“Sir, I implore you—”
Father says something else with a little bounce on his toes and Lord Dean slams down the profiterole he was holding, sending crème pat flying onto Mr. Dean’s and Father’s jackets.
“I will not let this stand!” Lord Dean exclaims, his voice echoing around the room.
Everyone turns to stare at the three of them.
“Whatever do you mean, Lord Dean? I thought we were to have a merry union?” Father asks, glancing over at Catherine and winking.
Her bruised heart soars.
“There will be no union between our families, absolutely not. I cannot have my son involved with business so base.”
Mother scoffs beside her, her hand curling around Catherine’s elbow.
“Mr.Pine—” Mr.Dean starts.
Father merely shrugs casually, his voice carrying cleanly across the room. “Well, that’s rather for the best. I wouldn’t want my beautiful, intelligent daughter around any man who would so loudly embarrass my wife. Both of them are more prize than all of the Dean fortune anyway. Good riddance.”
With that, Father turns, ignoring Mr.Dean’s spluttering behind him and Lord Dean’s scandalized face. Father strides evenly across the room, no hint of his limp, grinning.
“That’s that, then,” he says, taking Catherine’s other arm. “We so appreciate your coming to the tea,” he adds to the Flintleys, who are staring at them, mouths agog.
He squeezes Catherine’s arm as she and Mother curtsy to the Flintleys. They leave quickly without another word.
Catherine can’t help but smile at Father. “Thank you,” she whispers, refusing to look over her shoulder at Mr.Dean.
“For you, anything,” Father whispers back, leaning in to kissher cheek before turning to a rapidly assembling line of stragglers.
Catherine’s chest clenches. Will he still look like that at the end of the night, when Mother has told him everything? Will he still think her such a prize when he knows whom she wants? Does “anything” really meananything?
A few minutes later Lord Dean and Mr.Dean slink past behind the other guests without a word. Mr.Dean doesn’t meet her eyes, seeming more bemused than anything else. Which is... absolutely fitting.
She wants to tell Rosalie. Wants to see her expression when she recounts the entire exchange. Wishes she could have seen him taken down a peg. Catherine glances over at Christopher and Amalie, who stare back with wide eyes, caught between excitement and confusion. They’ll have to tell her.
Mother leaves Catherine’s side as soon as the rest of the guests file out. She walks over to bid Lady Tisend adieu where she, Christopher, and Amalie are still hovering at the back of the room. Catherine clutches at Father’s arm, watching the stilted way the women speak—watching Lady Tisend lead Christopher and Amalie rapidly out of the room without more than a nod in Father’s direction.
Mother stands alone at the back of the hall, staring out the large windows down to the street. She was so excited for this tea. So proud and so brave to face the ton as she has. And Catherine took all of that from her. She thought righting the wrong between Mother and Lady Tisend was what needed to be done—thought it would be worth any of the fallout.
She still thinks it was. At least, she thinks she thinks it was.
She’s not sure she’ll feel the same way once she’s alone. When she can focus on the way Mother avoided her eyes in the watercloset. When she can think about the way Lady Tisend ignored Rosalie altogether.
If it were just Catherine’s happiness, maybe she could bear it. But even though Father seemed more righteous in the altercation with Lord Dean, Catherine will still be the ridiculous girl who ruined a perfect match. The ton will talk about her family again—a second generation disgraced, just differently.
“Your mother will be fine,” Father whispers. They watch Mother wandering the back of the room, just the three of them and the staff now milling about, clearing plates. “Your happiness matters more than any fortune; she knows that.”
Catherine forces herself to smile, to look relieved. But it’s a long few minutes while Mother liaises with the staff, and longer still as they make their way out of the Upper Rooms, leaving their “triumphant” afternoon behind.
No one says a word in the carriage. Catherine tries to catch Mother’s eye, but Mother won’t look at her. Father, none the wiser, stares out the window, looking absurdly cheerful. It would almost be funny if it didn’t hurt so much.
By the time they arrive home, Catherine feels like she might fly apart with rage and confusion and sadness. The door closes behind them and she stands in the foyer, watching Father help Mother remove her wrap. Like nothing’s wrong. Like nothing changed. Like there’s nothing to say.
Mother hands her gloves to MissTeit, muttering something about a very light supper and Catherine feels herself break.
“Would you at least look at me?” she exclaims, her words bouncing around the room.
MissTeit glances among them and slowly backs out of the foyer and down the servants’ hallway, leaving Catherine staring at Mother and Father, chest heaving.
