Page 64 of Kathryn

“—and then Dove did the cleverest whitework around the puffed sleeves. Although I suppose one must call it pinkwork as it was done with pink floss on pink muslin. Regardless, it resulted in the most delightful border on my second favorite morning gown. No, my third favorite, now that I think more on the matter and—”

Smirking to herself, Katie found the color of floss she needed but had to untangle it from a half dozen others. Indeed, every single thread in the dowager’s basket was snarled and knotted. It was rather an achievement to have created such utter chaos.

“What a mess my basket is!” Betje tittered as Katie painstakingly untangled the blue floss. “I cannot seem to keep it tidy, no matter how hard I try. And now that my vision has become so poor it is such a dreadful chore.”

Katie could see where this was leading. “Would you like me to organize it for you?”

“Oh, would you?” Betje clapped her hands—one of her favorite ways to express happiness. “I would be excessively grateful. Dove usually sets it all to rights but grumbles and wears the most cross expression while doing so.”

Katie imagined that she, too, would be cross after untangling such messes for forty odd years.

“It would be my pleasure,” she said, not entirely lying this time. She hated to admit it but having something to think about—even something like tangled threads or needlework—was better than endlessly pondering Dulverton and their marriage.

She had tried several times to think about Betje’s advice from earlier that day about how Katie could pierce Dulverton’s wall of reserve, but most of her suggestions—insisting that he bring her to his dig, asking him to take her to the theater in Lyme Regis, or thrusting her company on him during the morning rides he apparently took most days, to name but a few—had sounded like recipes for disaster to Katie. She failed to see how forcing him to be around her would do anything but alienate him more.

Katie would need to ponder the matter, but not now. She glanced at the clock, wondering what time she could respectably retire and prepare for her nightly visit from her lord and master.

An unmistakable frisson of anticipation caused her thighs to clench at the thought of another night with him. She bit her lower lip, profoundly grateful the contents of her head were private.

Betje had not suggested it, of course, but perhaps Katie might ask Dulverton to stay longer tonight rather than leave the moment they’d finished coupling. Was there some rule that said they could only do it once per night?

You are a whore!

Katie scowled at the voice—her mother’s, of course—and hastily shoved the matter from her mind and turned back to the basket, laying out the snarled contents on the coffee table.

Betje yawned. “Do forgive me, my dear.”

Katie merely smiled.

“I don’t know why I’m so tired.” The dowager babbled for a few more minutes before yawning a second time.

Katie could not help thinking it sounded feigned.

“How rude I am, dear Katie. Would you mind terribly if I retired for the night? I’m afraid I am not accustomed to rising so early.”

Katie looked from the threads she’d just spread out everywhere. “No, of course not. I will accompany you if you wait a moment until I put all this—”

“No, no, no. You don’t need to go to bed. It is far too early for you.” She nodded to the contents of the basket. “I am so grateful to you, my dear.” The dowager got to her feet. “Good night, Gerrit,” she called to her son, who got to his feet, still holding his quill in one hand, an openly impatient expression on his face.

“Good night, my dear,” the dowager said as she leaned down and kissed Katie’s cheek.

“Good night, Betje.”

Katie was rather surprised when Dulverton left his desk long enough to open the door for his mother before immediately striding back to resume his work.

At first the library seemed oppressively quiet. But at some point, she sank into the near-fugue state that took over her mind when she engaged in what had once been her favorite hobby.

“Kathryn?” The way Dulverton said her name made her think it wasn’t the first time.

She glanced at the mess of threads—which she had loosened and was carefully untangling—and looked up to find her husband only a few feet away. “I’m sorry. I was off in my own world.”

“It is kind of you to set that to rights for her.”

“I don’t mind.”

For a change, he did not look impatient or arrogant, but thoughtful, his gaze resting on the tangled threads in her hands.

“Did you say something to me?” she prodded when it seemed he would just stare.