Alexander watched her more closely than he intended. She anticipated Marcus’s requests almost before they were spoken,her hands already locating a labelled box of pottery shards or a relevant condition report as Marcus turned his head.
“Here is the Corinthian oil lamp found near the bathhouse ruins,” she said, placing it before Beatrice with a folded record. “Note the chipped rim. It matches the description in the estate’s original inventory from 1783.”
Even Marcus paused and looked toward her, a flicker of surprise warming his otherwise scholarly expression.
“I had not realised that report survived,” he said.
Catherine nodded.
“It was tucked between ledger entries in the steward’s archive,” she said. “I made a transcription yesterday morning.”
There was no artifice in her manner, only calm competence. And yet the effect was striking. Together, they operated as a single engine. Marcus’s knowledge was the force, and her precision was the structure that allowed it to run. The other guests had noticed as well.
William leaned forward more attentively now. Even Charles—usually reserved in group discussion—nodded in quiet approval as Marcus elaborated on the integration of Roman and local governance.
Alexander lowered his gaze, suddenly aware of the warmth rising in his cheeks. He could see himself standing where Marcus now stood, articulating a hypothesis, directing attention toward a critical piece of evidence. And beside him wasRosalind, poised and capable, offering a supporting document or correcting a detail with the same soft command Catherine now displayed. His mouth went dry.
Fool,he chastised himself, the word striking harder than any spoken rebuke. He shifted his weight, fixing his eyes on the edge of the table as if it might ground him.
Rosalind would never take such interest in me. Why should she? Our acquaintance is barely formed, our supposed partnership nothing more than conjecture. Not yet.
And yet, despite his efforts to banish it, the thought clung. Absurd. Impossible. Still—there it remained, glittering like a coin just out of reach.
He glanced up just in time to see Catherine looking directly at him. There was something knowing in her eyes, not mocking or smug, but simply aware. It was as if she had caught some echo of his imagining.
He looked away quickly and moved a half-step toward the window, pretending interest in the pattern of ivy along the outer sill.
“Would you agree that civic durability in Londinium stems from its commercial roots rather than purely military foundations?” Marcus asked.
James gave an eager nod.
“Certainly,” he said. “Trade routes sustained order long after legions withdrew.”
Marcus gave a curt nod.
“Harold?” he asked, seeking another voice.
Harold, hands clasped behind his back, nodded slowly.
“I concur,” he said. “Administrative centres held fast only where economic structures encouraged stability. Roman Britain was not held by force alone.”
Catherine placed another labelled artefact near Henry.
“This was recovered near Cirencester,” she said. “The seal suggests second-century issue.”
Henry turned the item carefully in his hands.
“Indeed,” he said. “Thank you, Catherine.”
Alexander marvelled again at how seamlessly she guided the flow of information. There was nothing ornamental in her role. She did not merely assist. She enabled, facilitated, and elevated. This was no domestic parlour gathering. This was a proper academic workshop, and the new countess of Penwood had made it possible.
Sophia interjected.
“May I request the correspondence records regarding the Yorkshire shield fragments?” she asked.
Catherine nodded.
“I shall retrieve them directly,” she said with a warm smile.
