*
They gathered inthe nave for the receiving line. It would have been odd if Clarence did not attend his own sister’s wedding, but the very sight of him made Celia’s insides squirm like eels. She turned the other way, flabbergasted to see Samuel Derrick. This was for family.
“Very happy, my dear, very happy,” he said, in his genial, abstracted way. He kissed her cheek and clasped her hands, patting gently. “You chose a good man.” Pat pat pat. “Very kind. Very loyal. Very thorough.” Pat pat pat.
Then he bumbled around and inserted himself down the row, as though he had every right to be there.
Celia had no idea why Mr. Derrick was in her receiving line, but his words were oddly reassuring. Provided, of course, that he had not meandered into the wrong wedding, and was actually meaning that some other lady was fortunate to get some other gentleman, who was kind, loyal, and thorough.
Peter moved through the crowd and offered Celia his arm, and a moment later Clarence came towards them. Celia’s throat closed and her heart crashed and both hands tightened on Peter’s arm. Surely she was hurting him, surely she should stop, but her eyes were fixed on her brother’s fingers. She could see them looming towards her, yanking her hand away, passing it over—
Peter put his hand on hers, and she darted her gaze up to his face, afraid he was irritated with her clutching grip or her silence.
He was just watching Clarence, his expression still and cold. His hand stayed on top of hers. He did not tell her to release him.
Clarence turned to them, his smile stiffening as he met Peter’s gaze. They shook hands. Celia lifted her cheek for a kiss like a good sister.
“Congratulations,” Clarence said. “She’s a wonderful…well, I mean, she…”
“She is,” Peter answered. “Go stand by your uncle.”
Clarence obeyed, which Celia had not quite expected. Peter moved his hand to shake someone else’s, and Celia tipped her head, very slightly, until she could feel the brush of wool on her cheek. Not leaning on Peter’s shoulder, just the little feathers before the fabric itself. She breathed in his scent—no brandy today—listened to the resonance of his voice.
He had married her. He had signed the register. It was done.
Celia didn’t know what her life would be like, but Peter had freed her from her brother.
*
It was nearlyfour-thirty when they were finally standing on the pavement, a brand-new traveling carriage and four waiting on the street, luggage tied on the outside. A footman set the stairs in place, while two outriders walked several horses. It was an ordinary enough set-up for a wealthy family journeying cross-country, but Celia had expected something smaller. She hadn’t known that Mr. Hugh—Alcott could afford all that.
Aunt Thompson started to cry, although she kept interrupting herself to tell Celia how fortunate she was, how happy she would be.
“It was the outriders who convinced her,” Rose whispered to Celia. “He didn’t exhaust his savings on the carriage, but had enough left over to hire outriders.”
Celia laughed and snorted and turned and hugged her cousin desperately, and for once Rose hugged back, Charlotte’s arms around both of them, Henrietta and Marianne flying in from the other side.
Celia let her new husband hand her into the carriage. He sat beside her, Bridget took the seat opposite, and Leavenworth and the others rode. All afternoon, Peter had not pushed her to leave her friends, even though it was hours later than they had planned. He had not scolded. Celia would have apologized or thanked him, but her throat was too tight for words.
The carriage lurched forward. Celia waved desperately. She ought to cry, but somehow it was much too important for tears. Like a glass vase reforming in a forge.
When her family was out of sight, Peter took her hand in both of his, holding it on his lap. When Lord Edmund had held her hand, it had felt like a restraint, a threat—no. If Celia was to move forward with this life, she must forget him. She must forget that night. Peter’s hands were light, loose, warm. He ran his thumb back and forth across her pinky knuckle, which in another man might have been a deliberate caress, but it was just the way Peter’s fingers were always silent but moving, part of the poise between tension and relaxation that was Peter himself. Her shoulder bumped against his as the carriage rocked and she didn’t mind. She wondered if he wanted his space, or was imagining taking her to bed, or was thinking about the job she had made him lose.
They watched the city pass by their windows: the fashionable neighborhoods, the working buildings, the crowded streets, the smoke and the hawkers’ yells, and gradually the buildings grew farther apart and the expanses of grass became wider. Dusk was settling. Goodbye to grim, gray, grimy London, and all the life that Celia had made there.
Celia didn’t know what shape to be for her husband. She had lost herself.
Part Four
Act 4: Journey
Chapter Thirty-One
In Which Our Heroes Venture Into the Outer Darkness
Despite what hesaid in his letter, Peter did not stop and explain anything to Celia.
It rained constantly, the horses’ every step taking Celia farther from her family—from the last place that had been home, from each familiar place and each beloved person. The growing distance was a physical pain, like catching one’s arm on the gate. All she had left was a husband who had once been her friend.
