All too soon, it was time to toast the happy couple. Aunt Thompson swept Celia back to her fiancé, pushing them too close together. Celia pulled her arms against herself, afraid she would knock into him—she could see beads of sweat on his temple, a softness at the back of his jawbone where his neckcloth had wilted in the heat; the shadows under his eyes, even as they crinkled with laughter; recognized the particular smell she knew as Peter-ness. The room glinted with upheld wine glasses, someone boomed out hackneyed platitudes, and Peter placed his hand on Celia’s back.
Celia froze. For the first time, his touch did not comfort her. It reminded her of everything that frightened her. Marriage meant giving her body away.
It made her remember the waltz when Peter had told her he would not, could not, marry her.
Peter’s hand connecting with Edmund’s jaw, Peter’s hand on her frigid arm. Peter must be ashamed and embarrassed and angry with her, no matter what he had said.
The toast was over, but she hadn’t heard a word.
“Thank you,” Peter called.
One good thing about Peter was that he could always talk, even when Celia could not. He lifted his glass and moved slightly away from Celia.
Celia took a breath. He had created a small bubble of space around her, which felt better, but she was not sure why he had done it. She could not understand how tonight’s bright banter was any part of the man who had kissed her whisper-soft; she could not imagine how his cheerful stories about how they had met had any relation to his harsh voice on the night when he had said they were engaged.
They were going to be married in the morning, and Celia had never felt so disconnected from this enigma of a man.
*
Past midnight, theguests departed. Celia was too agitated to sleep, too sad to think, and gave herself this one last evening to be maudlin. She limped through the corridors, into the breakfast room and the morning room, pale silk fluttering around her feet. Here was her aunt’s favorite vase, always full of flowers. Here was the watercolor that Celia had painted of Marianne on the swing. Here was the play they had read around the fire last winter. Here was…
“Miss Westhaven?” The butler interrupted her swirling memories. “A letter for you, ma’am.”
“For me?” Celia slid the book back on the shelf and straightened her skirt. Most late-night, hand-delivered letters were for her uncle.
“Yes, ma’am.” The butler advanced into the room, extended the salver towards Celia.
She murmured her thanks as the butler bowed away. She did not recognize the handwriting, nor the seal on the back. She mustn’t fiddle with it, no need to fret—Celia broke open the page and her eyes flew to the signature at the bottom.
Peter.
Her lungs felt like they were collapsing, all the air gone from the room, the world spinning. Celia sank to her knees, the page fluttering away as she braced her hands on the floor, trying to breathe.
He had just been here. He had been here all evening, saying that he was the happiest among men. What secret was he keeping, what was so horrible that he’d sent it in a letter in the dead of night?
She had been trying not to think about Peter, who was confusing and masculine and capable of violence. She didn’t want to think about her wedding, when they became the same person in the eyes of the law, meaning she sacrificed her own personhood.
Perhaps he was calling off the wedding.
But he had just been here, accepting congratulations.
Perhaps she had made him so angry that he did not want her anymore. Since he had never wanted her in the first place. Since he… Since he…
Celia sat up on her knees, forcing air into her lungs. She knew perfectly well that she would have a better idea of what Peter was thinking if she actually read the letter. It was simple.
Still, it took another long minute, and another, before she picked up the page.
Dear Celia,
I know you are troubled tonight. I apologize for adding to your distress, but I promise that I will make it all come right in the end. Please trust me.
There was kindness in those words, evidence of the Peter who had made her laugh and gave her space and kissed her so gently. And all night, she couldn’t find him at all and she thought he was gone forever, and now he was writing her a letter—but he was also going to add to her distress. She must stop crying.
She rubbed her eyes and stood. She would stoke the fire, sit on the sofa, and read the letter like a sensible person. If only her ankle would stop hurting, and her shoulder, and she didn’t have to think about her body at all.
The door whooshed, and Celia whirled.
“Oh, you’re still up! Can I sit with you?” It was Marianne, wrapped in a flannel dressing gown with her hair in curling rags.
