“Oh, Mr.Dean, are you all right?”
Mrs.Pine’s voice rings around the silent hall. She appears on his other side, her hand falling to rest next to Catherine’s, her other hand grasping his arm.
“Catherine, thank goodness for your quick thinking,” Mrs.Pine continues.
Rosalie watches Catherine stand stiff in shock, her eyes large and bright. Rosalie loosens her own grip on her plate. Mr.Dean slowly stands up, leaning into Mrs.Pine and Catherine.
“Yes,” he says, his voice rough, breath still ragged. “MissPine, I owe you my life. How can I ever thank you enough?”
Catherine looks at Mr.Dean askance, cheeks going pale. “I—I simply did what anyone would—”
“Let’s find you a seat and some water, Mr. Dean,” Mrs. Pineinterrupts, looking far too smug. “Come, Catherine, dear, help me get him settled.”
Rosalie watches, helpless, as Mrs.Pine brings them across the room to a bench on the far side, fawning over Mr.Dean the whole way. Catherine glances back at Rosalie, looking just as stricken as she feels.
What now?
Chapter Twenty
Catherine
“A delivery for you, MissPine.”
Catherine looks up from where she’s been pushing porridge around in her bowl to find their valet, Mr.Archer, standing in the doorway to the dining room holding the largest floral arrangement she’s ever seen. He totters into the room, depositing the enormous vase beside her place setting.
“And theChronicle, sir,” Mr.Archer adds, a little breathless, handing the paper to Father.
Catherine stares up at the giant arrangement. The flowers are a riot of color, peonies and roses and hydrangeas all vying for beautiful attention. She stands slowly, noticing a card sticking out from the top of the bouquet. A bizarre hope rises in her chest, but Rosalie wouldn’t have sent these. They’re gorgeous, but far too showy for her taste. And it would raise a number of questions she’s not yet ready to answer.
Upon seeing the tidy script on the card she knows immediately they’re not from Rosalie. Worse, when she breaks the seal, she finds a note from Mr.Dean.
My dearest MissPine,
Please accept these flowers as simply the beginning of my thanks for your quick-witted heroics. Were it not for you,I would be lying among these flowers today. I owe you my life.
Generations of Dean heirs and their wives thank you. My mother would thank you, as would hers; both of them were strong, quick-witted women, like yourself. They would be most gratified to know that the Dean line will not end with me, thanks to you.
The card goes on, but Catherine stops reading, all that hope turning leaden in her stomach. He’s just being self-aggrandizing, speaking about his family. His favorite topic. It can’t—it can’t be more than that, surely.
“Who are they from?” Mother asks, far too close.
Catherine jumps and Mother plucks the card from her hands. She looks to Father for help, but he’s peering at the paper, totally oblivious.
“Mother, it’s not—” Catherine starts.
“Darling, you’ve got him,” Mother says, beaming at her, the letter clutched to her chest. “He wants you to be the next Dean woman. To bear his heirs!”
“He does what?” Father asks, looking up from the paper, Catherine caught between them and her rapidly growing nausea.
“Mr.Dean has written to thank Catherine for saving his life and here, look here,” Mother says, rounding Catherine to thrust the letter under Father’s nose. “He’ll propose by the end of the month, I’m sure of it.”
Catherine’s tempted to smash the vase to the floor and run out of the room. Damn it all to hell. All she did was save him from choking. Any reasonable person would have. If Mr.Dean had been less focused on being absolutely atrocious to Rosalie, maybe he wouldn’t have choked at all.
Father looks up and meets her eyes. “He wasn’t the only one impressed,” he says, passing her the paper while Mother leans over his shoulder, pointing to the note.
Catherine takes theChroniclewith trembling hands. What on earth does that mean?
She scans the front page, moving down to the notations of the weekly events. And there, staring up at her in print:
