“No. I’ve not read a book in, goodness, at least a month,” Mother says dismissively. “There’s always so much to keep up with in the paper, and all the invitations have taken a lot of time, you know.”
“Well, I did finish it, and I thought—”
“Oh, those gloves would look lovely on you,” Mother says, gesturing with her cup to a young woman and her mother who are sitting on a bench beneath one of the large dreary windows. “Maybe in blue?”
Catherine sighs. They used to spend hours debating the books they read together. Father and Richard would even read a novel now and then and they’d spend whole evenings in fervid family discussion.
But now Mother’s content with the gossip columns and invitations and what laces Catherine should have on her slippers, which no one will even see at the tea. Though Rosalie would care. If they could sneak off, maybe she could even see them. Unlace them. Skirt her hand—
Mother comes to an abrupt halt, making Catherine spill her drink down the front of her jacket.
“What—”
She looks up and spots Mr.Dean at the door to the Pump Room, standing beside an elderly gentleman with his same long face, sharp nose, and heavy brow line.
She has water down the front of her dress, Mother’s nearly hyperventilating, and there’s nowhere to escape. She’s stuckhere, watching Mr. Dean and his father slowly approach them like the world’s worst impending carriage accident.
Mother hastily plops their cups onto a passing porter’s tray. She turns to Catherine and grabs her handkerchief, sopping up as much of the water from her dress as she can.
“This could be it!” she whispers excitedly, looking utterly elated.
Surely he wouldn’t propose here, not now. Not without formally asking her father. They must be here for the waters. Theymustbe.
But there’s no time to prepare as Mr.Dean and his father step up to them. Catherine turns, heart in her throat, and forces what must be an uncomfortable-looking smile.
No one seems to notice.
“Mrs.Pine, MissPine, may I introduce my father, Lord Dean,” Mr.Dean says.
Catherine and Mother curtsy in sync, which is wildly coordinated for how unmoored Catherine feels.
Lord Dean is tall and thin, like Mr.Dean, but with wispy gray hair and sallow cheeks. The two of them side by side look like a painting depicting the ravages of time.
“So pleased to meet you, Lord Dean,” Mother says.
“Have we met before?” Lord Dean asks, his voice surprisingly loud for such a frail face.
“I don’t believe so,” Mother says kindly. Her elbow jerks, almost jostling Catherine.
“I’m sure I’ve seen your face before,” he insists.
“Perhaps when I was a young girl,” Mother allows. “Mr.Dean, are you quite recovered?”
“Quite,” Mr. Dean says, smiling at Mother. “Father, Miss Pineis the young lady who saved me from choking at our tea. The one I was telling you all about. You’ve been corresponding with her father to find a time to meet?”
Catherine takes a deep breath through her nose, keeping her smile plastered to her face as Lord Dean’s lightly absent eyes track over her.
“Smart young lady,” he says.
“Thank you,” Catherine replies, glancing at Mother and Mr.Dean, who look ready to recount the entire event, again. “Mr.Dean has spoken of your estate north of York often, and coming from the country myself, I’m so curious. Do you prefer Bath to the country, or vice versa?”
Mother gives her an approving look while Lord Dean ponders her question. She supposes it says something that he hasn’t outright dismissed her.
“Father’s great-grandfather purchased the Dean estate, and we’ve summered there every year of my life. In fact, I was hoping your father would be with you today, so they might discuss hunting this summer, amongst other things,” Mr.Dean says.
“How lovely,” Mother says. “Are you a keen hunter, Lord Dean?”
Lord Dean looks over at Mother, considering.
