She curtseyed, concealing her faint disappointment.
“Good night, Marcus.”
She watched him retreat toward his study, then turned to her own chamber. Her thoughts were not turbulent, only full. She had braced herself to endure Penwood; instead, she had begun to belong to it. He had not spoken of affection, nor had she. Yet she had seen something of it in the warmth of his eyes, and in the way his hand lingered over hers longer than courtesy required. It had not felt protective. It had felt personal. Cherishing.
Chapter Nine
Sunlight spilled through the fanlight above Penwood’s great door, catching the polished surfaces of the hall as Catherine stood at its centre, issuing quiet direction to the footmen arranging floral displays for the incoming guests.
The arrangements, drawn from Penwood’s gardens and greenhouses, had been selected to reflect not extravagance but consideration. She had chosen fragrant lavender and rosemary for the scholars who would prize calm and clarity, white peonies for those more visually inclined.
The scent was clean, pleasing, and not overwhelming. Still, she found herself pressing her palms down the front of her morning gown with unnecessary frequency.
Her dress, a sober creation of pale blue silk trimmed in ivory piping, lay smooth against her frame, yet her hands returned to it, fingers brushing the fabric in a manner that betrayed the quickness of her pulse.
Carriages had begun to wind their way up the long gravel drive, their progress audible even before glimpses of dark lacquered bodies appeared between the trees.
This is the day, she thought as the realness truly set in.The culmination of every plan, every coordination between Marcus and me since our wedding. And though Catherine knew she had prepared for every eventuality, the weight of that first impression remained.
These people were scholars. They were Marcus’s peers with names printed in journals, whose opinions could shape reputations for decades. Their scrutiny would fall not only on Marcus, whose work she admired deeply, but on Penwood itself, and on the woman who now served as its mistress. The thought steadied her: she must do her part with care, for his sake and for the household that was now hers as well.
Mrs Thornberry approached, her step unhurried but her expression animated.
“The guest registry, my lady,” she said, offering the worn leather-bound book that smelled faintly of lavender oil and age.
Catherine accepted it with care. The pages had been updated with meticulous neatness. Room assignments were listed in her own hand, reviewed and refined over many late nights with Marcus. Every name was in place.
“Thank you, Mrs Thornberry,” she said. “You have outdone yourself.”
The older woman gave a small laugh.
“Penwood has never seen the like, my lady,” she said. “Not even when the late countess entertained for the bishop. But I believe we are ready.”
Catherine nodded once, then flipped to the current page and scanned the final list:
Mr Edmund Price—south wing, third floor. Quiet, well-insulated. Perfect for a man known for requiring silence.
Harold Fitzwilliam—chamber just above the library. Close access to the catalogues and study table, as requested.
William and Beatrice Hartwell—the blue suite. Elegant, stately. Suitable for senior guests of honour.
Mr James Morrison and Eleanor Morrison—the garden-facing chambers with wide windows and excellent morning light for map work.
Charles and Sophia Whitmore—the north wing, far enough from traffic to offer privacy for the aloof siblings.
Rev. Henry Brown—a modest room near the servants’ stair, just as he preferred. He valued economy over comfort.
It appeared that every detail had been addressed, though a few changes had been made. Catherine was relieved that Mrs Thornberry knew more about each guest’s preferences and needs than she did. Without the housekeeper’s experience, she likely would have been lost with such decisions.
The sound of a door closing echoed faintly through the corridor.
Catherine looked up just as Marcus emerged from his study, several folios tucked under one arm. His dark coat hung open, revealing a slightly rumpled waistcoat and a cravat that bore the unmistakable signs of nervous fingers. There was something in the way his hair stood just awry at the crown that sent an unfamiliar warmth through her.
He was earnestly nervous, from the looks of it. And yet he looked every inch the capable, intelligent, and noble scholar that he was, in a way that had nothing to do with his title.
Before she could think, Catherine stepped forward.
“Allow me, Husband,” she said softly, testing the word before guests who might judge their reaction arrived.
