“I’m so sorry, Mr.Dean. Could you repeat that?” she asks, hoping her voice doesn’t sound choked.
She refuses to acknowledge Lady Rosalie smirking behind Mr.Dean.
Perhaps she wasn’t in that wonderful moment with Catherine after all. Perhaps she meant to distract her, and Catherine’s been snared in her web yet again, getting herself fanciful and dazzled all on her own.
“If you could go anywhere on the Continent, where would you go?”
Catherine meets Mr.Dean’s eyes. They’re a perfectly lovely brown, and ignite exactly zero feeling in her.
“Florence,” she says by rote. She’s not sure if that’s where she’d most like to go, but Mother always wanted to see it.
“What a city. You’ll have to start in the Piazza della Signoria...”
Catherine sighs softly and looks across the lawn to find Lady Jones watching her from behind her easel. She smiles at Catherine, though from this distance it almost looks like a smirk. But that’s silly, what would she have to be smirking about?
She listens with one ear as Mr.Dean moves on to what will hopefully be his final city of Luxembourg. The rest of her watches with glee as Mr.Rile approaches MissRaught’s mother, carrying her painting and gushing about MissRaught’s talents.
Lady Rosalie rises with a quick excuse and heads their way. Mr.Dean barely notices. Catherine’s frankly not sure Mr.Dean is still talking to either of them. Mr.Sholle is the only one who’s been making noises of interest for the past hour.
Lady Rosalie and Lady Jones meet up to see MissRaught off with her mother and Mr.Rile. MissRaught is beaming and bright, her round face lit up with joy, practically floating along in her bright yellow dress.
Just when it looks like she might well leave without any formal farewell, MissRaught pauses by the back gate and shoots Catherine a huge smile. Catherine returns it, a little swell of pride washing across her chest, which only grows when Lady Rosalie glances her way, pensive, and then turns away.
This may be her only chance to escape.
“I ought to find MissLinet to say goodbye,” Catherine says, jumping in when Mr.Dean takes a rare breath.
He and Mr.Sholle don’t even nod, and Catherine leaves them behind without an ounce of regret. Mother frowns at her from where she’s loitering on the patio with a few of the remaining mothers, but Catherine ignores her. She might well stab Mr.Dean if she doesn’t get a break.
Miss Linet and Mr. Fortes are ambling back toward the patio, Mr. Fortes holding Miss Linet’s painting. Miss Linet slows to speak with Catherine, smiling.
“I’ll hang this in pride of place,” Mr.Fortes says kindly, leaning in to kiss MissLinet’s hand before striding off, the painting held carefully, but not particularly dearly, by his side.
“That went well?” Catherine asks.
MissLinet is staring after him thoughtfully. “It did,” she agrees. “And for you as well, it seems,” she adds, looking back to meet Catherine’s gaze.
“I suppose,” Catherine says.
MissLinet chuckles. “He didtryto tailor the soliloquy to your tastes, at least. Not everyone gets so lucky.”
“Did he?” Catherine asks before she can stop herself.
MissLinet lets out a pealing laugh and Catherine can’t help but giggle along with her.
“What’s so funny?” Lady Rosalie asks, stepping up behind Catherine.
“Nothing,” MissLinet says, smiling at Catherine before taking Lady Rosalie’s arm. “Come see me out. My escort left without me.”
“He took your painting,” Lady Rosalie says consolingly, nodding to Catherine before leading MissLinet out of the garden.
Which leaves Catherine standing alone on the lawn behind the tea tables. Lady Jones’ canvas is still drying on her easel. Catherine walks over to see what she’s made of their teatime tableau and can’t help but smile.
She’s painted the patio and tables in muted whites, so every outfit stands out against the setting. Those people she knows well, or found interesting, have detailed faces and poses, while some of the guests are mere silhouettes.
Catherine searches the painting, curious as to what Lady Jones has seen in her, and her breath catches in her chest. Because there, looking around Mr. Dean, sit she and Lady Rosalie, staring at each other.
Their eyes, the pensive set of their brows, the rigidity to their posture—something is passing between them there on the canvas. It could be their shared annoyance at Mr.Dean. Or it could be something... else.
