“Indeed, Eleanor,” he said with a chuckle. “And if you are half as organised in unpacking as you were in packing, we shall have our materials laid out before noon.”
Catherine stepped forward as Marcus guided their guests inside, curtseying politely.
“Mr and Mrs Morrison, welcome,” she said. “My name is Catherine Pemberton, and I am the Countess of Penwood. I hope you find your garden rooms suitable. We felt the lighting would be ideal for any reading or charting you wish to do while you are here.”
Mr Morrison gave her a cheery grin as he introduced himself and his wife.
“We are eager to see whatever you and Lord Penwood have arranged,” he said.
Mrs Morrison’s eyes turned toward Catherine with sharp focus.
“You have arranged the guest quarters yourself, Lady Penwood?” she asked.
Catherine took a deep breath, quickly enough to avoid pausing for too long.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “I consulted Marcus regarding each guest’s particular preferences or scholarly needs. We wished your stay to be as conducive to work as it is agreeable in comfort.”
Mrs Morrison looked at her for a long moment, then gave a nod of approval.
“Thoughtfully done,” she said in the same heavy accent as her husband.
As each guest settled, Catherine circulated with practised efficiency. She turned smoothly as Mrs Hartwell approached with her gloves tucked into one hand.
“May I inquire whether the library will remain open for private study during the week?” she asked.
Catherine dipped her head graciously.
“Of course,” she said. “You and Mr Beckett may make full use of it any time you like. I believe you will find the eastern desk most agreeable, as it receives the morning light.”
Mrs Hartwell nodded her head with a small, appreciative smile.
Catherine crossed to where Mr and Mrs Morrison stood near the base of the staircase.
“Your trunks are being taken to your rooms,” she said. “Will you require access to your cases of documentation before dinner?”
Mr Morrison thought for a moment.
“If they might be delivered to the study, I should prefer to review them before the evening,” he said jovially. “If it poses no trouble to you or Lord Penwood.”
Catherine raised her eyes to Marcus, who shook his head fervently.
“Not at all, Mr Morrison,” he said. “You have but to ask.”
Catherine took her cue and nodded.
“I shall see to it at once,” she said warmly.
As she directed a footman toward the proper chamber with a swift word and a gesture, Catherine felt the pressure rise in her chest like a tether pulled too tight. Still, her expression never faltered.
As laughter stirred faintly among them, Catherine stepped back, letting her eyes survey the gathered guests. Her smile remained steady, composed, though beneath her calm exterior her pulse beat with a force she feared might betray her.
She caught Marcus’s eye across the hall as Mr Morrison asked him about artefact provenance. His eyes held steady on hers for a moment before his mouth tilted in what she recognised as a small, private expression of reassurance. The exchange gave her fresh steadiness.
Late in the afternoon, as the guests gathered in the drawing room for tea, Catherine carried herself with all the confidence she could still muster.
“Can we have more wood added to the fire?” Mrs Hartwell asked, despite the warm temperature outside.
Catherine nodded, motioning for a maid without delay.
