Catherine’s face brightened.
“Julian was your grandfather’s name, was it not?” she asked.
Alexander nodded.
“A decent man with very little patience for fools and no ambition for Parliament,” he said proudly. “I consider it excellent lineage.”
Rosalind grinned.
“We briefly considered Margaret as a nod to Thomas’s daughter, who has made her opinion of everyone known since mastering a full sentence,” she said.
Catherine laughed, resting her hand across the growing curve of her abdomen.
“Margaret Beaumont is already lobbying for breakfast wine and a dog of her own,” she said. “Thomas swears she will manage Parliament before twelve.”
Rosalind laughed.
“Priscilla is only slightly alarmed by her daughter’s independence,” she said.
Alexander held up a finger with an impish grin.
“Which is to say that Priscilla has written to Margaret’s governess with suggested reading lists and a preferred walking regimen,” he said.
Catherine shook her head fondly and turned her gaze toward the small table at the centre of the room, where letters had arrived earlier by the morning post.
Two bore familiar seals. One of them was from Eleanor Morrison, the other from Beatrice Hartwell.
Catherine reached for the first; Eleanor’s precise script a balm even before the envelope was unsealed.
Dearest Catherine,
James and I send our warmest congratulations on your good news. A child born into such an atmosphere of books and intellectual fire will surely quote Livy before she walks. We are still at the site near Aberfeldy. James insists it was a Roman road, but I maintain it’s a medieval construction disguised by poor drainage. Our debates have drawn a minor crowd, including three sheep and a rather elderly shepherd who insists the place is haunted. I suspect he may be correct. Nonetheless, we long to return south and hope to coordinate a meeting en route through Yorkshire next month.
All our fondest regards,
Eleanor
Marcus entered then, his jacket slung over one arm, a stack of parchment beneath the other.
“Another dispatch from Scotland?” he asked as he leaned to kiss Catherine’s cheek.
“Yes,” she said. “Eleanor claims their shepherd believes the road cursed.”
“I believe the same of Bath’s symposium committees,” he said, settling beside her. “Though Eleanor’s research may yield more reliable conclusions.”
The next letter was in Beatrice’s familiar bold hand. Her salon in Cambridge had become a kind of informal council for wives of antiquarians, lecturers, and cartographers, though Beatrice’s sharp wit kept it from becoming any variety of tea-drinking society.
Dear Lady Penwood,
Our next gathering has been moved to the third of June, due to Professor Wendell’s untimely bout of self-importance and an argument over the correct ordering of fossil specimens. I need not tell you which wife corrected him. He has retreated to Norwich in wounded silence. Do bring your notes on the Sussex symposium; Mrs Findlay assures me the Society intends to cite your most recent article as a reference in an upcoming edition.
Your devoted friend,
Beatrice
Catherine chuckled.
“Beatrice continues to subdue egos with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and proper Latin,” she said.
