Celia didn’t answer that, either, but Bridget brought the tea anyhow.
*
Celia took dinnerin her room, too, although she barely ate. But at four in the morning, she sat bolt upright in bed, horrified. She was acting like her father.
Hunched over the breakfast table, never taking a bite of food. Herself bringing him a healing tisane, waiting while he stirred and stirred it, until he wandered away without drinking. Sitting behind his big desk, hands clasped, eyes blank, while Celia negotiated with merchants and passed verdicts on village altercations. Signing whatever she pushed in front of him, while Celia wielded the blotter and the signet and kept up a steady patter of encouragement. Growing thin and brittle because life was not worth living without his wife and sons.
They were at the breakfast table, Celia pouring honey into her oat porridge and her father staring out the window, when she recognized the scent of death. She found awful wounds on his leg, gray and scarlet and oozing; he had fallen, told no one, and let them fester. Frost and woodsmoke tingling Celia’s nose as she skidded down to the village, a stitch in her side as she ran from house to house. The doctor had returned with her immediately, their steps crunching through the early morning frost. The doctorlikedher father, surely—everyone did—but he also must have been fearing for his own livelihood if the baron died. Celia could only hold their village together for as long as her father lived, and her father had stopped holding on to life.
It was true; Kilairne had fallen apart once her father died. Celia had failed her people because she had not been able to persuade Clarence to stay, nor could she persuade him that shecould manage everything on her own. And this spring, she had failed Kilairne once again, because she almost brought their baron home but then—
Celia couldn’t think about that night. But she got out of bed. She lit candles and dressed herself in a round gown that buttoned in the front, pinned up her chignon, and finished the letter to Rose. Then she finished the silly monogram, adding in darker tones to make the letters appear dimensional. That took her all the way to full daylight and a knock on her door.
Celia was delighted to see Leavenworth.
“I am here to escort you to breakfast,” he said, “but also to warn you that I am taking you out for the day. There is a fair in the next village, and we are going.”
Celia was even more delighted to be borne away on someone else’s calm confidence. Just one moment of Leavenworth’s voice, edged with a smile like honey on a warm scone, and a lady knew that he was not the type of man to have secret mistresses nor put all his money in an American jewel mine.
Still, to be polite, Celia said she didn’t wish to trouble him.
“It’s no trouble. Besides”—Leavenworth paused at the stairs, ensuring he was supporting her weak side—“I am more afraid of your husband than I am of you, and Alcott told me to entertain you. So, will ye or nill ye, to the fair we are going.”
He chuckled and Celia laughed along, because she knew Leavenworth was not the least afraid of her husband. And because it felt good to laugh with someone.
*
Their entire daywas rich in laughter. Celia had forgotten—or never known—how to exist in the world without being responsible. Leavenworth had numerous sisters, whichapparently gave him an easy way of treating a lady, respectful and playful both. He also was well experienced in walking about village fairs and commenting on handkerchiefs and pies. Out here, no one cared if Celia was fashionable. She liked being surrounded by cheerful people, she liked overhearing snippets of conversation, she liked the country breeze and fingering homespun yarn and debating which colors looked well with her hat.
They ate bites from a dozen small booths, laughed at Punch and Judy, cheered on some jugglers, and bought a shawl and a set of striped stockings to keep Celia warm in the carriage. Well, Leavenworth had bought them. Like a gentleman, he quietly withdrew his wallet when Celia began to wish for something, and like a good secretary, he assured her that it was her husband’s money. Celia wondered how much spending money she had; she was accustomed to fifty a quarter but knew this was quite generous. It didn’t matter now; everything at a fair was only pennies.
She did want some new boots, though. She had only packed one pair, and they were city-thin, and County Durham was still five million chilly miles away. So the next morning after breakfast, she asked Leavenworth about her budget.
“My apologies, ma’am,” he replied easily. “I have forgotten my duties, given that I only became a secretary”—he checked his watch and winked—“a week ago.”
“Why did you take the job?” Celia cleared a space on the breakfast table. Leavenworth was over-educated for this work, with all he knew about British politics.
Leavenworth opened a ledger and sorted a few pages from a leather wallet. “I was bored.” He shrugged, mouth quirked upwards. “And I like him. Whatever one can say about your husband, when Alcott is around, life is not boring.”
No; underneath his playful grace, Peter felt deeply about everything. Celia liked how he focused on the person he was speaking to; the way he held her when they danced; the way he listened to Marianne. Celia turned to the window, chest tight.
For over a year, she had been telling herself that Peter was one man in the vast ocean, one friend among many, but Leavenworth’s casual words had knocked loose something in her chest. Clarence had been right about her; Celia was good at loving, but she could not have manufactured feelings like this for any polite gentleman who had deigned to marry her. Peter had always been different.
“He makes me feel like I’m really me,” Celia said out loud. “I feel safe with him.”
“With Alcott, youaresafe,” Leavenworth replied.
Celia busied herself with the coffee pot, pouring and stirring and passing. Her feelings were dandelion fluff in the breeze, for Peter had left her when he had the choice a year ago and now had only married her under duress, and he led a double life for reasons too absurd to consider.
She tried to sound casual. “Do you think he’s coming back?”
“Mrs. Alcott.” Leavenworth waited until Celia met his eyes. “I am positive that he is coming back.”
See, Celia told herself. All this about dangerous deeds in the dark of night was pure fancy.
Leavenworth found the page in the ledger, all business again.
“Three hundred.” Leavenworth ran his finger along the row with her name on it. “I have fifty in cash, for this journey.”
