And when he had mentioned needing to travel to Derbyshire to attend the wedding of Edward Gardiner to Miss Madeline Lambert of Lambton, Catherine’s face had lit with possibility.
“Our estate is just over the border, in the next county,” she had said, eyes sparkling. “My father often summers there, and I will be joining him this year, as I have completed my time at finishing school. If you can extend your stay, I am permitted to attend the local assemblies.”
He had written to Mr. Gardiner that very night requesting permission to remain for a few extra weeks.
And now here he was—three weeks into his prolonged country stay—watching her twirl in a modest but elegant gown of dove gray and lilac, her dark hair piled high on her head, her green eyes sparkling with joy. She danced with grace, a lightness of step and expression that belied the weight she carried daily. That she could dance like that,smilelike that, after all she had told him about her life—it humbled him.
He thought of their conversations, their whispered exchanges under trees or behind the hedgerows after assemblies like this one. He thought of the day he learned that his mother, Elizabeth Harcourt Bennet, had once beenas close as a sister to Catherine’s mother, Deborah Harcourt Fitzwilliam.
It had stunned them both. “We might have been raised together,” Catherine had said, her voice thick with emotion, “if only the world were not so determined to draw lines between blood and rank.”
Even more shocking had been the day he realized who her father was.
The Earl of Matlock.
A man so cold, so cruel, that when she spoke of him, it was with a strange mixture of defiance and despair. Catherine had been born seven years after her brother, Harold—the beloved heir, the golden child. There had been no warmth left for her. And then, four years later, little Anne was born, pale and quiet and timid, and their father barely acknowledged her presence at all.
But Catherine—Catherine had refused to be erased. She had read widely, argued fiercely, and insisted on walking in the park alone if no one would escort her. And yet beneath her strength, Frederick could see the wounds. The way her jaw tightened when her father was mentioned. The way her eyes flicked toward the corners of rooms, always alert for disapproval. She had been taught her whole life that she was secondary, a disappointment.
Frederick had tried to offer comfort, but Catherine had never been the sort to weep. “I do not want sympathy,” she had told him once. “I want to be free.”
Which was why, last week, as they walked along the stream outside Matlock Village, hidden in the trees, she had said boldly:
“You should marry me, Freddy.”
He had stopped in his tracks.
“Kate…”
She made a face at the nickname he had taken from Shakespeare’sTaming of the Shrew. “You know as well as I do that we suit.” Her voice had been calm, but determined. “You are clever. Honest. Kind. You see me.”
“I am the second son of a minor gentleman, and I am in trade.”
“You are Elizabeth Harcourt’s son. My cousin. You may not have an estate, but your brother owns one. And you are now a partner in one of the most successful merchant firms in London. You are more a gentleman than half the men who call themselves such.”
“And your father would—”
“My father,” she had said coldly, “has pretended my entire life that I do not exist. He only acknowledges me now as a bargaining chip.”
“You are not yet of age; how would we even be able to do such a thing? I do not have the means to take us to Scotland, and I would not wish to dishonor you so. You are full young yet, and there are many more opportunities available to you.”
“My title means nothing if I am miserable for the rest of my life. You know what awaits me, Frederick—some withered viscount twice my age with a title but no soul.”
She had looked at him then, truly looked at him, and he had no answer. Not because he did not want her—God help him, he did—but because everything in him still recoiled at the thought of stealing an earl’s daughter from under his roof.
But now—months later—watching her dance, hearing her laugh, remembering every hour they had shared in secret…it only solidified their decision in his mind.
Two more dances. That is all.
Then she would excuse herself—gracious, polite, the model of an earl’s daughter—and slip away. He would follow soon after, winding through the darker lanes of the village to whereCatherine’s maid waited, ready to guide them to a priest who risked prison to serve the faithful in secret. The same bishop who had baptized them both—the sacrament performed a week prior so he could conduct the ceremony—would stand before them now, weathered and steady, asking the sacred vows in low Latin.
It would not be a marriage that the world acknowledged. Not yet.
But before God, it would be binding. Irrevocable. And real.
And that, to Frederick, was all that mattered.
Later that night, with the sacrament complete and Catherine’s fingers tangled in his, they would find the little cottage he had rented under a false name, tucked far enough from the roads that no one would question its occupants. There would be no grand feast, no celebration. Just the two of them, and a fire to keep away the chill.
