“The author has much to say about relations between man and wife. Will you promise me to read it first in Mr. Beckham’s company?”
Patience’s cheeks burned anew. “Oh, I could not!”
“I cannot surrender it to you without you having an understanding of the material, and if you mean to publish it with Mr. Beckham’s assistance, he needs to be aware of its contents.”
Patience stared down at the bundle of papers, her indecision clear.
“It might help you to find your way,” Catherine said softly. “Any prize worth the having requires some effort, Patience.”
“I know.” She finished her tea and picked up the book again. Catherine pointed her to the carpetbag that had held the manuscript and adjured her not to lose a single page. By the time she had made that promise, Patience looked to be both encouraged and filled with new purpose. She glanced at the window—and the sound of the falling rain—with some trepidation. “I suppose I must ask you for your coach lest the pages become wet. Perhaps I can return before Arthur awakens and he need never know I left at all.”
But Catherine heard the jingle of trap and horses coming to a halt before the house. “I have a feeling he already knows of your departure.”
Patience went to the window and looked out at the street. The change in her expression was all Catherine needed to be convinced she had chosen correctly. Her sister’s lips parted and her eyes lit with anticipation, then she looked back at Catherine with a smile that might have been triumphant. “He is here,” she whispered, as if her voice might be overheard though the closed windows.
“Then I am encouraged. And you will read it with him?”
“Oh, Catherine. I will, though I cannot imagine how I will suggest as much.”
“Read it together. Invite his views. It will all be well.” Catherine stood and kissed her sister’s cheeks. “Good luck,” she whispered. “Though I suspect you do not need luck when you have that book.”
Patience laughed, then left with a quick step. Catherine returned to her chair by the fire, sinking into it and savoring a sip of hot tea.
“That book will turn you into a fairy godmother yet,” Rhys teased from the doorway. Catherine’s heart leapt when she turned to meet his warm gaze and she smiled as he crossed the room toward her.
“You should not complain, given how it aided us.”
“Did I complain? Not a syllable.” He kissed her hand, sitting on the footstool beside her, his gaze searching hers. “You still feel well?”
“I remain in robust health, sir, and vow that your fears will soon be proven false.”
He kissed her hand, holding it against his cheek. “So I pray, my Catherine, so I pray.”
She watched him, knowing he struggled against his earlier convictions that childbirth must be fatal to the mother, and she gripped his hand more tightly. In a matter of months, he would be assured of the truth, and her husband’s deepest fear would be banished forever.
For Catherine did not intend to leave her beloved alone.
* * *
Arthur awakenedwith the familiar sense that he had slept late. The light coming through the windows was so dim that it provided no insight as to the time. It was the hall clock, chiming eleven, that provided a hint. He rolled to his back and considered the canopy overhead, wincing at the embroidered insignia of Fairhaven as was his daily custom.
It was also his habit to take a reckoning before rising from bed to begin his day. On the upside, he had nine thousand pounds he had not possessed the morning before. That was no small asset.
On the downside, he had completely bungled his wedding day and night, at least from Patience’s perspective. Would she listen to his explanation?
He had a vague recollection of Patience standing over the bed, the sunlight behind her. Had he dreamed that? If she had entered his chamber willingly, all might not be lost—even if she had done as much to chastise him. An angel of judgement did not spend time upon a soul already lost.
He rose with purpose and enthusiasm. Taylor must have anticipated Arthur with his usual accuracy, for the water that had been left by the valet was still steaming hot. He washed and shaved, then changed to a clean shirt.
He tapped gently on the adjoining door.
There was no reply.
He knocked a little more vigorously, but again, there was no reply.
Arthur opened the door and looked into the room. There was not a lamp or candle lit, and the drapes were pulled back. The bed was unmade. A breakfast tray was on the footstool where the book had been the night before, and apparently Tar had already charmed the lady in question, for there was an empty saucer on the chair cushion beside his clearly contented self. The black cat did love his morning sip of tea. Feathers was snoring gently, as was her custom, but the room was otherwise unoccupied.
He crossed the room and opened the door to the corridor, listening for voices below. There were none, which could mean that his wife was in the breakfast room alone. Would she eat twice in rapid succession? He had no idea. Amelia would eat as many breakfasts as were presented to her. His mother would remain in her room all day, after her exertions of the day before. He knew that as well.
