“There’s a lotof serious-looking men going into the library,” Henrietta said.
Celia tried to stand but Rose pressed her shoulders. “Sit still,” she commanded. “You’ll get your hair in a tangle.”
Celia subsided onto the dressing table stool, trying to stay calm as Rose brushed her hair. She had slipped into their room when the maids brought the tea tray, and of course she had told them about Peter’s letter, but they didn’t have any words to comfort her.
“I just want to see him,” Celia said. “I just need…”
She did not know what she needed; it was an aching pain in her middle. Once, she had liked Peter. She had believed that he liked her. She just needed that back again—the tiniest bit, a little crumb. That would be enough to get her through the day, and she had to get through this day.
Henrietta had told her to marry. Marianne trusted her to marry. She must do it. She must simply do it.
“There’s no one to see,” Henrietta said, gently. “They all went in the library, you know. I will tell you when they come out again.”
“Thank you,” Celia mumbled.
They ate breakfast and drank their tea and arranged Rose’s hair and selected Celia’s perfume and checked that none oftheir stockings or gloves had holes, and still the men were in the library. Henrietta was buffing Celia’s fingernails when they heard footsteps in the hallway below, and they burst into the bedroom door all together. Henrietta caught the door so it would not bang and Rose pressed herself against the hallway, a finger to her lips, as Celia tiptoed to the banister.
It was a practical townhouse, and this was a practical stairway; no grand balconies for spying on those below. The men were out of sight down the corridor, chattering about inconsequentials as they moved closer.
Celia recognized her brother’s head immediately. Shocked, she reared back slightly, but he said his goodbyes and trotted down the stairs without looking up.
Celia made herself breathe again. Here was her uncle. He was flushed and…smiling? She expected him to look grim, huffing and repeating himself, but he seemed cheerful, shaking a tall gentleman’s hand and chuckling.
And Peter.
He stepped away from the others, to the far side of the stairs, kitty-corner from Celia. His body language was relaxed, alert. Like her uncle, he was pleased about something.
Henrietta told her to marry. Marianne needed her to marry. She would do it. She would.
Peter looked up.
Their eyes met. His face was serious, and then like a zephyr blew past, he smiled.
Celia never could resist that smile. She felt her own—not the careful one that she had needed so often this week—but something different, a smile that cracked the edges of the shell that encased her. A smile that came from inside.
And Peter’s smile melted softer, happier, brighter. Just for her.
It was just a moment, but it was enough. One of the men asked a question; Peter turned away as Celia stepped backwards, into the corridor, Henrietta’s hands guiding her.
Celia would marry Peter Hughes. Or Peter Alcott. She could, because that was a smile she knew.
*
St George’s andwhite lilacs. It fulfilled, at least, Aunt Thompson’s purported wedding dreams. The church doors were thrown open, organ music flooding the street. Celia took her uncle’s arm and walked forward.
Celia limped along next to her uncle, each step like she was wading deeper into the ocean, restless and dark and feet sinking into sand. Through the nave, past the crossing, the galleries yawning overhead, one step after another after another. Her ankle hurt and she leaned on her uncle; he slowed even more. He was loving and kind and also betraying his family and she couldn’t think about that.
The congregation upheld Celia—so many friends who had changed their plans to be here today, so many beloved faces. One step farther, and one step, and one step.
The final risers to the chancel, and the man who was waiting for her, his hazel eyes worried, watching her slow progress.
The man who had listened to her, who had protected her, who had lied to her.
He came towards her, met her at the steps and supported her while she limped to her place.
“Dearly beloved,” said the vicar.
Celia leaned on Peter, and she said “I do” in the right places, and she let go of everything she knew and flew into the world that he vowed to give her.
