“Certainly made your father happy,” Lady Jones adds as the servants appear with the first course, a warming and decadent white soup perfect for a rainy day.
It’s served in gorgeous bowls with what looks like a gold-leaf finish. Catherine barely wants to touch them, but her hungry stomach forces her to daintily sip at the soup. It’s delicious, with more layers of flavor than any white soup she’s ever had before. She can’t even identify them all.
“My wonderful chef, Mr.Partly, just returned from a month on the Continent. He got this recipe in a tiny village in Tuscany. Isn’t it marvelous?” Mr.Tarton asks.
“It’s delicious,” Catherine tells him, enjoying his pleased nod, before he turns to Mr.Dean to discuss the various game on the property.
“Were you ever one for hide-and-seek?” Lady Jones asks, ignoring that they’ve clearly lost their host’s attention.
“With my brother, Richard,” Catherine says. “But there weren’t nearly as many good hiding places as there are here.”
“Fewer opportunities to break things, I’d wager,” Christopher says with a grin. “I broke a Grecian urn once that a friend of Father’s had bought at auction. I don’t think he spoke to me for a month.”
Catherine watches Rosalie and Lady Jones laugh. She didn’t realize there were items of such value at the Tisend house.Then again, how could she? It’s not like she’s been brought up with an eye for antiquities.
“Isn’t there a similar vase here?” Rosalie asks. “I know there’s a collection of Greek artifacts.”
“Really?” Catherine asks.
“Oh, Mr.Tarton has one of the best collections of art and antiquities. He’s considering turning part of the estate into a museum.”
“Or selling the relics off to larger museums, certainly,” Mr.Tarton puts in.
“I’m sure there are Greek museums which would be eager to have the artifacts back,” Catherine says. “You could make an expedition of it yourself.”
The whole table turns her way. Mr.Dean looks almost pitying, Mr.Tarton amused. Catherine stares back, unsure of what misstep she might have made.
“The British Museum would be the first approach,” Mr.Dean says, his tone soft. “Mr.Tarton would receive the best return on his sale with them. The Greeks would be far down the list, and who knows if they would even display the items properly.”
Catherine shrinks in her seat, uncomfortable with his patronizing look. Uncomfortable with his superiority. How would he know which museums would do the best justice to an ancient artifact?
But as the silence stretches longer, Catherine’s self-assurance begins to wane. These people visit houses like this constantly. Mr.Dean has traveled the Continent, as has Christopher. And while her brother did too, she certainly hasn’t. What does she know, really?
“I think Miss Pine’s point is well taken. The Greek museumswould certainly want an opportunity to reclaim their artifacts,” Rosalie says, her shoulder brushing Catherine’s comfortingly as she leans close to grab the salt. “Perhaps not the most lucrative of sales, but an opportunity for travel, and who doesn’t enjoy travel?”
“Yes,” Lady Jones jumps in. “Did Mr.Partly make it to Greece?”
“He did,” Mr.Tarton says. “Then made his way back across the Continent. He did a meal for us that was all of the flatbreads he encountered; it was to die for.”
Lady Jones begins peppering Mr.Tarton with questions, and Mr.Dean and Christopher fall into a conversation about various collections they saw on their world tours.
Which leaves Catherine, red-faced, staring at her dinner. Rosalie and Christopher know everything about the history of this house. Christopher and Mr.Dean have traveled, seen things,donethings. And Lady Jones clearly knows just about everything, and everyone.
Catherine’s just a simple girl from the country, playing at a station she’ll clearly never reach. How could her mother ever think she’d be sophisticated enough for Mr.Dean?
How could she privately think she’d be sophisticated enough for Rosalie?
Her chest grows tight and squirmy, and Catherine puts down her spoon. They’re not even through the soup course. All the tension, all the questions, all the uncertainty that she’s been boxing up in her mind is spilling out and she’s stuck at this table with nowhere to go.
“You were going to tell me what you thought aboutThe Romance of the Forest.”
Catherine blinks, slowly bringing her eyes over to Rosalie, who’s looking back at her, a hint of a crease between her eyebrows. Catherine forces a smile, not wanting to worry her. At least one of them should enjoy the meal.
Just then, Mr.Tarton’s staff comes out to take away their soup bowls and remaining dishes. Catherine sits back, watching the elaborate resetting of the table. They’ve never stood on so much formality in her house, and certainly not with so many servants. She wonders if Rosalie’s dinners are like this.
“The woods here remind me of all the chapters in the abbey. It feels like you could wander off forever,” Rosalie says.
Catherine forces herself to focus on the one person at the table who wants to talk to her. The one person she wants to talk to. Rosalie, who looks so pretty, even after a day of travel.
