CHAPTER NINE — AN INVITATION REWRITTEN
The supper guests began arriving as dusk fell over the fields.
Carriages rattled across the gravel, and the house filled with perfume, leather, candle smoke, and conversation.
Catherine stood at the entrance in a dark green dress.
She had chosen it specifically because it looked nothing like the blue cloak in Pike’s picture.
Julian greeted each visitor with the brightness of a man expecting a successful evening.
Martin remained close to the staircase.
He was pale, and he had declined wine twice.
Samuel waited in the back corridor beside Liza and three other members of the household staff.
Pritchard watched them as if a single misplaced step might derail the evening.
At seven o’clock the rector announced grace.
At half past seven the guests took their seats.
The dinner began with a soup so rich that the cook complained nobody would have room for the roast.
Catherine listened to conversations about autumn crops, marriages, county roads, and an upcoming sale of imported fabrics.
Nothing in those topics suggested that a life could be overturned before the final course.
At the far end of the table, Julian tapped his glass.
His guests quieted immediately.
“My friends,” he said, “I am grateful you have come at a difficult moment for this household.”
Catherine kept her hands folded beneath the table.
Julian spoke about honor and disappointment without naming either.
Then he raised a hand toward the sitting-room door.
Pritchard entered carrying a velvet-covered frame.
The guests turned in their chairs.
“Before rumors reach your ears,” Julian continued, “I intend to give you a true account of a grievous matter.”
Martin stared at his untouched glass.
Catherine stood.
“Then let us begin with a true account.”
A murmur moved around the table.
Julian smiled tightly.
“My dear, please sit.”
“You have invited witnesses,” she said.
“Let them witness.”
Pritchard halted beside the door.
Catherine turned to the guests.
“The picture my husband intends to show you was made in his own schoolroom by a hired photographer.”
Julian’s face hardened.
“Catherine, that is enough.”
“He used paid models rather than the people whose names he intends to attach to it.”
The editor leaned forward.
“Are you saying the picture is a fabrication?”
“I am saying it was arranged.”
Julian raised his voice.
“All portraits are arranged, my dear.”
“Then why demand a man’s statement before he sees it?”
Several guests looked toward the servants’ corridor.
Julian followed their gaze.
“Bring Samuel,” he ordered.
Pritchard hurried from the room.
Catherine felt a terrible pressure beneath her ribs.
She had spoken before knowing whether Ida had succeeded in reaching Frost.
If Samuel were brought into the room alone, Julian could still compel an answer that would destroy him.
Martin stood suddenly.
“Julian, stop.”
Julian turned toward him with open fury.
“You will sit down.”
Martin remained standing.
“The picture doesn’t prove what you intend.”
Julian’s voice dropped.
“You don’t know what I intend.”
“I know who posed for it.”
For a moment neither man moved.
Then the front door opened downstairs.
A servant announced Ida Bell and two gentlemen from Alder Creek.
Julian took a step toward the door.
“No one invited them.”
Catherine looked directly at him.
“I did.”
