus, his still, contemplative profile suggesting that he, too, was taking in the moment with measured thought. Whether his reflections dwelt upon their union or upon something entirely apart, she could not tell. Yet the deliberate consideration he so often displayed assured her that he meant to take his role as her husband seriously. That knowledge, if nothing else, was a small comfort.
The breakfast unfolded with an ease she had scarcely dared hope for, conversation flowing between scholarly anecdotes and household concerns, yet never straying far from their common ground of shared interest. When Alexander raised a question about the preservation of documents lately discovered in the attics—items Marcus had shown her during her visit to Penwood the previous week—he turned to Catherine first.
“You examined the binding of that Roman codex,” he said. “Did it appear stable to you?”
Catherine nodded.
“It did,” she said. “Though the vellum was dry near the spine. If the humidity continues to fluctuate, the stitching may loosen further. I would suggest we keep it flat rather than upright.”
Marcus nodded with approval.
“That is precisely my thought,” he said, his eyes shining warmly even as his expression remained blandly thoughtful.
Her heart lifted at the inclusion. He treated her neither as an ornament nor as a mere ally in domestic management, but as a collaborator. It was a quiet acknowledgement, yet profound. She had been her father’s assistant for most of her life. She knew how often such work went ignored or dismissed, especially when discussed by a woman. That her husband accepted it without question gave her dignity in the face of their peers.Thomas was right,she thought with surprise.Marcus is pleased with my ability to discuss things that interest him alongside him.
She found her gaze returning to him more than once as the meal progressed. His profile had grown familiar during their week at Penwood, yet she found herself seeing it anew. The shape of his brow, the quick precision of his gestures when explaining a point, and the steady calm with which he listened had not registered before with such clarity. They belonged not to an aloof scholar, but to a man capable of thoughtfulness and respect.
Marcus, in turn, observed Catherine’s composed navigation of the meal. She gave him a polite nod as she turned her attention to her cousin. She lifted the teapot inquisitively as she reached for the nearest cup.
“Would you care for some, Cousin?” she asked, glancing toward Rosalind.
Rosalind nodded with a warm smile.
“Yes, if it is no trouble,” Rosalind said. “Your hand is remarkably steady, considering the occasion.”
Catherine returned the smile. “I confess, this feels smoother than I expected.”
Rosalind leaned closer. “You are carrying yourself exceptionally well on your first day as countess,” she said softly. “I am very proud of you.”
Catherine passed her the cup with quiet gratitude.
“Thank you, Rose. Though had I been the hostess today, I am certain my tongue would be more tangled than your embroidery.”
A low chuckle passed between them. Catherine then reached for Priscilla’s cup and offered it with careful politeness.
“Would you prefer sugar?” she asked.
Priscilla lifted her chin with a dignity that seemed greater than the moment required.
“One, thank you,” she said, her smile faint and cool. “All is arranged most tastefully. And you seem quite at ease in these new surroundings.”
Catherine managed another polite smile.
“I hope to learn quickly,” she said. “I count myself fortunate in these new arrangements.”
Priscilla stirred her tea without replying, though her eyes flicked briefly toward Marcus.
Catherine felt his attention and met it with a brief glance of her own. His expression revealed little, but something in the steadiness of his regard made her wonder what impression she had left upon him. Had he marked the restraint in her manner? Or had he begun to understand that her quiet dignity was not a façade, but the means by which she held her course?
