She’s playing along, see? She’s buying into the scheme, into the revenge. Her stomach twists as Mother’s shoulders come down. As she’s placated by Catherine’s lies. They used to always be on the same side. A team. Girls together. It does something funny to her insides to lie to her like this.
“One promenade. But tomorrow, you go to the concert with Mr.Dean.”
“Yes, Mother,” she says, smiling wide enough for it to hurt her cheeks. “I’ll write to Mr. Tisend tonight.”
Mother nods and then turns to stare into the fire, body still tense.
Catherine just needs to dispatch of Mr.Dean, then the largest of the lies can end. And then maybe her stomach won’t feel so twisted, and she can do more than squeeze Rosalie’s hand on the frigid river. Somehow.
Were she just here to listen to the beautiful music, the dreary afternoon wouldn’t seem so bad. They’re standing to the right of the back patio of the Sydney Hotel on the soft grass. A grand orchestra has been set up in front of the hotel’s solarium, and she’s been deeply enjoying their performance of Mozart’s twenty-ninth symphony.
But her legs are starting to ache, as is her back. She’d slouch, but Mother’s directly behind her, and anytime she’s so much as shifted, Mother’s poked her with her fan.
It’s made it exceedingly difficult to search the assembled crowd for Christopher’s top hat. There’s no chance of spotting tiny Rosalie among what must be half of Bath’s ton. Each time she’s tried to glance around, Mother’s given her a look, encouraging her to make polite conversation with Mr.Dean.
He looks perfectly dapper today, in a clean gray suit with a shined top hat. But she doesn’t want to engage in more conversation.
“You were most heroic.”
“I was so impressed by your poise.”
“It was kind of you to help Lady Rosalie, though we ought to discuss your skills of self-preservation.”
Mother looks over the moon. Mr.Dean does seem further infatuated with her. How shocking that the only time she wasn’t trying to gain his affection (or pretending to try for her mother’s sake) is the only time he’s given his praise, now, when she doesn’t want anything to do with it.
Outside of discussing yesterday’s events, he’s spoken very little. That they both enjoy music might have charmed her earlier in the season, but now it’s simply not enough.
She needs more from someone with whom she’s supposed to share a life than a vague mutual interest in music and a beautiful physique. Looking at Mr.Dean doesn’t do half as much for her as simply holding Rosalie’s letter against her chest last night.
Her darling letter, hidden deep in Catherine’s desk, still threatens to heat her cheeks.
Rosalie’s beautiful looping script, her thanks for Catherine’s heroics and her admission of how much it meant to her that Catherine jumped in to save her, when no one else did, made Catherine grin. Her sly words about how lovely Catherine looked sopping wet, and how much she wanted to rip Catherine’s clothes off and huddle with her by the fire—
Suddenly everyone is clapping and Catherine realizes the concert has ended while she’s been lost in daydreams of Rosalie.
Mr.Dean has her arm and Mother’s on her other side before she can blink, already walking her toward the exit to leave the park and head home. So much for intelligent discussion of the concert. The viola was flat the entire time. Doesn’t anyone care?
More importantly, she hasn’t seen Christopher. She can’t leave until he and Rosalie find her.
Mother’s pace increases. They must be close and Mother’s intentionally trying to keep them apart.
She finally spots them about eight couples back. Rosalie raises her hand. She looks so beautiful, in a light pink gown with a white spencer jacket, her dark hair curling around her face beneath her pink bonnet. She’s all smiles, waving far too enthusiastically.
Catherine has to snap her gaze forward as Mother practically yanks her ahead, dragging Mr.Dean with them. He looks entirely unperturbed, which is frankly maddening.
She needs to stall. “Do you know where the stones for the hotel were quarried?” she asks Mr.Dean, slowing her pace to force him to look down at her.
“I don’t,” he says with a shrug.
“Do you think... it was difficult to construct in the rain?”
“Not sure,” Mr.Dean replies.
Usually, architecture is an excellent bet with Mr.Dean. She’s heard him discuss it before with Christopher, and at the balls.
“Did you notice that the violist was a bit flat?” she asks, really dragging her heels. Enough for Mother to sigh at her.
“I didn’t,” Mr.Dean says affably.
