Chapter Five

Catherine could barely wait to find her mother. How could Uncle start announcing courtships? Nothing had been decided. She felt as embarrassed for Channing as she did herself and then horrified at what Salsbury might think. She threw her things at Moorsby, picked up her feet, and ran to her mother’s room. Knocking, she entered without waiting for a response. “Mother.”

She sat in bed, the candles still lit at her side, a book in her hand. The peace on her face gave Catherine pause. Since the loss of Catherine’s father, peace was a precious treasure for her mother. She walked more slowly, reconsidering what she could say.

Her mother patted the bed at her side, and Catherine climbed up to sit beside her. “What are you reading?”

“Our family journals.” Her smile lit her face.

Curious, Catherine moved closer. “Really? What are you learning?”

She sighed, a great glow of happiness so foreign to her usual pinched face. “The story of my grandparents. They loved each other very much.” Her smile was wistful. “And then I’ve been reading my letters from your father.”

Grandparents. Perhaps they would have answers as to what happened with the Salsburys.

“Tell me the stories. Of our grandparents.” She loved to hear them, all the fun family anecdotes passed down over the years, from the times before the Salsburys ruined their family memories.

Her mother patted her hand. “Another day. Now I want to read you some letters.”

She read, “Dear Julianne.” Her voice smiled while she read, and Catherine leaned her head back against the wall, listening. “You are my sun, my moon, and my stars all in one. Please ease my suffering and say you’ll be mine before that weak-minded Salsbury even asks for your hand.”

Catherine gasped. “Salsbury?” She widened her eyes.

Her mother nodded. “Yes, they both vied for my hand. And I flirted with the two of them, equally enamored. I suppose I loved them both, for different reasons.” She sighed.

Catherine was left reeling. “Father and Salsbury both wanted to marry you?”

“They did. They courted me, both often visiting at the same time, competing to stay longer than the other.” She giggled. “I received more flowers that month than I ever had.”

Catherine could see nothing funny at all in the situation. “One was bound to be hurt when the other won your heart.” She thought of the older Salsbury and for the first time felt a bit of pity for him. “Once Father convinced you he was the one . . .”

She sighed and shook her head. “It was Salsbury who convinced me.”

“What?” Catherine didn’t know what to say. “You preferred him to Father?”

“I did at last. But even after I explained that to both men, it was Aster who came for me. He said Salsbury had given up his suit.” She read the paper again, folding it up and placing it in her box. “He never came calling any more after that. He dropped out of my life, leaving room for only Aster.”

Catherine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “And Salsbury never forgave Father?”

“I don’t imagine he did.”

“Is that why they have done so many awful things to us all these years?”

“I fear it is they who have great reason to hate us.”

“What?” Catherine was astounded at the thought. “But Uncle is always vilifying . . .”

“I know. He has his reasons too, I’d imagine.” A great sadness filled her eyes, and Catherine regretted asking so many questions. “I’m sorry, Mother. Let’s talk of something else.”

“You must know the truth. Sometime I will tell you all.” She leaned her head closer to Catherine. “Let me read you more.”

“I met the Duke of Salsbury.”

Her mother’s hands stilled. “He is the image of his father.” Her small voice held a lilt of yearning, and Catherine wondered how much and for how long she had preferred the previous Salsbury.

“Why must we hate them so?”

Her mother shifted between journals and pulled out an old and worn book, the leather scratched, the pages yellow. “Someday I will tell you. Is he . . . a good man?” Her eyes searched Catherine’s face.

“I think so.”

She nodded, then waved her hand as if the discussion were over. She ran a hand up and down the old journal, as though it were precious to her.

Though Catherine waited, her mother would not speak more of it.