“Is that ledger more interesting than tea, Cathy?” a faintly amused voice asked. If it were not for the fact that the voice was obviously her grandpapa, the words reminded her of Tristan’s question right before they bonded over ledgers. “Or are you trying to terrify the page with your stare?”
Cathy did not look up. Lord Marlow’s familiar cadence was comforting, but she did not want to talk to anyone. Not now, anyway. She did not look up, her quill hovering over a page, a glob of ink threatening to fall from the nib. Normally, she would rush to put numbers on paper, afraid that she would ruin the page. However, today, she merely looked at it with a detached fascination.
Splat.
The ink finally dove for the page, spreading dark ink over the space below her last line. She was making a list of possible other investments she might venture into. While she might be married, she was already independent. Perhaps it was for everyone’s good that they had not consummated the marriage yet. He could still marry Miss Longrove.
I should not care what he does.
Her blood ran cold at the disaster a scandal would bring to her entire family, but what was even more unbearable was the pain in her heart. She dreaded admitting that, despite everything, she had fallen in love with her rake of a husband. And now she bore a painful hole in her chest to prove it.
“Cathy?” Lord Marlow’s voice was gently insistent.
“I am occupied, Grandpapa,” she replied, knowing her voice sounded brittle even to her ears. It was like everything about her was being crushed like dried leaves. “I am merely inspecting where the hidden four shillings charged came from.”
She looked at the page she was working on. For the first time, the numbers seemed to be betraying her. They blurred wildly, looking like a swarm of ants lining up for food. She blinked. Perhaps she was merely tired. Exhausted. Oh, but she knew it was not her body that was tired, even though her arms stung, but her heart and soul. The list of numbers stopped making sense, as she still saw Tristan’s eyes looking up at her while he cleaned her cuts.
“Dear girl, you have been sitting there for hours,” her grandfather observed. He stood by the window, the fading sunlight streaming in to illuminate him with his white hair and brown coat. By his feet, Napoleon slithered and yawned. His tailswished against the baron’s leg. “During all that time, you have barely moved to the next page. Even your perpetually drunk papa had managed more in that period.”
“I am planning, Grandpapa. Calculating. These things take time,” Cathy retorted. “I am not merely making a list.”
“Calculation,” the old baron echoed, lowering himself into a chair opposite Cathy’s desk. He did it slowly. At his age, he could no longer move as quickly as before, but there was a fevered energy in his eyes now. “Does calculation involve blood on the sleeves and the look of sheer misery on your face?”
Cathy froze. She took care to wear a long-sleeved dress. This was not much of an effort since everyone knew she liked dressing frumpily. Perhaps the word liked was wrong. She preferred to shield herself. This time, she was not able to hide herself, not really. There were blots of blood on her sleeves. The thorns had truly cut deep.
“The rose bushes,” she muttered. “I tripped into the hedge. It was a clumsy accident.”
“You, Cathy? You have not tripped since you were a child. Then again, you were adventurous then. I am certain you are one of the most sure-footed people I know.”
Cathy felt her throat constrict. The memory still shook her to her core. She could still feel Anne’s hands shoving her hard with the strength she did not expect from a smaller woman, and one who was with child.
Tristan’s child.
Oh, her heart still bled at the thought. She could not bear to think of that again, but it remained a physical weight in herstomach.
“It does not matter how it happened,” Cathy said softly. “What matters is that I am back here where I belong. The dowries for my sisters are secure. Our accounts are stronger than before. I am merely seeking other investment venues. Everything is in order.”
Her grandfather was quiet for a moment, but he was looking at her the whole time. Cathy wondered why and how he chose this moment to be quite perceptive and use his ear trumpet properly.
“You are exactly like your grandmama,” her grandfather finally said, with his gentle voice.
Cathy chuckled at the thought. “Is it my chin, Grandpapa? I remember you telling me these things when I was just a little girl.”
“Not your chin,” he said. “You look exactly like she did the day she almost let me go. We had a row, then, but I cannot recall the specifics now. She was too proud to admit she loved me. Instead, she rattled about the price of eggs and—”
“I do not love him, Grandpapa,” Cathy lied, as she looked at the ink smudge on her ledger with indifference. “He is a rake. He married me out of necessity. It is not like your and Grandmama’s marriage at all.”
She waited for her grandfather to agree. She thought he would sound disappointed. Instead, he hummed a little, tapping on the desk.
“I told you that you are just like your grandmama. You are being silly,” the baron declared, and she might have imagined it, but there might have been pity in his voice.
“What do you mean?” Cathy asked, frustrated.
“Because a woman does not look this miserable over a man she does not love. An independent woman who does her own accounts should celebrate her victory. Divorce may be out of the question, but you can be free and wealthy at the same time. A woman who is not in love would be excited about her new steps. She would not be sitting in a cramped library, bleeding through her dress while hiding from the rest of the world. You want to protect your pride, and I can understand it. However, pride is a cold bedfellow. Do you want to keep it company for the rest of your life?”
The old man reached for his granddaughter’s hand. She felt the leathery comfort that he provided. He gave her something to ponder about.
“The only thing worse than loving someone,” he continued, “is letting your pride stop you from fighting for them. Pride will not keep you warm, Cathy. It will keep your chin up and nothing more.”