“Weren’t you supposed to be in bed hours ago?” Celia smiled and sat, patting the cushion beside her, reaching inside for her rational, useful self.
Marianne curled up, her knees bumping Celia gently, and Celia tucked a rug around her.
“Iwasin bed hours ago.” Marianne snuggled her head onto the sofa. “And fast asleep too. I woke up and thought I would come into your room, seeing it’s the last night I can cuddle up with you. But you weren’t there.”
“You’ll come and stay with me in the autumn. It’s not so far away.” Celia pulled the edge of the blanket over herself. “You can cuddle with me again then.”
Marianne laughed. “I’m sixteen, not five, you goose,” she answered. “I know you’ll have better things to do in bed than sleep with your baby cousin.”
Celia’s breath became shards of glass, her heart pounding in panic. She could not bear—she could notbear—shewouldnot get through this night if she had to think about her wedding bed.
“You’re right,” Celia said lightly, “I will be busy settling accounts, and making baskets of soap and marchpanes to bring to the tenants. Have you been learning your maths, Merry-Berry?”
Eyes closed, Marianne recited a list of algebraic formulas.
“And have you been practicing in the still-room?”
Marianne gave a long-suffering sigh. “Just as well that I’m coming to live with you, isn’t it?”
Celia wanted to keep Marianne close, ensure her education was not forgotten, that her naive blunders were corrected swiftly and gently. She understood that it was vital to create the right impression for society, but wished she didn’t have to leave Marianne with her increasingly acerbic mother and vague father.
“I heard the maids talking,” Marianne said. “Have you a hand-delivered letter? How exciting!”
Celia’s heart clattered again, but it was not so bad this time. She was not alone, and their easy conversation made the new home sound ordinary. Peter’s home. “It fell on the floor,” she said.
Before Celia could react, Marianne leapt up to look for it, the rug tumbling helter-skelter. Celia pulled one corner away from the fire, and by then Marianne had returned, dropped the letter onto Celia’s lap and curled back up, watching eagerly.
“There you go,” she said, pleased as a collie pup. “I’m waiting patiently.” Collie pups were not patient at all. Celia sighed and read what Peter had written.
I have a matter of some delicacy to explain. As I have told you, I am in London for a job, but I have not been able toexplain that the name goes along with the job. I regret that I have forced you to labor under this misapprehension; I know you value honesty, but I have not been at liberty to speak freely to anyone about this situation.
I entreat you, please answer to Mrs. Hughes for the day of our wedding. There are a thousand details to organize and I am trying to align them all. I can explain more, later, when we are together. Please trust me; I will be a good husband to you.
At half past eight tomorrow morning, I shall call upon your uncle. My superior shall explain the situation to your uncle, and he has already prepared new signature pages for all the wedding settlements. I shall still endow you with my name and all my worldly goods, but the name, properly, is Peter Alcott.
Yours etc.
Peter
Celia let her hands drop into her lap, staring into the fire. She had nothing left of the Peter she had known. Nothing was true.
“What does he say?” Marianne asked.
Celia turned, startled, and looked at her little cousin. Smiling eyes, budding breasts, father heading towards ruin.
“He just”—Celia shrugged—“wants to…confirm some details. For the ceremony. Tomorrow.”
“Everything’s fine?” Marianne smiled.
Celia put on her smile for Marianne. “It is nothing significant. Now, come upstairs and help with my buttons, and then we can both go to sleep. Together.”
Marianne popped to her feet, laughing. “For tomorrow is your wedding day! Can you believe it, Celie?”
“Tomorrow is my wedding day,” Celia repeated. It didn’t matter what she felt, it didn’t matter what she wanted. Shewould marry, and she would make a home for Marianne. “Everything is fine.”
Chapter Thirty
Wedding Bells Wailing
