“The weather is clearing.” Peter tried to join the conversation like a decent gentleman. He drained the last of his tea, squeezed his knee to prevent his foot from tapping.
“May we pause so I can admire the views when we get there?” Celia glanced at him sidelong, with that over-polite smile. “Please?”
Peter closed his eyes, just a moment, trying to keep his expression rational. He disliked that smile, which meant the real genuine living Celia was shuttering herself away, trying to please someone at the expense of herself, and hehatedthat smile when she turned it on him. It made him feel cold, and useless, and puerile.
“Yes, Celia, you may get out of the coach when we get to the top of the hills. You may even take your sketchbook.Ifwe ever get to the top of the hill. In order to get to the top of the hill, at any point, we have to beinthe coach. Do you understand?”
Peter was horrified that he knew, so easily, how to sound dismissive and cruel.
“Yes, Mr. Alcott,” Celia said, dropping her eyes to her teacup.
Peter’s chair clattered; he hadn’t even realized he was standing. He made himself nod to his companions as his feet took him out of the room and away.
He was irritated with Celia and he didn’t know what to do. Celia was sad and he didn’t know what to do. Celia was not perfect and he didn’t know what to do about that, either. Theywere some of the mysteries he had never learned, growing up while trying to raise his siblings instead of observing how grown men and women interact. Peter bumped into the door and realized he was in the courtyard. Raining. Must go back and get his coat and hat. Couldn’t afford to get wet before hours in the saddle.
He wanted to swing onto his horse, urge him through the crowd out onto the open road. Gallop and gallop. He wasn’t good enough; he was failing her again. And dear heavens, she was annoying him and what right did he have to be annoyed? He had just vowed to honor her above all.
Now properly clad, Peter strode through the stable yard, coattails flapping around his knees, whapping his riding crop against the hitching posts and fence rails. His horse was saddled and he fitted his boot into the stirrup, swung his weight up and around, landed nice and firm. The horse whickered with Peter’s impatience, and he reined him in a tight circle, not letting him sidestep, not giving him his head. Leavenworth appeared in the doorway, settling Celia’s cloak over her shoulders, and Peter gestured for their cavalcade to be ready.
Peter didn’t know what to do, so he was going to do what he had to do.
Chapter Thirty-Two
In Which Our Hero Undertakes a Forlorn Hope, and Our Heroine Returns to Bed
“Right-ho, then.”
Peter appeared in the doorway to their parlor, and Celia dropped her buttered toast. It was not even eight in the morning, and he was dressed for riding and rain, tapping his tricorn against his thigh. Peter wanted them to hurry into the carriage with only a basket of rolls every morning, but it was healthful to break one’s morning fast slowly, eating hot foods and fresh fruit, sipping one’s coffee.
“Morning.” Leavenworth did not forgo the civilities.
Peter nodded shortly. “I’m leaving,” he announced.
Every pulse and breath in Celia’s body stopped. Leaving her? Forever? At a hotel in….wherever they were?
Peter was still talking. “I’m taking Marsh; he’s the best rider.”
“Take my man, too,” Leavenworth said, as though any of this made any sense.
Peter nodded, short. “Leavenworth, you’re in charge of my wife. Go shopping, enjoy the sights. Celia, go outside and get some fresh air. It’s good for you. Very well.” Tap, tap, tap.
Well, at least he made logistical arrangements before abandoning her. Perhaps he was going to Italy after all. Perhaps there was no house in the north, perhaps she would live at this inn forever.
“Reconnaissance mission? Is that what the letters were about?”
Celia’s eyes darted to Leavenworth; he appeared amused rather than shocked.
Tap, tap, tap. “I’m setting off on a Forlorn Hope.”
“No!” Celia burst to her feet, scattering silverware. “You mustn’t—”
Peter looked shocked and Celia stopped herself, realizing that she wanted to clutch his coat and sob. That isn’t the way to take care of someone, to cling to them when they wish to leave.
“Mrs. Alcott, he is speaking metaphorically,” Leavenworth said mildly. “The war is over. He is not about to actually be sacrificed in battle.”
“Oh.” Celia dropped her head, ashamed. “I’m sorry. Of course. Just all those years, reading dispatches. Knowing that it was all over, but you had to keep hoping until…” She felt even more ridiculous; these men had been there, risking their lives. And Leavenworth kept bringing up their service, obliquely and politely, and mentioning how sometimes it is the world that is wounded. Celia concluded that Peter was afflicted with Soldier’s Heart, which she knew could cause nightmares and jumpiness and irrational fears. She ought to be more patient with him.
But she was so lonely, and so frightened.
