“Of course, Mrs Hartwell,” she said.
The woman studied her for a moment before giving her a small but warm smile.
“Please, Lady Penwood, call me Beatrice,” she said.
Catherine’s heart stuttered at the invitation of such informality. Surely, that was an indication that she was not doing terribly.
“Thank you, Beatrice,” she said. “And I insist you call me Catherine.” She paused, glancing around the room. “In fact, I insist you all do.”
The accumulated guests murmured their consent, each echoing Beatrice’s request for use of their given names.
Catherine wanted to relax—no one would grant such permission without respect—but she could not shake the sense that everything was a test, and that she was failing it. She only hoped her fears were exaggerated.
When Marcus joined her near the hearth, he leaned slightly toward her and spoke in a low voice.
“They admire you already,” he said. “It is evident.”
She looked at him askance.
“Because the tea arrived promptly and no one has been mislaid in the wrong chamber?” she asked with the effort of a jest.
Marcus chuckled, though his eyes were warm and encouraging.
“Because you are more than efficient,” he said. “You are thoughtful in your arrangements and gracious without pretence. That is what they will remember.”
The heat that rose in her chest had little to do with the fire.
She looked around at the guests she and Marcus were meant to host and guide for the next several days. Scholars and thinkers, full of passion for history and curiosity about the world, each bringing high expectations. Yet none had seemed displeased.
Had she and Marcus been worried for nothing?
Chapter Ten
Catherine paused beneath the arched entry as Alexander and Rosalind reappeared through the side garden gate, their cheeks touched with colour from the afternoon’s brisk air. Rosalind removed her gloves with a quiet smile, and though her manner was composed, Catherine noticed a light in her cousin’s expression that had not been there earlier.
Before she could remark upon it, the approaching rattle of carriage wheels stole her attention. Another conveyance had turned in at the gates.
A footman stepped forward to open the door. The gentleman who emerged moved with exacting precision, posture erect, expression coolly neutral. Even as he adjusted his cuffs, Charles Whitmore surveyed the house in a swift glance that lingered not on its grandeur but on the spacing of windows, the depth of the steps, the age of the stonework.
His gait indicates a man of the military—perhaps artillery, Catherine thought idly.
He then handed down a young woman in a plain travelling coat whose fingers bore the dark traces of ink. Even without forewarning, the stark resemblance between them would have revealed her as his younger sister, Sophia.
“Miss Whitmore,” Catherine said, stepping forward with a welcoming smile.
“Welcome to you—and to Mr Whitmore. We had not expected you until tomorrow.”
Sophia gave a respectful dip of the head.
“Lady Penwood, I presume,” she said, so softly that Catherine had to strain to hear her. “Forgive us the sudden change. Charles had a meeting cancelled this morning, so we were able to depart earlier.”
Catherine shook her head, her smile widening.
“It is no trouble at all,” she said warmly.
Miss Whitmore dipped her head again, averting her gaze.
“Thank you, Lady Penwood,” she said.
