She returned to her plate, her gaze straying to Alexander and Rosalind opposite. Their exchange had grown easier, the halting courtesy of strangers replaced by a quiet familiarity. Catherine noted the warmth in Rosalind’s smile as she lifted her glass, and the softened timbre in Alexander’s replies.
When the meal concluded, the party rose. Footmen cleared the last of the plates, and Mrs Thornberry appeared in the hall with news that the carriages stood ready to convey the guests.
Thomas approached Catherine near the hearth while the others collected their wraps and gloves.
“I trust all has gone as you hoped,” he said.
She looked up at him, catching the trace of remorse that lingered in his eyes, and offered him a reassuring smile.
“More than I hoped,” she said.
He gave her hand a light squeeze.
“If you need anything, you know where to find me,” he said, unable to disguise his concern. “But I believe you are in good hands.”
Catherine embraced her brother. She was still unsure whether she could say he had made the right decision. But she was not filled with dark, cold dread, as she had expected. That, she supposed, would have to be enough.
“I believe so as well,” she said.
His eyes softened with affection, and he leaned down to kiss her cheek.
“You are beginning a life of your own now,” he said with quiet pride. “You are mistress of your household—hold to it with confidence and let no one persuade you otherwise.”
She nodded and steadied her breath.
“I look forward to managing my own affairs,” she said, surprised by the confidence in her own voice.
Priscilla entered a moment later, her expression arranged into something resembling a smile.
“My warmest congratulations,” she said.
“Thank you, Priscilla,” Catherine replied with equal composure.
There was no warmth in Priscilla’s words, nor affection in her parting embrace. Yet Catherine felt no sting. Relief ofdeparture gleamed too openly in Priscilla’s eyes. She had long wished Catherine removed from her sphere. That the occasion suited them both made civility easier.
When the farewells concluded, the small party moved to the drive. The carriage stood ready in the gravel, the coachman adjusting the last strap while footmen attended to the luggage. Catherine stood beside Marcus, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm.
Alexander approached, clapping Marcus gently on the back.
“With your leave, I shall remain a few more days,” he said. “You will want assistance with the Society’s arrangements—and I should enjoy some time in the archives, if you are willing to share.”
Marcus nodded with a small but sincere smile.
“Very willing,” Marcus said.
Catherine inclined her head without speaking. She was certain her new husband would welcome his friend’s support before hosting so demanding a meeting. Rosalind, too, would not depart but remain for several days, her steady presence promising to make Catherine’s first days at Penwood far easier. She said nothing aloud, yet her expression betrayed agreement—and perhaps, Catherine thought, even a spark of excitement, as her cousin’s glance strayed toward Alexander.
The carriage began to roll forward, wheels crunching over the gravel. Thomas leaned out to give one last wave. Catherine returned it, watching until the trees obscured his figure.
Marcus turned to her, his eyes sheepish.
“Shall we go in?”
Catherine looked to the house, its façade bright in the late-morning sun, the stone mellowed by years of warmth and care. A true home. No longer borrowed nor provisional. Her own shared only with the man she had married.
She met Marcus’s eyes with a self-assured smile.
“Yes.”
