“Yes.”
“Catherine is to be married. You are to have a child. Society is—somehow—no longer sharpening knives in our direction.”
“Miracles abound.”
“I’m terrified,” he admitted.
“I know.”
“But also—content? Happy, even? Tell me—am I permitted happiness?”
She turned to cup his face. “Yes, my love. Not merely permitted. Required.”
“By whom?”
“By me. And by this little one.” She guided his hand to her stomach. “We insist upon it.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, voice low. “Very well then. I suppose I must obey. Physician’s orders, after all.”
“That is not at all what Mr Peterson—”
“Shh. Do not ruin my newfound dedication to medical advice.”
Chapter Sixteen
“No, no, no—Timothy, you cannot possibly believe a Gothic arch would suit a music room. The acoustics alone would be abominable.”
Catherine Blackwell’s voice carried through the morning-room doorway with such animated conviction that Marianne paused in the hall, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her stomach, which had at last begun to show properly these past two weeks. The change in her form still caught her by surprise each morning when Sarah helped her dress—the evidence of life growing within her both thrilling and faintly terrifying.
The corridor was filled with the soft spill of morning light through the tall windows, casting geometric patterns across the Persian runner that had graced the house for three generations. Harrowmere had taken on a new quality these past months—less mausoleum, more home, with Catherine’s laughter echoing through rooms long accustomed to silence.
“But consider the visual impact,” came Lord Timothy’s earnest reply, full of that particular energy that overtook him whenever he spoke of architecture. “Imagine the way light would filter through pointed windows during afternoon practice—the golden beams across the floor, the shifting shadows that would move with the music—”
“Light is all very well,” Catherine interrupted, and Marianne could practically hear her rolling her eyes, “but if the sound is thrown awry by those pointed ceilings, what use is visual poetrywhen the auditory experience is ruined? Music is meant to be heard, Timothy, not simply performed in aesthetically pleasing surroundings.”
“Then we compromise. Romanesque arches with Gothic windows. The best union of art and science.”
“That’s architectural heresy!”
“That is architecturalinnovation. The great masters did not become great by obeying every rule.”
“The great masters understood that form must follow function, and the function of a music room is music!”
When Marianne entered, she found the pair bent over what looked to be architectural plans spread across the entire breakfast table, sketches scattered like fallen leaves across the white linen cloth. Catherine had a pencil tucked behind one ear, another between her teeth, and an ink smudge upon her nose that betrayed hours of work. Her morning gown—a soft lavender muslin that flattered her complexion—was already rumpled from leaning over the table.
Timothy’s normally tidy appearance had fared little better: his cravat hung loose, sleeves rolled high, auburn hair in wild disarray from constant exasperated fingers. His gestures were animated as he pointed to various elements of his drawings, his expression one of scholarly battle waged with affectionate ferocity.
The morning room itself bore evidence of their architectural debate—books on construction were stacked precariously onevery surface, additional papers covered the window seat, and someone had actually drawn calculations directly on the tablecloth in what appeared to be charcoal.
“Are you two designing a cathedral or a home?” Marianne asked with fond exasperation as she lowered herself carefully into the one unoccupied chair. Her new shape required a little more care in such manoeuvres, but she managed it with grace.
“Timothy has been granted permission to renovate the dower house on his father’s estate,” Catherine explained, not looking up from her work. “It is to be our home after the wedding. He insists on a music room but refuses to see reason about the ceiling.”
“I amlistening,” Timothy protested, his green eyes bright with academic fervour. “I am simply disagreeing. There’s a difference between not listening and not acquiescing to your every architectural whim.”
“It is not awhimwhen it rests upon sound mathematical principles!”
“And it is not obstinacy when it rests upon aesthetic vision and structural integrity!”
