Her fingers touched his neckcloth. He slowed, her hair caressing his cheek, the pulse in her temple beating against his kiss. A long moment passed, and her fingers brushed his cheek. Amazing. Another kiss, and another—trying not to demand anything, but perhaps asking a question, perhaps she was answering—and she laid her hand on his face.
It was the most electric, most vivid sensation he had ever experienced. Peter stilled, holding this moment. Holding her.
The shadows were dark purple, and he must not keep her standing for too long. He must not press an advantage when she was vulnerable. Peter kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose and drew back. “Better now?”
She nodded, letting her head drop. Her fingertips were soft on his chest.
A moment—choking, fear that he would ruin everything, certainty that he could not do enough. He had abandoned Elinor, and here was the sweetest woman in the world, willingly putting not only herself in his hands, but giving Marianne to him too. And if Celia trusted him with Marianne, he knew that he had better do things right this time.
“Good night,” she whispered, pulling away.
And in a gesture that was as familiar to her as it was new to him, she lifted her cheek.
This time, he was going to do it right. Peter kissed her cheek, marveled at the softness of her skin, bowed over her hand, and departed.
When he got to the street corner, he couldn’t keep his feet steady anymore and started to run. Faster and faster, leaping over a sleeping dog, a sack of onions, a crack in the pavement. All the way to Leavenworth’s house, fit to explode in a sunburst of joy.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In Which Mathematical Formulas Do Not Solve Our Problems
Even five dayswere not long, not nearly long enough. Aunt Thompson called it a joyful event, but Celia knew she was losing everything and everyone all over again.
Charlotte announced she would host Celia’s wedding breakfast, insisting although her smile wavered. Aunt Thompson threw her energy into a party for the evening before the wedding.
On Monday, the women of the Bonnet Brigade sorted through Celia’s wardrobe as seriously as any army captains checked their artillery. Some of the debutante pastels could be dyed in richer colors, the girlish ruffles removed in favor of elegant lace panels. The most serviceable dresses were set aside to go in her traveling trunks, and they chose several pieces to present to the girls’ maid, Fanny. Just when the women were begging Henrietta that they had enough, Lord Francis dropped by.
“Bring on the next trunk!” he cried.
“Huzzah!” Henrietta pumped her fists in the air, giggling wildly.
Hours later, they were surrounded by mountains of dresses and haberdashery, empty teacups and half-eaten sandwiches. Lord Francis and Aunt Thompson cancelled their eveningplans, Rose and Francis exchanged cutting banter, Henrietta’s and Charlotte’s hands were busy with simple alterations, and everyone dissolved in waves of laughter and wandered away in the stories of long-ago. Celia’s pencil dangled from her fingers, half-finished faces and figures meandering across her page. She wanted to hold tight to every memory, every feeling, draw the love that filled this room, but the task was too large and Celia was too small.
On Tuesday, Celia said that her ankle was improved and Aunt Thompson took them to the warehouses on Fleet Street. Apparently, Celia needed petticoats and books and pencils and ribbons and hats and nightgowns. No matter how circumspect she tried to be with their dwindling budget, her cousins kept bringing her tidbits to make her future home happy, and Celia couldn’t resist any of them. They would keep her company until…
She couldn’t think about the untils. It seemed unbearably long until Marianne would join them in the autumn, and Celia spoke brightly of spending Christmas together but had no idea how the logistics would work. Mr. Hughes did not have a house in Town, and County Durham was terribly far away. Perhaps they could all visit Cousin Giles! Celia spoke brightly and frequently about this idea, and for once Rose was not logical and Henrietta was not practical and neither of them mentioned that it required permission from multiple men.
Celia did not want to think about any men, not one of them, but they snuck into her mind in the middle of the night. She tried to remember how Peter’s hands had been gentle against her cheek, but she could only remember his fist flying towards Lord Edmund’s face. It ran over and over in her mind, filling with details that she could not have possibly known. The thud of bone, a muttered curse, the smell of blood and rain and fear. Celia could see each of Peter’s bent knuckles, his oval nailspressed white, feel the finial’s iron corners jabbing into his palm as his punch landed. The squelch of Lord Edmund’s nose.
That was too much. Celia padded down the hallway, her bare feet curling away from the floor, and climbed into Marianne’s narrow bed.
“Did I tell you about the pug in Hyde Park?” Marianne turned to snuggle close, her half-asleep self still childlike. “Wearing a ribbon. Pink.”
“I love you.” Celia nuzzled Marianne’s hair.
On Wednesday, Celia was sewing in the parlor when the butler announced a woman from an employment agency, her broad face smiling and gown crisply pressed.
“Bridget Frank, ma’am.” She curtsied. “Your fiancé has hired me to be your dresser, if you don’t mind, ma’am.”
Celia’s needle hovered mid-air. The word “fiancé” threw her completely, she hadn’t planned on hiring a personal maid, and she certainly didn’t need a dresser.
“Matron said you were Irish, ma’am?” Miss Frank stood at smiling attention.
“Oh—yes—”
“No one will take me on because me mam’s Irish, you see, so I do hope you will have me. I’ve done training with a dressmaker, bonnet trimming, and in a stillroom, beyond ordinary household service. I’m better trained than most of the girls.”
Celia stitched the pleat tight and sat up straight, mind flying through possibilities. This was like Rose said. A husband provided the chance to change some small corner of the world, an entire household filled with all the hard-working women who couldn’t find work because of prejudice. Celia would offer the same contracts to Black maids as everyone else, and there were mixed Indian and Chinese girls looking for work, not to mention the women who had a club foot or a baby out of wedlock—
