Her brow furrowed, her eyes warm with sympathy.
“Do you feel it now?” she asked.
He hesitated before answering.
“Yes. Not only the fear of work left incomplete, but the knowledge that my elder brother was meant for this title. He was the heir. I was destined for study. When he died so suddenly, the title came to me instead.”
Catherine’s gaze softened, her empathy deepening.
“And yet here you are, bearing both. That is hardly the mark of an unprepared man,” she said. “You simply cherish the legacy you expected would be yours.”
Marcus exhaled, conceding with a nod.
“One shaped by manuscripts, not by accounts or alliances.”
“In this house,” she replied gently, “there need be no divide between the two.”
Her words lodged more deeply than he expected. For so long, his role as peer had felt estranged from his life as a scholar. Now here sat his wife, suggesting they need not be at odds.
“When you speak of your father’s work, you do so without bitterness,” he observed.
Her gaze dropped, thoughtful.
“There was bitterness for a time,” she admitted. “But it passed.”
He studied her stillness. It was not retreat but reflection.
“He must have seen your gifts,” he said.
Catherine nodded.
“He did,” she said. “But I do not believe he imagined I would marry. He thought I would spend my life in libraries—assisting someone else.”
Marcus’s lips curved faintly as he caught her eye. “That someone may yet be me.”
She parted her lips, but no answer came. He leaned forward slightly.
“Your skill with classification has already spared me embarrassment. You pose thoughtful questions. You notice what I miss.”
Catherine gave a modest shrug.
“You respect both the work and my thoughts. That makes it easy to contribute.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the clock on the mantel marking each second with delicate precision.
“Have you always found it difficult to speak of your brother?” she asked at last, her sudden question breaking the stillness.
His breath caught.
“Yes,” he said. “I envied him. I admired him. I—I feared disappointing him. That combination lends itself poorly to recollection.”
Her sympathetic look returned, steady and unwavering.
“You have not disappointed anyone, as far as I can see,” she said softly.
He met her gaze. In that moment, the library seemed to fall away, leaving only her quiet steadiness, freely offered.
“You cannot know how much that matters.”
