Chapter Five

Sunday, October 1, 1893

The Home of Josephine Clément

Montréal, Québec

Will had planned it perfectly, he thought: he would arrive at the very beginning of October so he could be there for whenever Sophie would give birth. They had no way of knowing when exactly that would be, but she had said October. And so here he was, fresh off the boat. He had arrived the day before in New York from the S.S. Majestic, the first time he had ever been only a passenger, and had taken a train upstate and into Canada. A cousin had accompanied him to act as a nurse for the baby until they were settled in Liverpool, but she had elected to remain at the hotel room so Will could see Sophie alone.

After he had spoken to his mother and decided what to do that past June, he had written to Sophie and told her that she was, under no circumstances, to give the baby to an orphanage, and that he would be there to take it. Sophie had written back, saying nothing but giving him the address where she was staying.

Montréal was like a different world compared to the other places he had been. It was also cold. The leaves were a brilliant orange, yellow, and red, fluttering about in the cool breeze as buggies, and carts, and people ambled past on the dusty streets. Everyone around him spoke French, all the signs in the windows were in French. When he stopped someone to ask for directions, they had simply stared at him before saying "No English" and walking away. What was he supposed to do if he couldn't find the house? Wander the streets calling Sophie's name? Eventually, though, he found someone who spoke English and who could tell him where to go, though they smiled a bit at his dreadful pronunciation of the street name.

Josephine Clément's house was situated at the end of a long, narrow street. It was a towering, brick townhouse that matched all the others around it, with three stories and a large maple tree dominating the minute front garden. Will stood at the bottom of the stoop and took a breath. This was it. He had traveled thousands of miles when he had thought, initially, that he would never see Sophie again. Now he would be returning to England with their child. He didn't even know when he would be returning; he had no idea when she would give birth.

Finally, when he could stand at the bottom of the stairs no longer, he climbed the steps and knocked three times. His heart felt like it was lodged in his throat. His hands were shaking and his mouth was dry.

The door was opened a moment later by a young woman in a maid's outfit.

"Oui, monsieur?" she said, eying him up and down.

"Erm, hello," Will stammered, "I'm, er… here to see Sophie."

Comprehension dawned on the maid's face, and when she next spoke, it was in heavily-accented English.

"Oh," she said, nodding, "you are William?"

"Yes."

The maid nodded again and opened the door wider so he could enter. Will stepped into a narrow hallway and followed her down past the carpeted staircase to a parlor at the back of the house. There, sitting on a chaise longue and staring morosely out the window, was Sophie Alton. Her long, dark hair hung about her shoulders, and she wore a simple, white dress.

The maid said something in French, and Sophie looked up. There was no emotion on her face when she met Will's gaze. And it was only then that he noticed: she wasn't pregnant. Or at least, she didn't appear to be pregnant enough to give birth at any moment. Had he been tricked? Had she lied to him to bring him all the way out there? But she looked away, and he followed her gaze to a cradle with white lace just within her reach.

Will swallowed. "You… you gave birth already?" he sputtered.

Sophie nodded. "At the end of August."

He felt as if all of the wind had been knocked from his lungs. She had given birth? He was father? And he had been for over a month? Just like that?

"W-Why didn't you tell me?"

Sophie shrugged. "Because I knew you'd be here soon enough, anyway. Come see them."

Will started to step toward the cradle, but then stopped in his tracks. His eyes grew wide.

"Them?" he repeated, staring incredulously at her. But she only nodded at the cradle again.

When Will looked into the cradle for the first time, it was as if nothing else in the world mattered, as if everything else around them melted away. Nestled together inside warm blankets were not one, but two identical babies. One was fast asleep, but other gazed up at him with the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen.

"Twins," Sophie said softly. "I had no idea. I've already named them, I hope you don't mind."

But he wasn't listening. He was gazing at the two sleeping babies as if he'd never seen anything like them before. He was in shock. They were absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful, the two most utterly beautiful things he'd ever seen. Will's eyes had filled with tears as he looked at his two brand new children, and he didn't bother to stop them as he placed a hand over his mouth. He was a father! To twins!

"Will?" Sophie prompted.

Finally, Will forced himself to tear his gaze from the baby who seemed to look at him so steadily, as if it already knew he was its father.

"What are they?" he asked, sniffing and wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I mean, are they boys, or—"

"Both girls," said Sophie, glancing past him at the cradle. "I named the oldest one Lillian Marie and the youngest Catharine Hélène. I call them Catey and Lilly."

"Catey and Lilly," Will whispered, turning back to the bassinet. The little newborn continued to look at him, moving ever so slightly under her blankets, but continued to keep her gaze locked on him. "Which is which?"

Sophie rose slowly and came to stand beside him at the cradle.

"This is Lilly," said Sophie, gently touching the blankets of the sleeping baby to her right, "and this is Catey." She brushed her fingertips against the cheek of the baby who looked silently at them.

"Hello, Catey," Will said softly, reaching over to stroke the baby's cheek before doing to the same to the other's.

Sophie looked at him. "You believe me, don't you?" she said, suddenly quite serious. "They're yours, you know. There's no one else but you."

But Will had eyes only for the two girls, his two beautiful daughters, the ones who had suddenly seemed to give his entire life new meaning and purpose.

"I know," he breathed. "I know."

Sunday, May 5, 1912

Christ Church

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Eighteen Years and Seven Months Later

The crowd of people milled about the old, brick church, speaking in undertones and whispers. The casket at the front of the sanctuary was empty, the body of seventeen-year-old Rose Dewitt Bukater never having been found. Sitting alone in front pew had been Rose's mother, Ruth, dressed head-to-toe in black with a long, lace veil hanging over her face, and Cal Hockley, Rose's fiancé. Toward the middle of the church, Cate had sat with her sister, grandparents, and Daniel Norcross and his family. Word had spread quickly once Rose's memorial service had been scheduled that more and more bodies were being recovered, and every day Cate waited with bated breath for a letter from Scotland, her grandparents telling her that Will had been found. As for James, she knew she would never know.

But for that day, Cate thought of Rose. The three young ladies had practically grown up together, always being a part of the same circle. When Ruth brought Rose to visit, they would play for hours together in the gardens, or hiding in the attics. Once Cate and Lillian had begun at boarding school, however, they had drifted apart, seeing one another only very occasionally during the early summer. It had been a surprise to everyone when Rose debuted in society so early, not long after Cate's and Lillian's debuts just after they turned eighteen. It was an even bigger surprise when they learned that, only months later, at only seventeen, she became engaged to Caledon Hockley, Philadelphia's most eligible bachelor.

On Titanic, Cate and Rose had spent more time together than they had in years, even though that was still a small amount of time. They had read together and eaten dinner together, and Cate had begun wondering at the shroud of melancholia that seemed to surround her when, as a child, she had been so full of life and laughter. So what had happened? What had changed? And why had Rose been one of only five women in first class not to survive?

Throughout the memorial service for Rose, Beth had been particularly somber. It was only as Cate saw her wipe away a stray tear that she realized: Beth knew what it was like to lose her child. She had lost both her children, first Michel in an accident and then Sophie to tuberculosis. She knew what it was like to be struck by the suddenness of the death of one's child and also to watch them suffer in agony for an extended period of time before finally being relieved by death. Cate felt a wave of pity for both her grandparents at that moment. Beth was many things, but no one could ever claim that she had not loved her children.

Once the memorial was over, there seemed to be an air of finality. Funerals and memorials were finally occurring all over the country. Mr. Ryerson, whose body had not been found, was to have a joint memorial service with his son's funeral in the coming week. Newspapers had printed that the body of Mr. Astor had been recovered, identified by the initials sewn on his jacket and the gold pocket watch he carried. The Altons and the Norcrosses rose from the stiff wooden pew and began to file out along with the others. When they reached the aisle, however, Beth seized Cate's wrist.

"Come," she said. "We must go speak with Ruth and Cal."

It was all Cate could do not to groan. She was utterly exhausted and had been since she'd returned from Washington D.C. with Adam the previous Sunday. After having gone days not sleeping on Carpathia, she had now taken to napping for a bit in the afternoons. She simply couldn't keep her eyes open. But she followed her grandmother up to the front of the church where Ruth and Cal stood alone before the empty casket.

"Ruth," said Beth, immediately opening her arms and taking her friend into them.

Cate, feeling somewhat awkward and out of place, turned to Cal. He looked just as sleepless as he had on Carpathia, just as pale with the same gray circles underneath his dark eyes. The difference was that he looked as handsome and suave as he had all those dinners, his dark hair slicked back, a bow tie perfectly straight at his throat. Underneath his arm was a velvet top hat.

"Cal," she said, reaching over to squeeze his hand gently. "I'm so sorry."

The smile Cal flashed her was quick and forced. "Thank you, Cate," he said.

Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of Cal's mother, Amanda, a beautiful woman with a kind smile. She gave Cate a quick hug and a kiss on both cheeks.

"Catharine," she said, smiling warmly, "we were ever so glad to hear that you were safe."

Cate wasn't sure how true this was, but she smiled, anyway and thanked her. She looked over to see Lillian and Daniel speaking with Julia Hockley, Cal's younger sister who was just about their age and one of Lillian's bridesmaids. When she turned back, she was startled to see Beth watching her, a shrewd look on her face. Whatever she was thinking, Cate knew, it probably wasn't anything good.

The Alton Estate

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Beth was quiet for the rest of the afternoon, which Cate found unnerving. Lillian, however, brushed it off, saying that she was probably thinking hard of her own children whom she had lost, but Cate wasn't so sure. Certainly, Beth had been thinking of Michel and Sophie during the service, but now… what was she thinking now? Regardless, Beth's withdrawal gave Cate a chance to slide out from underneath her hawk-like gaze and retreat to her bedroom to rest, feeling thoroughly exhausted from the day's activities.

"Are you sure you're feeling quite well, miss?" Esther asked as she helped to take the pins from Cate's hair and let it fall down her back. "You've been sleeping quite a bit more than usual."

Cate shrugged, pushing her black dress down her shoulders. "Perhaps I'm coming down with something," she suggested, "which is all I need right now. I'm just tired, is all. I can't seem to get enough sleep."

Truthfully, sleep seemed to give Cate the only relief from thinking about her father and James, though the former's photograph was shut tightly in her diary and the latter's gloves were shoved in the back of a drawer. She tried hard not to think of either of them, but inevitably someone would say or do something that sent her spiraling back to memories of the two men she had loved most in world, one of whose deaths she had caused due to her selfishness. Sleeping helped.

When she woke later in time for dinner, she felt no more rested than she had before the nap, only a bit more irritable than before. While she waited for Esther to pick an evening gown from the wardrobe, Cate looked across the room at the Chinese sewing box. The sliding bottom compartment contained her diary, which, in turn, held the only photograph she had of her beloved father. A very strong part of her wanted to look at it, only to see the face she so adored, but she knew she would dissolve into tears and be quite unable to go down to dinner, which would only annoy Beth and cause her to suggest that Cate was going mad.

For once, no guests had been invited to dinner. It was just the four of them seated around the large table, Henry and Arthur waiting on them with silver trays laden with food. On one hand, Cate was glad not to be surrounded by countless people she didn't know; on the other, fewer people meant Beth had no one else to speak to, which meant she usually chose to scrutinize her granddaughters.

"I didn't know you had grown so close with Mr. Hockley," Beth remarked airily, looking at Cate from across the table as she sliced into her filet mignon.

"I didn't, either," Cate replied coolly. "It sounds as if you might be hallucinating, Grand-mère."

Beth's eyes narrowed. "No, I don't think so," she said. "Did you see him often on the ship?"

"I saw all of them often," said Cate, arching an eyebrow. "Their suite was in the same corridor as mine, and because they were some of the only people I knew, I had dinner with them several times. I also saw the Ryersons a lot. What does it matter?"

She knew she was being rude, but she didn't quite care at the moment.

Beth continued to glare at her. "Right now," she said, "you are one of the most eligible young ladies in Philadelphia. Your sister has, mercifully, been snatched up, and while we would have rather she have waited until a more… profitable prospect came along, she, at least, has done what is required of her."

Lillian, clearly angry at the slight against Daniel, opened her mouth to interject, but their grandmother cut her off.

"You, on the other hand," she continued, "have not attended a single event since your coming out gala in September. I've had to explain away your absence to everyone who has inquired about you, but I imagine most of them have lost interest by now, waiting for someone who seemed like she would never return."

"Grand-mère," said Cate, now growing irritated herself, "there is not the slightest part of me that cares. What is your point?"

Lillian coughed to cover a laugh that had burst forth. Indeed, Cate thought she saw even Adam smile the tiniest bit. But Beth looked furious.

"I don't know where this newfound attitude has come from," she said, splotches of color on her cheeks, "but it needs to stop this instant. My point, my dear, is that on board that ship you seem to have already done some of my work for me by making the acquaintance of several young men."

"Most of those men," Cate said coldly, "are dead."

Beth waved her had dismissively. "Yes, yes, but not all of them. Caledon Hockley certainly isn't, and now he finds himself as Philadelphia's most eligible bachelor once again."

Cate stared at her in shock and horror. Beth was many things but this… this was a new low, even for her.

"Grand-mère," she said incredulously, "today was the memorial of his fiancée. Cal is grieving the woman he loved, and you're already trying to set him up with someone?"

"Not just someone," said Beth, a strange glint in her eye, "you. It would be perfect, of course: one of Philadelphia's richest bachelors with one of the city's richest young ladies. A tragic love story: two survivors of the greatest maritime disaster in history, brought together amidst their grief. Oh, everyone would eat it up."

"This isn't a novel, Grand-mère," Cate snapped. "It's real life."

"Nathan Hockley knows his son must marry, and soon," said Beth, continuing as if she hadn't spoken. "No one really thought Cal's and Rose's relationship would work out, least of all Nathan, and now he will see it as if he's been given a reprieve. What the Hockleys must see, Catharine, is that you are the best candidate. If I hadn't let you leave after your debut, it probably would have been you or Lillian engaged to him, not Rose. I'm still kicking myself for that, but no more. You're here to stay, and Cal Hockley is the perfect choice."

Cate shook her head. She pushed away her plated of untouched food and rose to her feet, suddenly feeling nauseated. She had known Beth was planning to marry her off, but this soon, and to a man who had just lost his fiancée? It was sick!

"You're mad," she said disgustedly. "I'm not going to marry Cal, so you may as well get that idea out of your head straight way." She tossed her napkin and stormed from the dining room.

As she left, she heard Beth sigh, "Since when did she adopt this flair for the dramatics?"

Tuesday, May 7, 1912

The Alton Estate

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

The letter in Cate's hands trembled with her touch as she held it loosely at her fingertips, staring at the familiar writing of her paternal grandmother, her name and her sister's name scrawled on the front of the envelope. Was this it? Was she writing to tell them that Will's body had been found? Cate yearned to open it, yet she knew she had to wait for Lillian. So she paced her room over and over, wondering if Lillian would even care if she didn't wait for her. Probably not. She was so ambivalent toward everything lately… but if it was to tell them that their father's body had been found, wouldn't she want to know at the same time that Cate did?

It was hours before Lillian finally returned home, and when she did, Cate all but dragged her up to her bedroom.

"We've received a letter from Nana and Papa," Cate said at last after Lillian had asked for the thousandth time, indignant about being pulled along.

"Oh." Lillian grew quiet. She stared at the letter for a moment before choosing a random spot on the wall. "You should read it out loud, then."

So Cate sat down on the writing desk, used a letter opener to slice open the envelope, and pulled out a single piece of paper. Taking a breath, she began to read.

To my darling girls,

We've received the news of your beloved father's passing from White Star Line. We hoped for some time that his body would be recovered for burial, but that does not look to be the case. As such, we have decided to hold a memorial service for our William on the first of June of this year, and we would very much like for both you girls to attend. Indeed, we've delayed it as late as possible in order for you to be there.

Please write back as soon as you can. Of course, you both may stay with us as long as you like.

Your loving,

Nana

Lillian sighed. "I wish we could go. I'm sure it will be nice."

Cate looked at her. "You don't think Adam and Beth will let us?"

Lillian stared, raising her eyebrows. "I'm not going regardless," she said, sounding surprised. "We would get back right before my wedding. I've got far too much to do between now and then."

The wedding. At this point, Cate was tired of hearing about Lillian's wedding; it was all her sister had been able to talk about since she and Daniel had gotten engaged at the end of last year. Their entire paternal family was not invited, and their own father had almost not made the cut. Several in "their crowd" had been surprised that Cate wasn't asked to be one of the bridesmaids, and while Cate had never cared, she was remembering why she and Lillian had drifted apart in the first place: they were too different. Even their father's death had not been enough to bring them back together for more than a few weeks.

"You astonish me," said Cate, shaking her head. "It's your father's memorial. And all you care about is a wedding that you could easily reschedule!"

"Easily?" Lillian repeated incredulously. "There's nothing easy about planning a wedding, Cate, something which you couldn't possibly hope to understand! I loved Father, but I'm not going to rearrange my life around him. You think he's up in Heaven, or wherever he is, shaking his head in disappointment at me?"

"You didn't love him," Cate fired back, jumping to her feet. "You ignored him and you hadn't even seen him for over a year before he died! The last time you did see him, you shouted at him! Do you know he spoke about you all the time? He could never stop talking about you, despite how much he knew you hated him!"

"Stop!" Lillian screeched, looking positively furious. "Don't you dare throw that in my face, Catharine Alton! Just because your relationship with him was perfect, you being so subservient and worshiping him even when he abandoned us, you think that means you loved him more? You didn't, you just didn't have anyone else! I, at least, had friends at school—all you had were books and sneaking into the university to read. You didn't love him more, you were just lonely!"

Cate almost laughed when Lillian said her relationship with Will had been perfect. On Titanic, it had been so very far from that. Before she could reply, however, Lillian cut across her.

"Why do you even want to go to the memorial?" Lillian demanded. "You do know you would have to sail again, right? You would have to sail right back across the same waters where he died… where you almost died. Is all that actually worth it to you, or do you just want to go so you can prove you were the better daughter?"

"Of course, it's worth it!" said Cate. "I would sail across the ocean in a rowboat to honor our father—it's what he deserves. He deserves for his only daughters to honor his memory, and by refusing to go, your spitting on his grave!"

"You're a sentimentalist," said Lillian, shaking her head. "Father knows I loved him, and that's all that matters to me. Not your opinion, nor anyone else's. I'm tired of you glowering at me because I'm not grieving in the way you would like me to."

"I'm not—" But Lillian interrupted.

"Who's James?" she demanded, crossing her arms.

Cate's eyes widened. She felt as if all of the wind had been knocked out of her. It was the first time she had heard anyone other than Lights or Harold say James' name after the ship sank. It was like a punch to the gut.

"What?" she sputtered, thinking wildly. "I don't—who—I—"

"Who's James?" Lillian repeated. "When you were screaming and sobbing a couple of weeks ago, you kept saying that you 'killed him.' I thought you were talking about Father, but then you mentioned someone named James. Unless you're talking about our uncle, which I don't think you are, you're talking about someone else who died in the sinking. So who is James?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Cate lied, knowing her sister would see right through her. Not only was she a bad liar, but Lillian had always been better at reading her than anyone.

"Don't flatter yourself by thinking you can fool me," Lillian scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I want to know who this James is and—"

"Stop saying his name!" Cate screeched before she could stop herself, clapping her hands over her ears. "Stop! Just stop!"

Lillian looked startled and suddenly much less malicious. In fact, she looked concerned, her expression softening.

"Cate," she said quietly, uncrossing her arms, "what is going on? I've never seen you like this."

"Please don't ask me about him," Cate whispered, sinking back down onto the writing desk chair, her hands still over her ears. "Please, Lilly, I can't take it."

Lillian sighed and sat down on the edge of Cate's bed. "It's not good to keep things bottled up," she said. "You've always done that."

This was certainly true—Cate had kept her true feelings about her father bottled up inside until they had exploded from her and nearly destroyed their relationship in the last days of his life. But she couldn't tell her sister about James. Not when she knew what blame lay on her shoulders, not when she felt she didn't even deserve to speak his name.

Cate spent the rest of the day trying to best think of how to approach her grandparents about traveling to Scotland for the memorial. It was a good distraction from wallowing in her own misery, she admitted to herself, though she was forced to remind herself why she wanted to go in the first place. Plus, she couldn't get too carried away: there would be no staying in Scotland; she would have to return to Philadelphia just as soon as the memorial was over. That is, if her grandparents agreed to buy her a steamer ticket.

So far, none of Beth's plans to set her up with Cal Hockley had been set in motion, but it had only been two days. Who knew what was up her sleeve? And Cate knew that these plans would only make it that much more unlikely for her to be willing to buy her a ticket to Scotland.

Nevertheless, she had to try. She couldn't not be present for her father's memorial. She needed to be there with her family. Cate paced the corridor outside the parlor over and over, wringing her hands together. How would she phrase it? How would she keep her temper if Beth said something rude or offensive? She wasn't sure, of course, but she had to try. She had scarcely seen them since that disastrous dinner on Sunday, preferring to have a tray (that she barely touched) brought to her room. Taking a breath, Cate gathered her nerves and walked into the parlor.

Adam looked up from his newspaper and Beth looked up from her book. She arched an eyebrow.

"The princess descends from her tower," she said coolly. "Is your temper tantrum quite finished?"

"Yes, Grand-mère," said Cate, walking over and sitting down across from them on an armchair. Both of them stared; this was something she had never done before. "I have a request."

Beth snorted. "That is certainly rich," she said.

Adam rolled his eyes. "Let her speak, Beth."

Cate took another deep breath before speaking, choosing her words carefully. "My paternal grandmother wrote me a letter," she said, "to tell me that they will be holding a memorial service for my father on the first of June. I was wondering if you would be willing to buy a liner ticket so that I may attend."

Now Beth laughed outright. "Absolutely not," she said. "Do you remember what I said on Sunday? You're not going anywhere, Catharine, and I meant it. No more gallivanting across the globe when we need to get you settled."

"Now, hold on, Beth," Adam urged, "let's think about her request."

"There's nothing to think about," Beth snapped. "She would be gone for at least two weeks, in which time I could get my plans with Hockley in motion. If she disappears again, he may forget all about her."

"Two weeks isn't much time," said Cate, struggling to keep calm. "I would be back in time for Lillian's wedding."

"No," Beth said firmly, shaking her head. "I've had enough with not being able to keep an eye on you. You're going to stay right here, and that's final."

Wednesday, May 8, 1912

The Alton Estate

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

It had been almost fifteen years since Sophie had died, and yet Cate could still the lingering effects of her death in Sophie's mother. Beth often withdrew into what had been her daughter's bedroom, locking the door behind her and staying in there for hours. She could be found gazing up at the portrait in the drawing room or at the one in the parlor of her son, Michel, lost in her own thoughts and memories. These were the only times when Cate could possibly see her grandmother as a real person.

After thirteen years of living in this home with its thirteen identical windows on both sides, Cate had never been in Sophie's room. Only Beth went in there to mourn and the maids to dust. She questioned her own motives as she stood outside the closed door. Beth was out at the cemetery to place flowers on her children's graves and Adam was at some important meeting for English members of nobility in America, or something along those lines. Lillian was out having luncheon with Daniel, leaving Cate alone with the servants who, she knew, would pay her no mind.

The door didn't creak as Cate turned the handle and pushed it open. The room, after fifteen years, didn't look much different from the other rooms in the house, with its four-poster bed, the bureau, the writing desk, and the chaise. But it had touches that the guest bedrooms did not: hairbrushes and hair ornaments lying out on the vanity, a jewelry box that was partially open. The wardrobe was devoid of clothes, but the bed was still made, as if Sophie was to be expected that evening.

Cate rarely thought of the woman who had given her life. She rarely thought of her as her mother, only as Sophie. All her life, she had imagined Sophie as cruel and emotionless, a woman who didn't care that she was giving away her two only daughters, only to try to replace them years later without success. Had she thought of them at all, or had she cast aside their memories like scrap paper?

Yet, at the same time, the Countess of Rothes had told Cate that Sophie had been a very sweet person. Had she meant it, or had she only been saying that as a matter of propriety? It was hard to imagine Sophie as sweet, but then, why had Will fallen for her in the first place? There wasn't even the smallest part of Cate thought it had only been lust between them. He simply didn't seem the type to bed a woman for a night and then forget about her. Perhaps Cate and Will were similar in that area, too: perhaps they both had a propensity for falling in love quickly.

Shaking these thoughts from her head, Cate began pulling open drawers. Most of them were empty, but some still contained more hair ornaments, various jewels, and odds and ends from a forgotten time before the turn of the century. Then, tucked away in the bottom drawer of the bureau, she found them: stacks of small books, all embossed with the initials "S.A." Her diaries.

Kneeling on the floor, Cate pulled out the first one and opened it to the very first page. She had never seen her mother's handwriting before. "Mother is infuriatingly relentless and Father is infuriatingly passive. If she refuses to allow me to go to the gala held by Millie's family, I might just have to do something drastic." The date scrawled at the top told Cate that the entry had been written when her mother was sixteen, probably before she had made her debut. Shifting through the diaries, she found others written when Sophie was a teenager, lamenting that she couldn't wait to make her debut, or that she was tired of how overbearing her mother was and how absent her father was. Cate paused when she read that.

"Father is never around. I feel as if I hardly see him, and even when I do, his mind is somewhere else, far away from his family. I feel as if we, his children, were thrust upon him, and now he's stuck in a life he never wanted. I feel as if, deep down, he resents my brother and me for existing when he would rather be elsewhere."

It was eerie, Cate thought, how closely her mother's thoughts had echoed her own. Except for Cate, her father really had been worlds away. When he was present, though, it had seemed like there was nowhere else he would rather be. At least for a while.

That night, Cate decided to make her final argument. Approaching Beth and Adam after they had returned home had done no good, with Beth only becoming even more annoyed and snapping at Cate to leave her alone. Pleading that she had never asked them for anything before had been to no avail, saying it would be the last time she would get to see her paternal family had done nothing. So now she had to bargain.

Before Cate could even say a word as they filed into the dining room that evening, Beth snapped, "If you even think about mentioning you going to Scotland, I shall box your ears."

"I do have one more argument," Cate said lightly as she sat.

Beth's eyes flashed. "Listen here, young lady—"

"Beth," Adam said loudly, "give her a chance to speak."

"If you agree to buy me a ticket for a ship to take me to Scotland," Cate began, choosing her words carefully, "then I will…" She took a breath. "I will agree to go along with any plans you have for me without complaint the moment I return."

Lillian's eyes grew wide as Beth's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Perfect!" said Adam when Beth didn't respond immediately. "What better bargain could there be, Beth? You'll have her married off before the end of the year, which is exactly what you wanted, isn't it?"

Cate winced, but Beth ignored it.

"Fine, she said at last, tossing her napkin down onto her empty plate. "We will buy you passage to Southampton and a train ticket to whatever it is that town your family is from. Do not expect an extended stay, Catharine. You will arrive in time for the memorial and you will leave. You will make it back in time for your sister's wedding, or I shall ensure that you are married off to a troll within a week. Am I understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Cate, hardly daring to believe that she had, for the first time, gotten her way. At a terrible cost, no doubt, but it be worth it to see her family again.

"Lillian," Beth barked suddenly, "do you wish to go?"

Lillian stared down at her plate. "No, ma'am," she said quietly.

"Good," said Beth, sounding satisfied. "At least one of you has some sense."