Miss Skinner left Plas Bryn that afternoon. She was not entirely embarrassed; the servants prepared a carriage for her and the stable master drove it. Yet her pride must have been smarting, for she did not come to say goodbye to Cate.

Or perhaps Demery arranged it that way. He had arranged some things, anyway, because after Miss Skinner was gone, a servant came to tell Cate that she would be dining with Sarah downstairs and did she wish to get dressed and do her hair? Cate did not wish; she was tired and upset and the thought of wearing her best dress next to someone as polished as Sarah made her miserable.

At six-thirty, Sarah's maid came to ask if Cate knew that Sarah preferred red wine to white. Cate considered herself informed.

At a quarter-to-seven, Sarah's maid returned to ask if the soup contained mushrooms, for they gave Sarah indigestion. Cate said it did.

At five to seven, Sarah's maid came back again to ask if the mushrooms could be removed from the soup. Cate, who was beginning to feel rather bothered by the intrusion, sent for the housekeeper, who sent down to the cook, who sent back that as it was mushroom soup, the mushrooms could not be removed from it.

For half-an-hour, there was peace. Cate put Luke to bed and then lay on the sofa, still in her morning gown with a thick woollen shawl over her shoulders, staring at the ceiling and letting her thoughts drift. She was not looking forward to the dinner. She had much rather dine alone, particularly as it seemed that Sarah was fussy. But she supposed it would be rude to ask a guest to dine alone on the first night of her visit — even if the guest was uninvited.

At half past seven, Sarah herself came into the room, after a polite but determined knock. She now wore a claret-coloured evening dress. It set off her dark hair and eyes and made her face seem ivory-white and very smooth.

"You are not dressed!" She said. "Do you feel unwell?"

"I was just about to get ready," Cate said.

She had meant to brush and pin her hair and get rid of her shawl. It had not occurred to her that Sarah would wear an evening gown. It seemed very extravagant for a quiet country dinner à deux, but it made Cate unsure of her own appearance.

"Then I won't disturb you." Sarah retreated back to the door. "I just wanted to ask you if you know if David will drink white wine or red, for I can drink white if no one else wants red."

Cate sat up straighter. "David is coming to dinner?"

"Why would he not be? He must be hungry."

"Yes, but..." Cate trailed off. She had not dined with Demery since their marriage. Of course, he did not wish for her company. He had made that clear. But when there had been guests to tea she had come down a few times, offered Luke up to meet them, and played the part of the polite hostess. Sarah was a guest. Perhaps that changed things.

Cate looked down at her morning gown, crumpled and stained with Luke's drool. "I think I should get dressed."

"But about the wine?" Sarah hovered by the doorway.

"You should drink whatever you please."

Sarah looked doubtful.

"It will make no difference to Demery or me," Cate said. "Truly."

Sarah pursed her lips together. "Then I will drink red."

She left. Cate scrambled up from the sofa and rang the bell for her maid. She was untangling the knots in her hair and trying desperately to decide between a pale pink evening gown which made her look washed out and a poppy orange day dress which might be elevated by jewellery when her maid arrived. Her maid was a forthright, perceptive woman who made the decision for her: Cate went downstairs only slightly late for dinner in a plain white day gown with a Marie-Louise blue dressing gown over it. She was, after all, meant to be sick, and her maid said that the blue brought out her eyes.

When she entered the little dining room, she found Sarah sitting alone at the table. The dishes sat under silver covers and a glass of red wine sat untouched at Sarah's side.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Cate said. "Is Demery not here yet?"

"He has not come down. It is unlike him to be late." Sarah frowned. "I shall go and fetch him."

It was Cate's house, and she ought to have done the fetching, but it was easier to let Sarah go. Cate went to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of soda water. The aroma of mushrooms and beef gravy rose from the covered dishes and made her stomach rumble. She was keenly aware that she had not eaten much more than porridge and toast for days. She lifted the cover on a dish of stewed vegetables and debated stealing a carrot. No one would notice. As she was debating, a serving maid entered and she hastily put the cover back and went to sit down. She paused. For the first time, she noticed there were only two places set at the table.

"There should be another place," she said. "Would you fetch another setting please, Mary? We will all be dining together."

The maid bobbed her knees. "I beg pardon for the contradiction, Mrs Demery, but the master said he would dine in his room."

"But Sarah said..." Cate frowned, as the truth of the situation came to her: Demery had arranged for them to dine together because it would be rude to ask a guest to dine alone, odd to dine alone with a female guest while his wife stayed upstairs, and impossible to dine with her. She should have known. He had done everything he could to avoid her since their wedding and after what he had said to her, what he had overheard this afternoon, he was no doubt more resentful of her than ever. "Oh."

"Should I send a message to Mr Demery?"

"No, thank you. I will wait."

It was a long, hungry wait. Cate thought sadly of the food growing cool under the covers as she sipped her soda water. When Sarah finally returned, Demery was following her, his shoulders hunched like a scolded dog. He gave Cate a very correct bow and wished her good evening. Mary silently went to get another setting.

"Will you drink red or white?" Sarah asked. "I am drinking red."

Demery glanced at Cate's glass of soda water. "Red, then."

They sat and sipped. Sarah looked around the room with interest.

"You have not yet renovated in here."

"Not yet."

"Have you thought about colours? I like the deep red wallpaper, though it is shabby now."

"I will defer to my wife's opinion, but the renovation of this room is not a priority."

"What a pity for your entertaining."

"We will not be entertaining much."

The maid returned, set Demery's place, and ladled bowls of mushroom soup. It was cool enough that Cate could gulp it down. Demery sipped it more sedately while Sarah sat without touching it, looking virtuous. That she was not eating gave her the chance to soliloquise while the others ate.

"I do think that you could liven up the country if you chose. My father's dinners used to be quite famous. People would come all the way from Bangor. Not that he was extravagant, like Londoners are. There were no peacocks or pineapples or, or... ice sculptures. Just good, plain food and good, plain drink, and good, plain company."

"Sometimes—" Demery swallowed a mouthful of soup "—the company was very plain indeed."

Sarah giggled. It was a rather awkward sound, coming from a woman so tall. "Well. I confess I enjoyed it. But I've never been, how should I put it... an over-delicate woman."

"No. I would not say you have."

Perhaps Sarah was disconcerted. She observed them eating for a few solid minutes, then she continued, "I just mean that everyone is so sleepy and sedate around here. There is little to do. The assembly ball every month or two in Holywell. Church on Sundays. Walking when the weather is good, which is not often. Sea-bathing very rarely. A few quiet dinners at a few quiet houses — you probably dine with the Vaughns and the Bevans and Sayers every other week. And at those dinners, you probably talk of the rain, and inquire about so-and-so's health and then you play whist for ha'pennies and perhaps somebody's wife or daughter ventures to sing, or play the pianoforte, and I do not know that anybody around here sings very well, so you all take another stiff round of port and eventually someone says that it is getting on, though it is not yet eleven, and everybody calls for their coaches and goes home. My father's dinner parties were quite different. To begin with, I was not allowed to sing, and we played backgammon or farro. And nobody ever talked about the weather. I am quite sure, David, that if you took to holding dinner parties, you could give people something better to talk about than the weather."

David shrugged. "We do not dine with the Bevans and the Sayers."

Cate scraped the last of her soup from her bowl. "We do not dine at all."

"But why on earth not? There is nothing else to do here."

Demery was still eating his soup. Cate pushed her plate away.

"I am not in a position to dine," she said flatly. "My standing in society is... shadowed."

"You mean the baby. People will forgive that sooner or later. After all, they forgave Laura."

Demery's spoon clinked into his soup bowl. "Laurie did nothing that deserves forgiveness. She was the one wronged."

Sarah let out the awkward giggle again. "I know that. But in the eyes of society, David, it is all the same."

Cate wondered what exactly Laurie had done — or what Mr Wynn had done, more likely. How had he died? If Demery had not been there, she might have asked Sarah. But she did not dare while he looked so cross.

He was finished with his soup. The maid took the bowls away and lifted the lids on the dishes. Demery stood to carve the beef. His hands on the carving tools were all sinewy, brown, and strong. Cate shivered and looked away.

When they were all served beef and potatoes and stewed vegetables and devilled oysters, nothing but the clink of cutlery on china disturbed the peace. The soup had sated Cate's ravening hunger, and she was able to eat with tolerably good manners. Demery ate in determined, steady silence. Sarah sucked oysters down her throat and sipped wine at a leisurely pace. Eventually, she began to speak again.

"It is like a monastery in here!" she said. "Shouldn't we have some conversation?"

"If you wished for conversation, you had better have stayed in London," Demery said.

"Yes, but I wanted good conversation. Intelligent conversation."

"I am in short supply." Demery ploughed on determinedly through his stewed vegetables.

Sarah put her elbows on the table and looked at Cate. "Does he not vex you?"

"For not speaking?" Cate was confused. "No. I am in the mood for silence."

For all of five minutes she had it. Sarah sucked three more oysters and nibbled at some potato.

"What do you think of that new bridge?" she asked to no one in particular. "It has just opened up, I believe."

"The Menai Bridge?" Demery asked. "I have not yet seen it. But I believe it will be very convenient, yes, to have a bridge to Holyhead."

Cate was vaguely aware of the construction of the bridge. It had been in the newspapers.

"Apparently it is an architectural marvel," Sarah said. "Perhaps you will take me to see it, David, now that I am here?"

"I was not aware you were interested in architecture."

"I am interested in many things."

"I will take you if you wish, but it is no interest of mine. A bridge is a device to take you somewhere else, to cross a river or an abyss. It is not a place to go for itself."

"I am sure your wife would not agree with you!" Sarah looked at Cate. "What do you think?"

"I do not have a particular opinion," Cate said.

That avoided the necessity of agreeing or disagreeing with Demery. But a small part of her thought it would be rather nice to show the bridge to Luke, if it were an architectural marvel. Or even if it weren't. He had never seen a really big bridge before.

"What do you have opinions on, Catherine?" Sarah asked. "Are you passionately fond of music or art or anything?"

"I enjoy music. I can play a little."

"There are instruments somewhere about the house. A harpsichord that I brutalized. I never could get the hang of it. It should still be here somewhere."

"I believe it is."

There was another long silence.

"David has never been musical either," Sarah said. "I am afraid it does not run in our family. I don't think he even likes to listen."

The last was said in an accusing tone, as though she expected him to defend himself, but he did not even look up. He was concentrating on the potatoes.

"Then perhaps I will give up playing and spare him," Cate said. "Though I don't think I have played, really, since..."

Demery looked up from his potatoes. There had been days during their courtship when she had played a little piano for him. She had not played since. Perhaps he had only pretended to enjoy it, if what Sarah was true. Perhaps it was for the best that the piano here lay under a dust sheet and was out of tune.

"I understand married women often give up playing," Sarah said lightly. "I suppose it does its job to get you the husband to begin with, but it must be rather a chore — I always found it a chore. But then, I had no talent."

Sarah stopped speaking to nibble on some stewed carrots. For some minutes there was peace. Then Sarah finished her carrots and resumed her soliloquy.

"I do think it is amusing what some women give up once they are married. Their looks, their figure, their wit, their talents. As though once they are secure of a man, they can stop trying to deserve him. For me, I maintain my reading and my dancing and my figure and my looks because they give me joy, not because I hope to earn a man's house with them."

Cate tried to think of something polite to say. "That is very diligent of you."

"But then I never had put all my hopes on marriage. Which is perhaps a good thing, for I doubt I will marry now."

Cate doubted it too. She did not think men liked women like Sarah. Sarah was so very certain of herself.

After that, conversation mostly halted, other than a few other remarks from Sarah about Plas Bryn or the surrounding country. It did not take them long to finish the meal. Unprepared for guests, the servants had been able to prepare only the soup and five dishes. The maid removed the last of the plates and placed a bowl of walnuts in the middle of the table as substitute for a second course.

"I despise walnuts." Sarah pouted. "Shall we go to your sitting room Cate, and have a chat? The drawing room has too chilly an atmosphere for two."

"I'm a little tired for a chat," Cate said. "And our dinner was late. I had much rather just go to bed."

Besides, she resented that Sarah had invited herself into her sitting room. That was Cate's private place. And it was Cate's place too to suggest they leave the table. Not for Sarah, the guest, even if it had once been her house and she mistress of it.

"You and David can chat," Cate said. "Perhaps have another glass of wine. It might improve the walnuts."

That was a little rude of her, perhaps, but she was not sure she liked Sarah, and, besides, she suspected Sarah was the kind of person who did not clearly see rudeness offered to her or the rudeness she did to others.

She stood and left, only stopping at the door to say goodnight to them both. Upstairs in her apartments, she went to her bedroom and divested herself of slippers, stockings, and day gown, before slipping back into the dressing gown and slowly unpinning her hair. She realised that she was tired. Or perhaps merely sad. Demery had sent Miss Skinner away. She might tell Cate's father the truth about Luke. And Demery would not forgive her for what she had done. Nor could she blame him. A lump grew in her throat and tears pricked at her eyes. She put down her comb and went through to Luke's room, where he was sleeping peacefully in the cradle, his little chest rising in and out. She wiped tears from her cheeks and watched him. To hold him would make her feel better, but she did not wish to wake him.

A soft knock at the door broke through Cate's tears. She turned to see Demery in the doorway. He could not have remained long with Sarah in the dining room. When he saw her tears, he drew back a little.

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm only sad. That's all." She wiped her eyes. "Did you need something?"

"I came here for a conclusion to our earlier conversation."

"Was it not concluded?"

"No. I left in a temper. I had something more to say."

"Then, please, say it. I am listening."

He pressed his lips together. "I want you to understand that I left London to attend to you, believing you to be very ill. In doing so, I lost the chance to garner the support of an important investor in my mines. I am hurt and angered by your deception, Cather— Cate. But the financial consequence — you will share them with me. And the people of this village, my labourers and tenants, they will share them too. I want you to understand that."

Cate took a deep breath to ward off more tears. "I'm sorry."

"I did not come here to seek apologies. I came so that we might understand each other. You are not my only responsibility, and you, too, have a responsibility towards me and the people who make their livelihood from my land. You failed to uphold that responsibility by allowing Miss Skinner to do what she did, to treat you, and me, the way she did."

His tone was serious but unheated. Cate shut her eyes. She had never before considered her responsibility towards Demery. She was not his wife in the true sense of the word, but that did not mean she did not owe him something. At the very least, honesty.

"I really, truly am sorry."

"I know."

"I won't lie to you again. I promise."

Demery kept her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Then tell me why you didn't oppose Miss Skinner. She's little more than a servant, Cate. She's no threat to you."

"She said she would tell my father the truth about... about Luke's father. And what I did." Cate stroked a lock of Luke's hair. "He would kill me."

"That's hyperbole, Cate. Let us think logically. Anger would be a natural response, certainly. It is never pleasant to find out your loved one has lied to you. But your father already has reasons to be angry with you, and he did not kill you. He sent you away to have the baby, and supported your exile from society. And then he sent you to marry me, so that you might recover some standing in society. The consequences of his learning the truth would be further hurt for him — that he would discover further betrayal. You would unharmed."

Cate shook her head. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

But she could not. There weren't the words.

After a brief silence, Demery continued, "Miss Skinner's threat to you is only as powerful as you allowed it to be. You could not be afraid your father would hurt you. You were afraid he would understand you, and that you would be humiliated by his understanding."

Every word he spoke was like a knife to Cate's heart.

"Am I wrong?" Demery asked after a moment. "Or do your tears indicate I have struck something close to the truth?"

"Don't torment me. You don't know what my father is like."

"I know he is strict and cruel. But you may tell me the details. I am happy to hear anything you wish to tell me."

Cate shook her head. "I don't want to speak of him."

"Then let us speak of your brother. Why could you not tell him the truth?"

Cate's heart skipped a beat. "You saw Luke?"

"In London." Demery reached into his pocket and took out a letter. "He wrote this for you. I suppose I'm just surprised, really, that you could tell me the truth, tell Miss Skinner the truth, and not your brother. I thought you were close to him."

"Haven't you ever had a secret that you would sooner tell a stranger than someone you love?"

Demery stared at her. "No." He seemed absolutely bewildered. "The people I love are those I trust most."

"It's not about trust. I don't want him to think badly of me. But you... you already do."

"So a little more won't hurt?" Demery shook his head. "You confound me, Cate." He held the letter out towards her. "Never mind. When you have a reply, give it to me, and I will ensure it is given to your brother without your father knowing."

She took the letter. "Thank you."

Demery gave her a brief nod in response. He looked down at Luke, asleep in the cradle, then bent and kissed his brow. He was so gentle that Luke did not even stir. Cate's heart ached with inexplicable yearning.

"Good night, Cate," he said in an ungentle voice. "I suppose I'll see you tomorrow."

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2022-02-27: Long chapter is long.