Amalie reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing hard, and Rosalie squeezes back.
“And likewise,” Rosalie adds, smiling at her brother.
Amalie blushes and they stand there together, no further words needed.
“Did I ever tell you two about the time I smuggled a tortoise into the headmaster’s office at Eton?” Christopher asks.
It does the trick, and both Rosalie and Amalie burst into laughter, their poignant moment thoroughly ruined. He’s such a good brother.
Later, when they’re sitting at a table with Henrietta, listening to her and Mr. Rile tell a wildly well-coordinated story about his proposal on the Prior Park bridge, Amalie leans over to her.
“You realize you will now owemefor your love match.”
Rosalie smiles and bumps her shoulder. She can live with that. As long as she can live with Catherine.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Catherine
Catherine’s lip stings. She releases it from between her teeth, smoothing her tongue across the abrasion and staunchly not thinking about how Rosalie bit her lip and did the very same thing. Oh, that she could be back in that room at Blaise House, pretending just for one night that the future was bright and attainable.
Instead, she stares out at the Pump Room, her stomach down by her toes. Mother’s peering around hopefully, as if Mr.Dean might pop out of the air and unceremoniously get down on one knee right there in front of everyone.
Not that heshould, given that Lord Dean and Father have yet to meet. But that doesn’t seem to matter.Mother looks sohappy, basking in the attention from every member of the ton. She’s convinced that a proposal will elevate their family status to the top of Bath’s social world.
If Mr.Dean dropped to one knee in front of Catherine right now, she doesn’t know how she could reject him without ruining the first true happiness she’s seen her mother have in God knows how long.
She’s getting itchy. Maybe the stress is making her break out in hives.
She hasn’t come up with a foolproof plan to suggest to Rosalie on their clandestine walk tomorrow. Worse, even if shedidhave a plan for how to divert Mr.Dean’s impending intentions, she doesn’t have the faintest idea of what comes after that—of how to build the life she and Rosalie keep promising to figure out together.
Every time she tries to imagine it, she just sees Mother weeping against Father’s shoulder, ruined all over again.
“I’m thinking we ought to increase the number of musicians. Go for a sextet, maybe even an octet,” Mother says.
Catherine’s been thus far ignoring her monologue about their upcoming tea next week, tuning her out so she needn’t grapple with the fact that if Mr.Dean were to make a public proposal, it would certainly be at her mother’s tea. Which leaves her only a week to figure out her life, make space for Rosalie in it, and convince her parents to let her grow old with her.
“Do you actually enjoy the water?” Catherine asks desperately.
Mother turns her head to meet Catherine’s eyes. “What?”
“You savor your cup, but it’s so disgusting,” Catherine whispers, raising her still-full cup of sulphureous water, which makes Mother laugh.
“You get used to it,” Mother promises.
“It’s been months and I still hate it. Are you really claiming you still have a tolerance from twenty-five years ago?”
Mother shrugs with a sly smile. “Perhaps.”
Catherine rolls her eyes. “I wish that were hereditary.”
“Oh, well, you got your father’s tongue, then. However much he pretends otherwise, he hates it.”
Catherine laughs, thinking of the way Father’s face scrunches at even the mention of taking the waters. “At least the baths are helping.”
“Yes,” Mother agrees. “This has been a most advantageous move all around.”
Catherine’s shoulders go up. “Have you gotten a chance to read the next chapter ofTrecothick Boweryet?”
