When they parted for the night, Hattie took her hand in both of hers. “Remember,” she said, “there’s a proper celebration in the Randolph for the Oxford chapter on Thursday. Be there at noon.”
Catriona nodded. On Thursday, she would be packing for Applecross.
By the time she was in her father’s carriage to the Campbell town house, her watch showed the witching hour, three o’clock in the morning. She was in an odd state of lethargy, her body exhausted, her mind still rushing with thoughts. Images of the chamber, broiling with their hard-won victory, and of Lucie, dressed like a fairy queen, kept looping past.
Wester Ross sat opposite her, his face turned to the window. The lenses of his spectacles reflected the light of the street lanterns, and it wasn’t possible to tell whether his eyes were open or closed.
“Sir,” she said softly.
“Yes, my dear?”
“I wondered . . . why have you never prevailed on me to marry?”
He looked at her with mild surprise. “Is marriage on your mind now? Has the change in the law worked a change on you?”
“I have wondered why you never remarried,” she admitted. “And a good match for either of us could have fixed our purse.”
Wester Ross remained quiet for so long, looking out into the night with such an absent-minded expression, Catriona suspected he had considered and then forgotten his answer, when he turned to her and said: “I loved your mother.”
A lump formed in her throat. “Of course you did.”
“Not everyone up in Applecross approved of our match.” The earl nodded, as if to himself. “Her father was an Englishman and she had roots in Sussex. It didn’t stop us.”
He had never shared of himself like this before. So much was left unsaid, deterred by the gulf between the generations or the walls of grief.
She seized the opportunity. “Were you worried the disapproval would drive you apart?”
He chuckled. “Oh no. I knew my mind. So did she. Sometimes, the unions that don’t fit the mold are the strongest. You only choose something complicated over a more conventional, and as such, convenient option . . . funny how these words are related, isn’t it, convenient, conventional . . . anyway, you only brave it when you feel very certain about it indeed.” He seemed to look far back in time now. Whatever he saw was making him smile softly in a way that took years off his face. “In Emilia, I had a companion,” he said. “A friend. A clever counsel. And so much joy. We were separate creatures, of course, but from the beginning, we were also extensions of each other.” He looked at her quite sharply then. “Let me be clear: if you found a love like that, I would expect you to marry. I would expect it for your own good. But as long as our finances permit it, I could never ask you to yoke yourself to a pale imitation of what your mother and I had. I don’t expect it of myself, either. Certainly not when we could be writing books instead.”
Her eyes stung. She exhaled slowly, scared that she would let out an ugly sob.
“She’d be very proud of you today,” said her father, “how much work and time you have dedicated to changing the course of history—child, what is wrong?”
Catriona pressed her fist to her mouth. “Papa,” she croaked. “I’m sorry. I have done something . . . I have kept something from you. I have caused trouble for you.”
She confessed what she had done about the artifacts.
Chapter 35
On Monday, after a quick lunch at the Lamb and Flag, Elias accompanied Nassim to the railway station. It was a pleasant enough day, so he decided to return to St. John’s in a roundabout way. On a whim, he let his walk take him past the Ashmolean Museum. He contemplated the charming building with narrowed eyes. He had made up his mind to let it go; there was no reason to go in and have a last look. He had decided to prioritize his woman over this, and he knew what it would cost him.
Still, he went ahead and entered. He greeted the clerk at the desk and wrote his name and the time in the ledger, ten minutes past one o’clock. The airy hall was largely abandoned; few people visited what still felt like a museum in progress.
He slid the key into the door lock at the Leighton room. His first warning should have been that the room was not, in fact, locked.
The room was empty.
A spot of nothing yawned under the skylight. The shelves were bare.
Elias stared at the situation in silence.
The clerk at the desk watched him approach with some alarm. “How may I help you—”
“Where are the artifacts from Mr. Leighton’s room?”