Chapter Eleven
The sky was gray, the drizzle was icy, and Catherine was happier than she could ever remember being.
They had been in Lyme—or rather, a little west of Lyme—for three days, Lucy and Catherine attended by Narayan. The journey itself had been a relief, even though it required long hours on the road with only rickety inn beds to rest in at night. Catherine used her money and her title shamelessly to commandeer the best rooms and private parlors, attempting to give Lucy a more pleasant journey back than she’d had on her trip out. They arrived at Lyme in perfect cheer; Narayan had begun unpacking their trunks while Catherine and Lucy had aired Lucy’s old bedroom for them both to share.
Lucy went so quiet during this work that Catherine was moved to ask if she was feeling well after the journey. “No, I’m perfectly fine,” Lucy replied, “it’s only... The last guest I had in this room was Pris.”
“Ah,” said Catherine, as if this were an adequate response.
Lucy tugged harder on the sheet with downcast eyes, and Catherine wondered with a shameful pang if there were memories associated with this room—and this bed—that would sour the adventure further.
She fluffed the down pillows extra hard out of sheer pique.
But that evening, full of good country fare and wine and, finally, beautifully warm, Lucy had taken Catherine’s hand and led her to the bed, heavy-curtained and pushed up against the wall to make a cozy den just large enough for two, provided they stayed pressed close against one another.
There, in the velvet darkness, far away from the endless sounds and scrutiny of the city, Catherine had lost track of the number of times Lucy’s hands and mouth had made her lose track of herself.
The next morning she woke to a breakfast of toast and cheese, and the weather was clear enough to go for a bracing walk through the woods to the village market. Even when the rain returned two days later, it could not dim Catherine’s mood.
And now she stood on a dismal beach, with raindrops landing on her hair and sliding down the back of her neck, cheerfully picking up rocks.
Lucy told her the locals called them snake-stones, or verteberries, but Catherine had known enough shell collectors in her youth to recognize ammonites when she saw them. But seeing one or two in a curio case was one thing—seeing a whole shoreline of them was another.
If they’d each been priceless gems, she couldn’t have been more enchanted.
“Some years ago,” Lucy explained from beneath her umbrella, “a young woman down the coast found a full skeleton of an ancient, terrible creature—something between a fish and a lizard. It’s displayed in London now, for scholars to gawk at and attempt to guess its true age.”
“We should go look ourselves, when we go back,” Catherine said, and felt her happiness dim at the thought of returning. She loved London—but she’d been raised in the country and spent years away from the city.
She had needed this holiday as much as Lucy had, she realized. Perhaps even more: When had she last taken a journey simply for the pleasure of it? It appalled her that she couldn’t remember.
“I would like that,” Lucy said, her country coat fluttering sail-like in the relentless sea wind. She spun the umbrella handle so raindrops flew off the cloth in a sparkling arc around her.
One splashed against Catherine’s cheek; she laughed and didn’t bother brushing it away, since there was such a company of them.
Lucy shook her head, exasperation and amusement warring in her expression. “You’ll catch your death if you aren’t careful,” she said, and stepped closer. The umbrella was both shelter and a symphony beneath the drumming rain, as Lucy’s gloved fingers flicked the droplet away from Catherine’s happiness-pinkened cheek. The smaller raindrops Lucy kissed away, cool moisture vanishing beneath warm lips and sweet breath.
Behind them, the endless sea roared approval.
Later, they wound their way back up the cliff path, Lucy leading, Catherine’s pocket full of stones—some to keep, some to add to Aunt Kelmarsh’s grotto. They had just reached the top when Lucy, in the lead, stopped and went, “Oh,” very softly.
Another couple—a gentleman and a lady—had been about to descend. The gentleman was tall and lanky, with worried creases at the sun-browned corners of his eyes. The lady was young and slim and fair, all blond hair and blue eyes and a green wool coat embroidered with lilies-of-the-valley. She had one hand tucked in the crook of the gentleman’s arm, and the other clutched a scarf tight around her throat.
The gentleman grinned and bowed most cordially. “Miss Muchelney!” he cried. “So it’s true, you are back from London.”
“Only briefly,” Lucy said. She drew Catherine up beneath the umbrella, as a chill wind howled up from the crashing waves far below. “Lady Moth, may I present the Honorable Harry Winlock and his wife, Priscilla?”
The couple bowed, as Catherine felt her heart go as cold and stony as any ammonite.
“The Countess of Moth,” Lucy went on, completing the introduction, “my benefactress and friend.”
Catherine bowed politely, not missing how Mrs. Winlock’s eyes flicked to where Catherine’s and Lucy’s arms were linked.
The infamous Pris stepped forward, pulling her hand from her husband’s arm to extend it to Catherine. “So pleased to meet you. Are you the same Countess of Moth who used to write to Lucy’s father?”
“The very same,” Catherine murmured, accepting the handshake, two gloved hands gripping tight on the edge of a sheer cliff.
No warmth came through the fabric—perhaps the other woman was just as awkward about this meeting as Catherine was, for despite her polite expression, the corners of her eyes and mouth were tight with tension.
