“And yet you sit there with the composure of one preparing to receive a houseguest, not a husband,” she said, incredulity quite eclipsing her earlier cheerfulness.
Catherine’s smile softened and faded. She studied her reflection in silence. The country air had lent a richer colour to her cheeks, and there was a brightness in her eyes she had not anticipated. It was not resignation. Nor was it unease.
“I am not afraid,” she said at last.
Rosalind laid the brush aside and set her hands lightly upon Catherine’s shoulders.
“That is well,” she replied, though the want of relief in her expression betrayed her words.
Catherine had had her cousin as her lady’s companion long enough to recognise the concern on her face.
“Butyouare,” she said quietly—without accusation, and without mockery.
Rosalind hesitated.
“I would not say afraid,” she said at length. “Merely… cautious.”
Catherine’s smile warmed again.
“I understand,” she said. “It must all appear rather strange to you.”
Rosalind nodded, though her expression suggested she would have felt easier had Catherine indulged in a fit of nerves.
“I do not doubt that you consider this marriage a prudent step,” she said, choosing her words with care. “Nor do I deny it. But Marcus Pemberton is unlike other men. He lives within his head—among books and in the past.”
Catherine’s lips curved faintly, recalling the scholarly light in his eyes when he spoke of his antiquities.
“I know it,” she said softly.
Rosalind withdrew her hands and crossed the room, pausing before the gown. Her brows drew together—not at what she saw in front of her, but something she was envisioning that Catherine could not view.
“I suppose I am merely unaccustomed to finding a bride so very calm,” she said.
Catherine stood and approached the window. The trees in the distance stood still, leaves quiet in the morning sun. A gardener crossed the path below, wheeling a barrow filled with clipped branches. Behind her, the soft swish of silk marked Rosalind’s movement across the room.
“I expected to feel more uncertain,” Catherine said, surprised not at her words, but at the sincerity behind them.“When Thomas first proposed the match, I felt only relief. It was an honourable way forward. A household of my own. Security. That was all I permitted myself to consider.”
Rosalind frowned.
“And now?” she asked.
Catherine shook her head.
“Now I find myself looking forward to it,” she said. “However odd that may seem.”
Rosalind raised her brows.
“That is not what I expected you to say,” she said.
Catherine turned toward the dress. The seamstress had stitched narrow silver ribbons at the cuffs, just above the gathered sleeves. Her fingers brushed the fine embroidery along the hem.
“I spent a week at Penwood,” Catherine said. “I observed the running of the household, examined the library, and spoke with Marcus each morning—and again, on occasion, after supper. He possesses a disciplined mind, yet he listens. He does not speak over me. He asks for my opinion.”
Rosalind studied her cousin, a dawning comprehension softening her expression.
“You admire him.”
Catherine inclined her head.
