“I believe I can,” she answered, smiling with a warmth that unsettled and steadied him at once.
Marcus set down his glass. The warmth he felt came not from the port, but from something quieter, yet no less real.
“You make me feel as though I am more than my failures,” he said.
She gave another small shrug, as though it were the simplest truth.
“You are.”
The words settled between them. Neither spoke further. The fire crackled softly, and the measured ticking of the clock filled the silence with quiet companionship. They remained thus for some time, seated across from one another, until the shadows lengthened and the lamps burned low.
At length, Marcus rose and extended his hand. She placed hers in his without hesitation. They stood together, joined yet unhurried. No further words were needed. He led her from the library with quiet purpose, their steps falling in rhythm. Whatstirred between them was not yet love—but it was honest. And honesty, he thought, was the surest beginning.
***
By midmorning the following day, the front hall at Penwood had begun to resemble the bustling headquarters of a modest diplomatic mission. Servants came and went with linens, silver, and platters, all of which required decisions or redirection. At the centre of the activity stood Catherine, calm and composed, issuing instructions with neither haste nor hesitation.
“The sideboard may hold the additional glasses for the elderberry cordial, but not before the new cloth is laid,” she said with smooth, confident authority. “Have it pressed and returned to me before the noon hour.”
Marcus remained just outside the open door to the breakfast room, unread correspondence dangling from his hand. His intent had been to ask Catherine about lunch, but the sight of her in command of the household stopped him short. There was nothing imperious in her bearing; rather, her manner conveyed an assurance both natural and precise.
“Mrs Thornberry,” she said, addressing the housekeeper, who approached with a folded list in hand. “If the extra rooms are to be ready for guests by Thursday, I believe it prudent to have the mattresses aired today. The lavender sachets from the south attic should still be fresh. Use those in all the bedchambers but be mindful of anyone who might be sensitive to strong fragrances.”
The housekeeper curtseyed quickly; the respect for her new mistress apparent even from Marcus’s hidden vantage point.
“Very good, my lady,” she said. “And what shall we do about the blue settee from the drawing room?”
Catherine thought only for a moment before replying.
“Remove it,” she said. “It draws too much attention away from the Grecian urns along the fireplace. Replace it with the ivory settee from the music room.”
The housekeeper curtseyed once more.
“Of course, my lady,” she said.
Catherine turned to him and smiled politely without losing the thread of activity.
“Do you think the main salon should be arranged in lecture format for Professor Hartwell’s remarks, or would a seated circle encourage discussion more readily?”
He blinked, utterly stunned.
“You already planned a layout?” he asked.
She nodded, not with pride or contempt, but simply matter-of-factly.
“Several, in fact,” she said. “Mrs Thornberry believes most guests will arrive early enough to want refreshment before engaging in scholarly debate. I have asked for tea to be offered inthe green parlour before the first paper is read.” She turned back to Mrs Thornberry. “And please ask Cook to review the second breakfast menu with me by four. We must not serve pheasant twice in three days.”
The housekeeper nodded.
“It will be done,” she said.
A maid passed by with a stack of lace napkins in her arms, nearly dropping them as a footman turned the corner too fast. Catherine caught the topmost napkin and handed it back to the girl with a quiet smile.
“Thank you, Lucy,” she said. “Fold them in quarters for the small table settings and thirds for the larger ones.”
The girl nodded and fled.
Marcus stepped closer.
