Catherine gave a soft laugh and dipped her quill once more in ink.
“Do not think I failed to notice your deliberate delay in transcribing the Latin gloss,” she said.
Marcus grinned wickedly.
“I plead distraction,” he said. “Though the culprit is most becoming.”
Catherine laughed heartily.
“Flatter me again, and you shall be left to review the symposium correspondence alone.”
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“For such a privilege, I would endure it gladly,” he murmured.
She shook her head again but did not protest the affection.
They returned for a time to their work in companionable silence. The labours of the past year had borne fruit: two co-authored papers for the Society on artefact authentication and regional pottery typologies, both warmly received, bringing with them an invitation to lecture at the March symposium in Bath and a glowing letter from William Hartwell, who praised their partnership as “a marriage of minds, equal in insight and method.” Catherine treasured the phrase.
She had never imagined their skills would prove so well matched—Marcus’s breadth of technical expertise and her own intuitive sense for patterns and social usage. Together, they had reconstructed catalogues that had once confounded entire committees.
“Should we inquire about the Sussex excavation after the naming celebration, do you think?” Marcus asked, glancing over the edge of his current notes.
She nodded thoughtfully.
“We can,” she said. “Although I believe the site’s administrative steward wrote me yesterday with an update. The soil sample results were delayed by weather, but they expect to resume digs by the twenty-ninth.”
He nodded appreciatively.
“I shall need to write Hartley again if we intend to offer commentary on his report,” he said.
Before Catherine could reply, the sound of distant carriage wheels crunched along the gravel approach.
She looked up.
“They are early,” she said.
Marcus’s brow lifted, but a soft smile followed.
“Thomas was ever inclined to punctuality—at least when not confined by court schedule,” he replied.
Catherine giggled again.
“I suspect little Margaret dictates the household hours now,” she said wryly, rising carefully from her seat.
A moment later, Mrs Thornberry appeared in the library doorway.
“Your brother and sister-in-law have arrived, my lady,” she said. “The footmen are attending to the luggage, and I have directed Nurse Ellison to the drawing room for the child’s comfort.”
Catherine inclined her head warmly.
“Thank you, Mrs Thornberry,” she said. “Please show them in.”
The housekeeper stepped aside, and Thomas entered, holding a sleepy bundle wrapped in white linen and lace. His expression brightened the instant he saw her.
“Dear sister,” he greeted with unrestrained affection, crossing the floor in measured steps.
Catherine’s arms lifted in welcome, her heart leaping at the sight of him. Marriage had given her a household of her own, and now—as wife and soon-to-be mother—she was simply his sister again, and she relished it.
