“Just give him some time,” Leavenworth advised.
“A healing tisane will do you good,” Bridget said.
“Up you go,” said Peter, and handed her into the carriage.
It would not stop raining, and it took hours upon hours for only a few miles. Sometimes they were stuck among herds of cows or sheep; mail coaches tried to goad their horses into desperate speed; they had to pull aside for vehicles displaying noble crests. Their coachman could not ask the horses to go faster than a walk, their heavy carriage lurching in and out of puddles, Celia and Bridget sliding from one side of the squabs to the other. Peter rode with the other men, rain sluicing off the capes of his greatcoat. He oversaw every change of horses, every tollgate, every inn, and by dinner he was exhausted and let Leavenworth carry the conversation.
Celia was so jumpy that she didn’t recognize herself. She checked both ways before she stepped outdoors, she jumped atstrange sounds and wouldn’t walk into a dark room. For the first time, she was thankful for the strictures on Englishwomen of her class, glad that either Peter or Leavenworth always hovered nearby. She did not try to convince Bridget to let her walk by herself, even when it was just to the shop two doors down. She was foolish, she knew it, but she could not bear to be alone.
Peter paid for two rooms at the inns, and he stayed with Leavenworth. Celia was relieved that he did not expect to touch her, and then she worried that he found her ugly, and then she was repulsed to imagine his hands on her, and then she yearned to drop into his arms. Nothing made sense.
Celia’s body was as fragile as butterfly wings, her heart bleeding out into the mud of the Great North Road. All she had was Peter and she wanted to reach for him, to hold his chilled hands, to bury her head in his shoulder. When they dined together she watched him from the corners of her eyes; when he escorted her to her room, she opened her lips to ask him to stay.
Butthat nightflashed before her eyes and she could not do it. He had seen her with her shoulders bleeding and her skin bare. He had held her when she was sobbing and panicked and not at all the Celia she needed to be. When she couldn’t walk, he had carried her; when she couldn’t save Marianne, he had swept in and written the papers himself. She couldn’t ask him for anything more. She could not.
*
Peter tapped hisriding crop against his boot, studying his wife. Perplexed.
It was their fifth day of travel, and they were making unacceptably poor time. In a dry summer, riding alone, he would almost be at Avonleagh by now. Of course, the roads were wetand a family carriage was the slowest type of vehicle. It wasn’t Celia’s fault…entirely.
She was sitting by the window of a posting inn, deliberately not looking at him. Her graceful neck was bowed, the pencil in her slim fingers flitting over the page. She sipped the last of her tea and tipped the pot; only a few drops trickled out. Her pencils and India rubbers were scattered chaotically across the wrinkled tablecloth.
“More tea, ma’am?” The innkeeper bustled by with a heavy pot in each hand.
“Yes, thank you.” Celia sounded perfectly poised, even in the middle of a chaotic third-rate inn. That had to be at least her fourth refill.
Peter pulled out the chair and sat across from her. Always the hostess, she poured him a cup of tea and stirred in his preferred amount of sugar, all without meeting his eyes.
“Celia…” Peter did not know how to talk to her. Every time he looked at her, he was struck with wonder that she was so beautiful and so his, and struck with horror that he had the power to ruin her life.
Celia returned to her drawing.
“I have a reservation at a pleasant hotel tonight.” He tried again. “Private parlor. Nice rooms.” Much better than he would choose for his own needs. “Don’t you wish to arrive before dark?… Ever?”
Celia pressed her lips together and did not answer. She had scarcely spoken to him since their wedding. Peter did not know what to do; he had no framework for how a husband would comfort a wife, or tease her, or encourage her. He also did not know whether it was more rude to ask her to pick up her colored pencils or to do it himself, so he just sat there, their disorder making a sort of writhing itch inside his brain.
“This was just supposed to be a change of horses.” Peter tried to keep his tone calm. “Perhaps this rest will sustain you and we can travel directly from here?”
Celia twitched one shoulder. “I cannot think in the carriage,” she said, petulant. “It’s cold.”
“I had the foot warmer refilled with coals. I understand the carriage is uncomfortable. I am sorry, but…” Peter stopped himself from saying the next words, which would not sound kind. Celia did not serve in his brigade and he had no right to order her around.
She had always seemed sensible, so tough, but…
But, but, but. Peter studied his wife, twitching in his chair. He was reaching a highly uncomfortable conclusion, but maybe he misunderstood.
Day after day, Celia had been delaying them. He had thought she was hurt, thought there was some reason. But it seemed like…she just didn’twantto go. She was intelligent and discussed the logistics with him, and knew there was no other way to get to Durham. But she was making excuses and avoiding the carriage yard when it was time to leave, and everyone had to wait around for her, and Leavenworth had to change their reservations every afternoon.
Peter didn’t know what to do with this new idea of Celia, who complained and was inefficient and essentially had a human portion of faults and foibles.
Leavenworth entered the dining room, smiling as he caught sight of them. “Look at this! My good lady must have known how cold we were.”
Of course Peter was cold, but it wasn’t important. It was important to get Celia settled at Avonleagh.
Celia smiled as Leavenworth pulled up a chair, and she poured yet another cup of tea. Peter leaned back, blowing out his breath slowly. At least Leavenworth knew how to talk withCelia; she looked ready to throw Peter’s next cup of tea instead of pouring it. Oh—he was clicking his watch open and closed, open and closed. Perhaps that was bothering her. He pushed it back into his pocket. Leavenworth asked about her drawing and she turned her page to show him. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“Mrs. Alcott, the groom had some ideas about the road ahead.” Leavenworth’s voice rumbled low and smooth. “He suggested an upland route, with less traffic and pleasant views.”
