“Oh, how lovely,” Mrs.Pilney crows.
Catherine looks around as more and more of the bathers seem to take note of them, rushing over to compliment her parents. With the hot, sulphureous steam, the sweat dripping down her neck, the warm water pressing on her clothes—she’s starting to hyperventilate.
“Mr.Pine, might I have a word?”
Catherine turns, surprised and almost relieved to see Mr.Sholle pop up beside Father.
“Of course,” Father says, wading to the side, which only closes the crowd in further around Catherine and Mother.
Catherine turns her head, just able to hear as Mr. Sholle leans closer to Father. “I realize Miss Pine’s attentions have fallen elsewhere and simply wanted to make known that I formally rescind my intentions to court her. I would not want to compete with a friend in Mr. Dean, nor foist unwanted attentionson your dear daughter, but neither did I want you to wonder why I have made myself so scarce.”
Father says something inaudible. Catherine’s stomach roils. Mr.Sholle is formally withdrawing his courtship, like the rumors about Mr.Dean’s imminent proposal mean she is somehow already his property.
Anger slithers up her spine. She wants to snap that she is the only person who should be deciding whether or not she gets courted. What right does Mr.Sholle have to decide this on her behalf?
Not that she wants him to court her either. But still. They’re all acting like she’s a prize, complimenting her parents. As if it’s their accomplishment that she... did the simply decent thing and prevented a man from choking.
“Mr.Tisend will rescind next, you mark my words,” Mother whispers, turning her head toward Catherine, even as she smiles to someone on her other side.
Catherine stands there, hands curling into fists below the water, the bowl of nuts bobbing on the surface in front of her. Mr.Sholle shakes her smiling father’s hand and looks back at her once before wading away. Didn’t even bother to say goodbye to her, after pursuing her for two months.
Is she worth so little to everyone but Rosalie?
She tries to take a deep breath, tries to remind herself that Rosalieisfighting for her—for a chance to be with her and figure out what would come next. And Christopher is helping. There are still people on her side. People who see her as more than a prize to be given from parents to husband.
“Oh, is that the lovely young MissPine?”
Catherine turns to find Mrs. Raught coming out of the steam,dragging Henrietta behind her. Thank Christ, a friendly face. Maybe she can escape this and sit with Henrietta until she no longer wants to use her fists to push everyone away.
“Hello,” Catherine says, her voice high and rough. “Mrs.Raught, MissRaught,” she adds, dipping in a little curtsy that sets the copper bowl rocking again.
“Would you mind if I stole MissPine for a moment?” Henrietta asks Mother.
“Of course, of course,” Mother says, obviously distracted by the three other mothers vying for her attention.
Henrietta takes her hand and Catherine gratefully follows Henrietta through the water, excited to find herself in a far corner where Amalie is already waiting. They’re both in the same brown soaking dresses, but Amalie’s bonnet is rimmed with green ribbon, Henrietta’s with her signature yellow.
“So, is it true?” Henrietta asks, ushering Catherine to sit on the vee created by the ledge.
Henrietta and Amalie sit on either side of her, close and tight. She’s so grateful to see them, even as she’s disappointed Rosalie isn’t hiding back here too. She doesn’t feel squished or trapped at all now.
“Is what true?”
“It’s all over town that Mr.Dean will be proposing within a few weeks.”
Catherine gapes at Henrietta. “What?”
“Our mothers both heard that he’d sent an enormous bouquet with a letter of intentions for your father,” Amalie says.
Catherine looks askance between them. “How do you know that already?”
“So it’s true?” Henrietta asks, her voice squeaky.
“He sent a bouquet, but not a letter of intention,” Catherine corrects.
“But he did send a card with the flowers,” Amalie presses.
Catherine sighs, tipping her head back to look up at the ceiling. She’s getting a headache, whether from the close, damp air or the stress of the morning. “He sent a card thanking me for saving his life, that’s all. He didn’t ask my father anything, and my father and Lord Dean haven’t had any conversations of which I’m aware.”
