liquid way in which she played. This musician was inexpert with the instrument. Estelle must be teaching someone—Florian and Ambrose must have called.
She’d gotten so used to the men coming over to play in the afternoons, she paid them little attention. She didn’t approve, but she had, after all, recommended Mama not interfere and let the novelty of the Englishmen run its course.
The last invitation addressed and sealed, she rose and stretched. The sun had vanished and a chill penetrated the chamber.
So did silence.
Catherine tilted her head and listened. Not a sound save for the wind sighing through the trees.
Uneasiness took hold as she left the room and slipped into the drawing room next door. Mama and her needlework had gone. The music room door stood open.
Catherine crossed to stand in the doorway.
Florian perched on the piano stool. Estelle stood before him. One of his hands held the banjo. The other curled around Estelle’s fingers as they gazed into one another’s eyes.
A hundred words of remonstrance rose in Catherine’s throat but none emerged. The bitter ache of longing for someone to look at her with adoration, as Florian gazed at Estelle, blocked their way. Edwin had never once looked at Catherine like that.
As quietly as she could, Catherine took a step back and turned away. Her skirt rustled, but not loudly enough to interrupt the two young people.
She found Mama in the housekeeper’s room discussing arrangements for the tea. Perhaps Catherine’s face showed her agitation, for the housekeeper rose with some excuse about ensuring they didn’t need any provisions from the village before the storm hit in full, and left Catherine and Mama alone.
“I’m afraid Florian and Estelle are developing an affection for one another,” Catherine blurted.
“I know.” Mama toyed with her fountain pen. “It’s not the sort of match we would like for her, but if it dispels this notion of becoming a musician, so be it. He seems to be a nice young man.”
“He is. Or at least I never heard of him engaging in riotous living, and he’s been coming to church, but he has no prospects. He’s too much of a gentleman to work.”
“So, my dear, was your husband, yet you saw fit to elope with him.” The rebuke stung.
Catherine turned away. “I thought a title and land were enough. Now I know so much more is necessary for a husband. I doubt I’ll ever find another one.”
“You will if it’s what the Lord has for you.” Mama’s voice was gentle. “Lord Tristram—”
“Has no interest in me.” Catherine cut off her mother before she could suggest he was a potential mate. “And he’s not only English, he’s potentially heir to a title. Once was quite enough for me with regard to all that. Now I shall go chaperone those two before hand-holding leads to something inappropriate.”
She reached the corridor just as Florian prepared to leave. Estelle, rather than a footman, was handing him his hat and gloves.
He started to clasp Estelle’s fingers, then saw Catherine and drew back. “Lady Bisterne, how do you do?”
“Fine, thank you. Where is Ambrose?”
“He’s in the city with the Selkirks.” Florian grinned. “Seems he met some minor heiress there he’s thinking of courting. But we got bored squiring the ladies around to all their shopping, so Tris and Pierce and I came back this morning.”
No wonder she hadn’t seen any of them even from a distance for several days. Perhaps now Tristram would call. She wished she could think of a message for Florian to give Tristram, but she did not want to raise any curiosity, so she said goodbye and returned to the library.
The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the first flakes of snow beginning to fall. Catherine curled up on a chair before the fire and read as the storm turned into the first significant snowfall of the season, a white curtain so thick it blocked the view of the lake. Papa called to say he and Paul would stay at their club
She’d gotten so used to the men coming over to play in the afternoons, she paid them little attention. She didn’t approve, but she had, after all, recommended Mama not interfere and let the novelty of the Englishmen run its course.
The last invitation addressed and sealed, she rose and stretched. The sun had vanished and a chill penetrated the chamber.
So did silence.
Catherine tilted her head and listened. Not a sound save for the wind sighing through the trees.
Uneasiness took hold as she left the room and slipped into the drawing room next door. Mama and her needlework had gone. The music room door stood open.
Catherine crossed to stand in the doorway.
Florian perched on the piano stool. Estelle stood before him. One of his hands held the banjo. The other curled around Estelle’s fingers as they gazed into one another’s eyes.
A hundred words of remonstrance rose in Catherine’s throat but none emerged. The bitter ache of longing for someone to look at her with adoration, as Florian gazed at Estelle, blocked their way. Edwin had never once looked at Catherine like that.
As quietly as she could, Catherine took a step back and turned away. Her skirt rustled, but not loudly enough to interrupt the two young people.
She found Mama in the housekeeper’s room discussing arrangements for the tea. Perhaps Catherine’s face showed her agitation, for the housekeeper rose with some excuse about ensuring they didn’t need any provisions from the village before the storm hit in full, and left Catherine and Mama alone.
“I’m afraid Florian and Estelle are developing an affection for one another,” Catherine blurted.
“I know.” Mama toyed with her fountain pen. “It’s not the sort of match we would like for her, but if it dispels this notion of becoming a musician, so be it. He seems to be a nice young man.”
“He is. Or at least I never heard of him engaging in riotous living, and he’s been coming to church, but he has no prospects. He’s too much of a gentleman to work.”
“So, my dear, was your husband, yet you saw fit to elope with him.” The rebuke stung.
Catherine turned away. “I thought a title and land were enough. Now I know so much more is necessary for a husband. I doubt I’ll ever find another one.”
“You will if it’s what the Lord has for you.” Mama’s voice was gentle. “Lord Tristram—”
“Has no interest in me.” Catherine cut off her mother before she could suggest he was a potential mate. “And he’s not only English, he’s potentially heir to a title. Once was quite enough for me with regard to all that. Now I shall go chaperone those two before hand-holding leads to something inappropriate.”
She reached the corridor just as Florian prepared to leave. Estelle, rather than a footman, was handing him his hat and gloves.
He started to clasp Estelle’s fingers, then saw Catherine and drew back. “Lady Bisterne, how do you do?”
“Fine, thank you. Where is Ambrose?”
“He’s in the city with the Selkirks.” Florian grinned. “Seems he met some minor heiress there he’s thinking of courting. But we got bored squiring the ladies around to all their shopping, so Tris and Pierce and I came back this morning.”
No wonder she hadn’t seen any of them even from a distance for several days. Perhaps now Tristram would call. She wished she could think of a message for Florian to give Tristram, but she did not want to raise any curiosity, so she said goodbye and returned to the library.
The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the first flakes of snow beginning to fall. Catherine curled up on a chair before the fire and read as the storm turned into the first significant snowfall of the season, a white curtain so thick it blocked the view of the lake. Papa called to say he and Paul would stay at their club
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