Pale sunlight drifted in through the cloudy library windows, little specks of dust floating upon still air. The fire in the hearth had long died out, only flickers from quickly-cooling embers left to remember it by. Catherine stirred on a plush couch, her body stretched out like a weary lioness in winter. The light dappled at her pale face, shifting as the tree outside the window shook in the wind.

Throwing her hand over her eyes, Catherine frowned. After a few moments, she groaned and sat up, her dress crinkling around her. There would be no sleep left this morning–not with all this blasted light in the room.

Blearily wiping at her eyes, Catherine surveyed the chamber. The library was left quite untouched from the night before, and no one but she and Glenarvon would ever know the depths of emotion it had seen.

She shuddered as she thought of the pure humiliation the marquess had wrought upon her. She could still feel the cool night air upon her back and Glenarvon's fingers twirling softly through her hair. Smacking him would have been more than satisfying. It was too bad he had stopped her.

Today, the room was transformed back into an ordinary–if quite grand–library. The milky light of the fire was extinguished. The candles were all used up. Now it was only Catherine sitting here, left in the rubble of the mess she had made of her life.

She spread her hands across her dress, smoothing it out as best she could. It wouldn't do to leave the room looking like she was still in yesterday's clothes. Servants talked–or so she had heard.

The library door opened with a swift click, and Catherine stood at attention, startled by the sudden intrusion. A woman about her mother's age pottered in, wearing a stern dark grey frock and crisp white apron. The austere impression ended with her vestments, however. The woman hummed merrily as she came in, eyes nearly closed in rapture at her own music-making. Little lines framed her mouth, the result of many sustained years of laughter. She waved her small but weathered hands to her tune, as if conducting a mighty orchestra.

Catherine could not help but smile at the woman, for she was everything she never expected to see in this grand estate. Sitting back down on the couch, Catherine picked up a book and buried her face in it. She didn't wish to embarrass the woman by startling her with her presence, and at this point Catherine could see no real way of subtly announcing herself.

It took many minutes of pretend reading before Catherine heard a surprised gasp come from the corner of the room. Catherine looked up slowly as if she had been totally absorbed in the subject matter before her.

"I apologize, Lady Glenarvon," said the woman. Her voice wavered slightly with age, although she could not have been more than sixty. "I did not realize that the library was in use. I shall return to tidy up later."

"No," said Catherine with sudden desperation. She caught herself, calming her words. "I wouldn't want to get in the way of your duties. Anyway, I could quite use the company, I think."

"My company?" asked the woman, smiling ear-to-ear. "I suppose I did see Lord Glenarvon leave the estate early this morning. A new bride such as yourself probably feels quite strange all alone in a new house, begging your pardon. But I get away from myself."

"Exactly so," said Catherine, glad to finally meet someone who understood at least some small portion of her predicament. "I am not used to such a large estate as Castle Fen, and I am lost without my husband to guide me."

"Well," said the woman puffing up her chest with pride, "No one knows this house as well as me, excepting perhaps the lord Glenarvon himself." She bobbed her head in deference to Catherine. "I am Mrs. Farnsworth, Castle Fen's housekeeper, and I have been for these thirty years. I watched my lord grow from a babe to the man he is today."

As she spoke, Mrs. Farnsworth began to tidy up the library, moving straggling books from end tables and fluffing up pillows as needed. Pushing her novel away, Catherine stood. She felt quite unuseful as she watched the housekeeper transform the room. Finally, she picked up a pillow and began to fluff.

"Here," she said. "I might as well help."

"My lady!" cried Mrs. Farnsworth dotingly. "That really isn't necessary. This is but a mere half-hour's work and the girls will be in shortly to change the candles and clean the fireplace. I normally wouldn't do such chores myself, but the library is Lord Glenarvon's especial hideaway and I couldn't bear to let the duty go to anyone else."

    Catherine only smiled at Farnsworth and continued pressing the pillow into a perfect square, her fingers combing through its tangled tassels. Placing the pillow back on the couch, Catherine darted about the room, looking for more ways to be of use. She couldn't stop moving, not now.

She nabbed the book she had been pretending to read and rifled through its pages, making sure none were marked or rumpled. Making quick time of it, Catherine sashayed over to the bookshelf and settled the tome in what seemed like its proper place.

The shelves in the library housed many things other than books, and each little knickknack required its own care. One such item caught Catherine's eye, for it had been knocked severely askew. It was a little miniature–one of the smallest Catherine had ever seen. The tiny oil painting was of a young boy, probably not much older than five, dressed in his most dapper uniform. Catherine took the piece of art up, examining it.

Smart boots tapped up behind Catherine, and her nose filled with the powdery scent of roses.

"Ah," said Mrs. Farnsworth, a note of indulgence in her voice. "I see my lady has found the painting of Lord Glenarvon as a lad. It is such a likeness–or I suppose it was such a likeness. See how the artist has captured his black curls? One rarely finds such craftsmanship."

"Indeed," replied Catherine, quickly setting the miniature back in its place.

Mrs. Farnsworth picked it back up, her worn hands deft but affectionate. "Now, now," she said. "No need to be coy. He's your husband after all, begging your pardon."

"It's quite alright to be frank with me, Mrs. Farnsworth," Catherine said. "I'm not the sort of girl who requires the housekeeper to treat her like fine china."

Mrs. Farnsworth's eyebrows raised clear up to her wispy white hair. She waited a beat, her gaze roaming Catherine's face. When Catherine said nothing more, the old woman broke out into a wide smile, revealing all of her surprisingly white teeth.

"I can see why Lord Glenarvon chose you, then," she said. "You're every bit like him."

"Me?" asked Catherine. She shifted uncomfortably under Farnsworth's kindly stare. "I can hardly see how."

"You know," Mrs. Farnsworth said, glancing fondly at the miniature as if Catherine had not said anything at all. "In many ways, my lord has hardly changed from the day this likeness was painted." She paused, her brow quizzical. "Well, he has his two front teeth now. That is a very good thing, indeed, for it has really helped him grow in handsomeness. But, I remember the day he sat for this, he tugged at my skirts and asked me if he might help cook in the kitchens after he was done."

Catherine's brow furrowed. "So he was a good child, then." Too bad so much had changed.

Mrs. Farnsworth set the miniature down softly, taking care to arrange it for maximum visibility. "Yes," she said. "And he is just as good a man today as he was then."

The woman looked at Catherine with such sincerity. Struggling to keep her face neutral, Catherine merely nodded at Mrs. Farnsworth, as if Lord Glenarvon's good qualities were readily evident to her.

The old housekeeper clasped Catherine's hand in hers. It was quite cool, and the feel of her papery skin soothed Catherine, even as Mrs. Farnsworth turned her eyes to bore deep into Catherine's. "He can be stern, to be sure. But he only acts that way out of respect for every person in this household. Misuse of his time affects us all, and for ten years he has kept everyone on this estate clothed, fed, and warm. Every week he goes out to his tenants and speaks with them. There's not a farmer in the county that doesn't wish they tilled my lord's land. There is still much of that sweet boy in him, yes. But he has aged into a necessary practicality and we are all the better for it."

Catherine withdrew her hand from Mrs. Farnsworth's, her mind reeling. The housekeeper was smiling at her merrily now, her face completely changed from the serious mien she had worn just seconds before.

"No need to worry so much, my lady," she said, patting Catherine's arm. "You're in good hands here. Now, if you don't mind, I need to check on the kitchens." With that, Mrs. Farnsworth tottered out of the library without a backward glance, leaving Catherine alone with her thoughts.

To be sure, the housekeeper's vision of Glenarvon was quite different from what Catherine had seen of the man. There was little to recommend him but Mrs. Farnsworth's glowing opinion.

Catherine sunk onto the couch, her body limp. So, perhaps she could admit that she may have been incorrect in her assumption that the marquess treated his inferiors poorly. Still, that wasn't to say that he didn't treat Catherine poorly. A man might be lovely to his servants and hateful to his wife. And of course, Mrs. Farnsworth could hardly know about his baseless ongoing feud with Lord Daventry.

A housekeeper didn't see everything, Catherine decided. The woman was blinded by her love for Glenarvon, and why wouldn't she be? She had raised the marquess from his youth. She was bound to see more of his childlike qualities and less of the poor behavior he had adopted as an adult.

Still, as Catherine stood up and padded out of the room, she couldn't help but feel quite odd. She stopped at the door and turned to take another look at the library, her mouth pursed in worry. The little miniature of Lord Glenarvon smiled back at her troubled face, caught forever in a moment of sheer joy.

Shaking her cherry curls, Catherine swept away, shutting the library door behind her.