Page 91 of The Duchess Trap
“My dear girl!” Catherine had just turned back toward the pavilion when the familiar, commanding voice broke through the hum of conversation.
The Dowager Duchess of Raynsford was sweeping toward her, a vision of silver lace and good humor. Guests parted instinctively as she passed. Her sharp eyes softened when they found Catherine.
“Your Grace,” Catherine said warmly, dipping her head.
“Nonsense, child. You will call me Grandmother, as you are my granddaughter.” The dowager took both her hands, eyes bright with satisfaction. “I have been watching you from across the lawn. Do you know, I have never seen my grandson smile so much in one evening?”
Catherine blushed. “He smiles more than he wishes people to think.”
“Then you have discovered the secret of it.” The older woman’s gaze grew shrewd but kind. “Marriage suits you, Catherine. It gives you color.”
“I think happiness does that,” Catherine said softly.
“Then keep it, my dear. Heaven knows it has been long in coming for this family.”
They found a bench near the fountain and sat. The air smelled faintly of roses kept alive under glass; music from the orchestra drifted through the open doors.
“I hear you have been at Brightwater again,” the dowager said, folding her fan with a snap. “The servants tell me half the household is in awe of your energy.”
Catherine smiled. “It is a place dear to me. The children… they remind me of what matters.”
“And what grand scheme occupies you next?”
Catherine hesitated, then decided honesty was safest. “Christmas.”
“Christmas?”
“At Brightwater. I mean to spend the day there with Duncan. And with the children. They’ve never had a proper celebration.”
The dowager’s brows arched high. “You intend to spend Christmas in anorphanage?”
“Yes.” Catherine met her gaze steadily. “It seems the only proper place for it.”
For a moment, the older woman said nothing. Then, to Catherine’s relief, she began to laugh, a rich, delighted sound that turned heads.
“My dear, you are outrageous. And absolutely correct.” She patted Catherine’s hand. “You shall have whatever you need: ribbons, sweetmeats, musicians if you wish. We will make it an event to shame every ball in London.”
Catherine’s heart swelled. “You would help me?”
“Help you? I shall orchestrate it. I have not planned a proper Christmastide celebration in years.”
Catherine laughed, the sound bright and young. “The children will never forget it.”
“Nor should they. But promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That you will allow me to see my grandson smile like that again before the year ends.”
“Higher—no, not that high! You’ll pull the whole garland down, Thomas!”
The boy froze halfway up the ladder, a strip of ribbon dangling from his teeth. “But it looks crooked from here, Your Grace.”
“It looks perfectly straight fromdownhere,” she called, hands on her hips. “And I am the one standing where guests will see it.”
A chorus of laughter rippled through the hall. Pine branches, ribbons, and scraps of colored paper lay everywhere; the scent of baking drifted from the kitchen, mingling with beeswax and cold air from the open door.
Catherine felt both triumphant and frazzled. Every child in Brightwater seemed to have found a task—most of them loud, none of them tidy.
