“I, er, I believe the carbon deposits suggest domestic use,” he said. “But I cannot speak with certainty until further examination.”
His voice lacked its usual steady precision. The statement might have passed for modesty, but Catherine heard the hollowness beneath it.And the exhaustion,she thought.He is not sleeping well. But why is he so nervous? I should think he would be angry and restless, not frightened and jumpy.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the breakfast room. The door opened with a brisk motion, and a footman appeared just outside the threshold, bowing slightly.
“Post from London, my lord.”
Catherine saw Edmund straighten at once. The footman stepped forward, holding a single envelope upon a small salver.
Marcus reached to take it, but the man spoke again, careful and deferential.
“Beg pardon, sir—it is directed to Mr Price. The courier asked for him by name.”
Marcus and Edmund exchanged looks, upon which Marcus gave a curt nod. Edmund stepped forward.
“Thank you,” he said, not free of any tremor as he spoke.
He took the envelope with both hands, but his grip was unsteady. The paper trembled just as his voice had. Everyone was staring then, and Catherine knew it would not be long before someone said something.
Catherine exchanged another glance with Marcus. Beside him, Alexander set down his teacup and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.
Edmund turned the envelope over in his hands. The seal was a formal red, thick and precise. Wax had cracked slightly during transport, but the insignia remained legible.
Catherine could not make it out from her seat, but Edmund seemed to recognise it at once. He left the room without speaking.
Eleanor shook her head sympathetically.
“Poor man,” he said. “He must be awaiting news from his institution.”
William gave a nod of agreement.
“Or about funding,” he said.
Beatrice peeked around her husband with lively curiosity.
“Or perhaps a lady,” she added. “It is always something dreadful. I should not envy any gentleman who receives letters so early in the morning.”
Conversation returned to its natural rhythm, but Catherine’s thoughts did not follow.
Marcus excused himself from the table after a few minutes, with Alexander following with a murmured word to Rosalind.
Catherine remained, though she did not eat. It was hard enough to keep up pretences as she feigned an interest in conversations she did not truly hear without forcing her sick stomach to tolerate a meal right then.
Fifteen endless minutes later, Edmund returned. His complexion had paled, but his movements were steadier. He resumed his seat, placed the opened letter beside his plate, and looked toward Catherine—not directly, but close enough that she knew he meant for her to follow his lead on whatever happened next. She hoped she was right to trust him.
“I should like to request a private conversation,” he said at last, his tone measured, directed to no one in particular though his eyes flicked briefly to Marcus, who had re-entered with Alexander.
Everyone else at the table paused. Curiosity mingled with unease in the glances exchanged—save for Harold, whose effort at nonchalance was less than convincing. His lips twitched toward a scowl, and though his eyes threatened to narrow, hebusied himself instead with forcing a new line of talk upon Henry.
Marcus nodded.
“Of course,” he said. “My study will be at your disposal after the meal if you like.”
Edmund stood again.
“After breakfast, then,” he said. “Catherine, I trust you will join us?”
Catherine inclined her head, summoning her most composed smile.
