“It really does,” Catherine agrees. “Though I think you and I would be much more capable if left out in the woods. You’d think Adeline might have made more attempts at escape.”
“I don’t know. I’d have wanted to explore the abbey more. Maybe hidden away until everyone was forced out, rather than become a pawn in everyone else’s game,” Rosalie says, giving a grateful nod to the kitchen server who places a plate of spiced lamb down in front of her.
Catherine smiles at her own server and looks down at the lamb. More potatoes, this time whipped into a creamy puree, over which two spiced lamb chops have been artfully laid—it smells absolutely divine. Mr.Tarton takes his first bite and Catherine quickly follows suit, trying not to groan.
It’s utterly delicious, like nothing she’s ever tasted before.
She absolutely doesn’t fit in with the rest of the table. Can’t possibly keep up with the discussion happening among Tarton,Lady Jones, Christopher, and Mr. Dean—something about exchequer bills—but at least the food is good.
Rosalie keeps asking more questions aboutThe Romance of the Forest, pulling Catherine into a safe, special little world, filled with spices and fabulous food and Rosalie’s enthusiasm. If it could be just like this, just the two of them, all the time, she wouldn’t be so worried.
Then again, when dinner finally ends, all of them stuffed to the gills, that sense of ease disappears. Itisabout to be just her and Rosalie again. And she doesn’t know what she’s meant to do, or say, or not do, or not say.
She doesn’t know what she wants, other than that shewants, a flare of need scorching up her chest and down her belly as Rosalie looks over her shoulder at her. Catherine’s following behind while the housekeeper shows her, Rosalie, and Lady Jones to their rooms, on the opposite side of the manor from Christopher and Mr.Dean.
She can’t look at Rosalie as they walk into their room. If she does, she might combust, or burst into tears, or scream. There’s a large, four-poster bed with deep red curtains at the center of the room, with a small sitting space off to the side, all of the furniture in the same dark maroon. An armoire is set along the wall with a large window overlooking the lawn. There’s just a hint of moonlight filtering in, and the flickering light from the fireplace opposite the bed casts everything in a warm, shimmery glow.
“Try to get some sleep,” Lady Jones says, standing in the doorway, the housekeeper behind her. “Don’t be talking books all night.”
“We won’t,” Rosalie promises.
Lady Jones smiles and gives a little wave, then closes the door. They can hear her footsteps just down the hall, and the creaking of the door next to theirs.
They’re really alone. In this beautiful room. Just her, and Rosalie. Who looks so incredibly beautiful, backlit by the fireplace, standing in front of the big bed.
What comes next? What comes after? How can she know who she’s supposed to be, or if she’s good enough, if she doesn’t know what this could be, what this means, how Rosalie feels?
What if she’s bad at this? What if, what if, what if, what if...
Chapter Fifteen
Rosalie
Rosalie turns from the closed door, her heartbeat fast, palms a little sweaty. Excitement floods through her and she looks to Catherine, only to find her pale, hands twisting together.
“Catherine?” she prompts. Catherine drags her eyes from the door and they’re wide and bright with unshed tears. “What’s the matter?”
Rosalie reaches out to still her hands. Catherine gives a sharp intake of breath as their fingers touch, but doesn’t pull away. She’s breathing fast too—too fast.
“Here, come sit,” Rosalie says, taking a step to draw her toward the bed. But Catherine doesn’t move, eyes growing even wider.
She doesn’t know what’s wrong, but the bed clearly isn’t the solution. Rosalie doesn’t think this—whatever this is—is something she can simply kiss away.
So she turns them and guides Catherine to the little sitting area, settling them on the surprisingly soft burgundy settee. Rosalie keeps one hand on Catherine’s still tightly clenched fists, and uses her other to brush the hair out of her eyes, letting her fingers slip to rest on the back of her neck. She hopes it’s steadying.
“What’s the matter, darling?” she whispers.
“I don’t know,” Catherine whispers back, squeezing her eyesshut, her hands tense beneath Rosalie’s. “It’s just... rather a lot.”
“The house?” Rosalie asks tentatively, unsure if she wants to know the true answer.
She’s heard this speech before. It’s too much—what she wants is too much—sheis too much.
“The house. The history. The dinner setting. I’m...” Catherine opens her eyes and meets Rosalie’s gaze. “I don’t belong here.”
“Of course you do,” Rosalie says reflexively.
The excitement in her chest is rapidly turning to panic. She knows it can all disappear in an instant. She lived it once with Jane. Found herself alone in her want and her confidence and her affection. She wasn’t enough for Jane—couldn’t be enough for her, in every way.
