Catherine introduced herself, offering the same informality to the Whitmore siblings that she had to everyone else. Then, she ushered them inside, motioning for a maid.
“Your chamber overlooks the pleasure grounds,” she said. “I trust the light will be to your liking, though you may adjust the shutters if it proves too strong for close reading.”
Charles offered a crisp bow.
“Lady—I apologise. Catherine,” he said. “Your household appears to function with admirable efficiency.”
Catherine nodded, her ebbing nervousness returning.
“We endeavour to maintain order without sacrificing comfort, Mr Whitmore,” she said. “Marcus and I are pleased you could join us.”
He said nothing further, only nodded, but the approval in his gaze was apparent.
Rosalind took Sophia’s arm in friendly fashion and offered to show her upstairs. Sophia accepted, allowing the two women to retreat just as the fourth carriage rolled to a halt.
The man who descended moved less like a soldier and more like a wire wound too tightly. Mr Edmund Price’s eyes flicked from the front columns to the tiled mosaic at the entrance, his mouth twitching as though preparing for debate. He carried a leather case close to his chest.
“Edmund,” Marcus said, greeting him warmly as he stepped out from the entrance hall. “It has been some time.”
Edmund nodded, looking as if he wished to avoid something. Or find something.
“Too long,” he said, though his fingers clutched his case as though any moment might require retreat. His eyes landed on Catherine, and he gave her a grimace of a smile. “You must be Lady Penwood.”
“Catherine, please,” she said, trying not to tire of hearing herself say it. “We are honoured to welcome you to Penwood. Mrs Thornberry will show you to your room when you are ready.”
He offered no pleasantry, only a nod. As he passed, Catherine caught a faint scent of musty vellum and old pipe smoke. He kept looking around as if he was carefully assessing every person and artefact in the manor. Whatever haunted him did not seem imaginary.
Another carriage followed in quick succession. Harold Fitzwilliam stepped down as though arriving at a London salon rather than a countryside estate. His silver-brushed hair caught the late sunlight, and his smile bore the easy weight of experience.
“Lady Penwood,” he said with warmth as he took her hand. “I understand that this gathering was your doing. If true, I am already impressed.”
She nodded, curtseying as she gave him her name.
“Your compliment is gracious, Mr Fitzwilliam,” she said. I hope Penwood proves worthy of your time.”
The gentleman bowed deeply, as if on a stage instead of at a gathering of intelligent peers.
“Call me Harold, please,” he said. “And I have every confidence that it will be more than worthy.”
Catherine ought to have felt reassured by the easy calmness Harold exuded. Yet as he stepped inside, she noted the precision with which his eyes travelled over the room—as though each object were measured in silence. It struck her as curious, almost like a scholar making notes. But to what end, and why?
The final carriage was modest, but the man who emerged wore no embarrassment for it. Henry Brown descended carefully, his worn satchel clutched against one side. He paused to gaze up at the archway and then the stone lintels with clear appreciation.
“Good afternoon, Reverend,” she said, once more wearing her warm hostess’s smile.
He turned to her and offered a bow that was low but unexaggerated.
“Good afternoon, Lady Penwood,” he said with the gentlest and friendliest voice she had heard all day. “I am much obliged to you for the invitation. My learning may fall short of the others’, but I hope to profit by close observation.”
Catherine shook her head, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as he reached her.
“We are pleased to welcome earnest minds as well as accomplished ones,” she said.
His gratitude warmed his face as he followed Mrs Thornberry inside.
Catherine smoothed her gloves and turned toward Marcus, who stood by the registry, his pen hovering.
“Is everyone accounted for?” she asked.
