“Grandpapa, stop poking the peas.”
Tristan focused on his plate and wondered whether he should just eat and avoid getting into the conversation. However, he knew that he insisted on coming and should be a good sport about it. Cathy, sitting next to him, had her head slightly bowed. Her hands were gripping her napkin under the table so hard that her knuckles had turned white. He reached for her hand beneath the table linens and squeezed it.
“It is all right,” he mouthed, smiling at her with what he hoped was a comforting look.
“So, Your Grace,” Madeline began, leaning forward as if she had a secret to tell. “Cathy mentioned you have a grand library, and I imagine it must be larger than the Longroves’.”
Portia finally raised her head from her book, suddenly intent on listening to the main conversation.“I believe we are due for a visit, Maddy.”
“Of course, but... What I would like to know is whether...” Madeline prodded. “I mean... Do you have any of those forbidden French novels Grandmama tries to hide from me?”
“Maddy!” Cathy exclaimed, widening her eyes at her sister.
Tristan only chuckled. “Miss Madeline, my library is supposedly strictly limited to the classics and those that I require for managing my estate. However, I am told there might be some novels of that nature behind some of the books on law.”
“Ha! I knew it!” Madeline was not in the least bit embarrassed by her request. “I knew your husband was secretly a hopeless romantic as well!”
Lord Marlow, who was so intent on slicing his ham, suddenly cupped his ear to ask, “What? What is that?”
“Cathy’s husband, the Duke, Grandpapa!” Madeline shouted. “He likes romance books.”
The baron smiled at that, relief seemingly appearing on his wrinkled face. He looked at Tristan with respect and, hopefully, recognition.
“A cook!” the baron exclaimed, clapping his hands with glee. “It is about time we have a decent one in the family. The last one could not even boil an egg without setting off a little fire. Welcome to the family, my boy! Let us have venison next time!”
Cathy groaned and covered her face with her hands, clearly mortified.
“Madeline said that the Duke has a lot of books, Norman!” the baroness shouted, trying to lean forward to reach her husband.
“Ah! I hear you, wife!” the baron replied, slightly looking disappointed. “Books are all good and well, but can he cook?”
Madeline could no longer help it. She burst out laughing, a laughter Tristan found so infectious. It was loud, but necessary to break the rising tension he felt in Cathy and Lady Marlow. Tristan could not help but join in.He could feel Cathy start to loosen up, and he was taken aback by how happy it made him to see her smile like that. Soon, she was more open to communicating with her family more naturally.
That is more like it.
“Pass the tarts, Portia. I believe I have had too much of the pheasant, and I believe I need something to rid my tongue of its taste,” Madeline grumbled, as she tackled the offending meat with her knife and fork.
Her sister did not even blink. She still seemed riveted by the book on Stoic philosophy on the dinner table. Her fork continued its impressive navigation over her plate with efficiency even without her looking.
“Then, Grandpapa was right. We need a new cook, Maddy,” Portia commented. “Unfortunately, we could not present His Grace as one.”
“That would be terrifying for me to end up as your cook.”
His lips twitched at the idea. He looked toward Cathy, who appeared to be just as amused as he was, instead of red with humiliation. Her shoulders shook with silent glee. The behavior did not seem to belong to the Duchess of Baxter, but to a young woman who had found herself at home.
“She is quite right, Maddy,” Cathy teased, “and besides, the pheasant is delicious, but perhaps slightly dry. It is nothing to fuss about. Save your breath for something more substantial for Portia, like a debate on Greek tragedy.”
Madeline groaned. “Apologies. I do not know what has become of me,” she apologized, while reaching for a tart so quickly it was clear that her appetite was not affected at all.
Meanwhile, Tristan had nothing to complain about. He held his wine glass loosely, happy to observe the scene now that his initial discomfort was gone. At Baxter Hall, everything was proper, a silent performance. Here, the air was buzzing. Alive. It smelled of lavender and roast meat, but most of all, it smelled like comfort.
He observed how capable Cathy’s hands were in providing her family with comfort. Her hands gracefully placed a large portion of tart onto Portia’s dish while the girl read her book.
“Eat, Portia,” her eldest sister said gently.
It was clear that it was a masked command. It seemed that Cathy was accustomed to being a motherly figure to her younger sisters. The thought created a tight knot in his chest. His wife was a mother, father, and even a steward for her sisters, even when she was still a young girl herself. She held the family together.
“You cannot live on books alone. You are growing too slim. Do you really want to faint in the midst of reading about Marcus Aurelius?”