But mostly she wants Lady Rosalie to know that Catherine will meet any challenge she tosses out. She’s not going to let Lady Rosalie decide her season, no matter how clever she seemsnor how beloved she is in Bath. Mr. Sholle? He’s perfectly respectable and nice, but not enough to distract Catherine.
Not that Mr.Dean seems much better, really. Mr.Sholle couldn’t ask enough questions, but it sounded like Lady Rosalie was prying information out of Mr.Dean with a crowbar. Who walks away from someone like Lady Rosalie to talk about hunting?
Mother misses the final run, again, and screams.
It’s time for a break.
Catherine pads down the stairs and heads for the sitting room, only to find her father sitting despondently on a chair just outside the doors in his housecoat. Mother starts over, yet again.
“Should I?” Catherine asks when he looks up at her.
“No, no, let her get it out of her system. When she’s exhausted all her anger, she’ll get it. She always does.”
Catherine can’t help but smile. Father loves her mother so ardently and fully, even twenty-five years after their wedding, foibles and faults and all.
“Then let’s at least give her some privacy,” Catherine suggests, holding out her hands.
Father hesitates, his big brown eyes unsure, brows creasing. Catherine nods encouragingly and he takes her hands. She helps him out of his chair and wraps her arm around his waist. Together they head back down the hall to his study.
Only half of Father’s books have been unpacked, sitting disorganized on the deep brown shelves that line the walls. Portraits are still waiting to be hung between the shelves, and there are stacks of files and papers on his desk to go through. The light from the windows that look out on the street help make thespace bright and airy. Catherine feels her shoulders come down, at peace here.
She helps Father over to his aged brown leather armchair. Rarely does she appreciate being a few inches taller than he is, but being able to help him as his condition has worsened has been a blessing.
Father groans softly and shifts in the chair while Catherine settles onto the far stiffer settee Mother insisted on buying new for the study. It’s cream with red fleur-de-lis, and while it’s pleasant to look at, it lacks in comfort.
“Don’t judge your mother too harshly for her... intensity about this concert,” Father says.
Catherine nearly jumps. She’d been expecting some companionable quiet. “I don’t. Though I’d love to better understand what—”
“She just wants everything to be perfect for your first season.”
Catherine sighs, curiosity batted down, again. “The season will be perfect. I’m here with the two of you. We’re settled, and you’re feeling so much better, aren’t you?” she asks.
Father smiles, his eyes crinkling and cheeks dimpling. “I am, I am. The waters really do help.” He laughs when Catherine grimaces, thinking of the pungent waters from the Pump Room. “You do get used to them.”
“How many years does that take?”
“I think I was twenty-four?” he replies.
Catherine laughs. “But that’s when you left Bath.”
“Perhaps it’s the absence that has made my heart grow fonder,” he says, chuckling. “But they are helping, as are the baths. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I know,” Catherine says quickly.
As if she could stop worrying about him. He’s been in suchpain, for years. And now they’re here, and Mother’s on this quest to get revenge on Lady Tisend, and it’s taking up all of their time. She knows he’ll do anything to make Mother feel better, including lying about how he’s really feeling.
“And your mother will be back to her normal self,” he continues. There’s another loud crash of keys from the sitting room. “Once the concert is over.”
For all her admonishments over the years, Mother has some very colorful expletives stored away.
“Maybe I should, or you should—” Catherine starts.
“Or maybe there’s a present for you on the desk,” Father cuts in, smiling sneakily.
Catherine sighs, torn between helping Mother and seeing what Father’s gotten for her. Father raises an eyebrow and Catherine lets curiosity win out. She jumps up and scurries over to the desk, delighted to find a neatly wrapped package in the distinctive shape of a new book.
Catherine can’t help it, quickly tearing into the wrapping.The Old English Baronby Clara Reeve stares up at her and Catherine grins.
