“But I am”—Peter threw up his hands—“you know what my family’s like. I can’t give that…to her.”
“Peter. You are not your family.” Francis’s voice was steady. “You are giving her yourself. That’s all she expects.”
“That’s not much.” Peter shook his head. He was all she had. “But I’ll try. I promise, I’m trying.”
“I know,” Francis answered, and the door opened.
“Ready sir, my lord?” Marsh asked.
Both Francis and Peter were immediately focused, shoulders firm and eyes sharp.
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” Peter said.
Francis barked a laugh. “Let’s go fix this mess.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Equally Alive to Both Joy & Sorrow
The rain streakeddown the windows, the fire burned merrily in the grate, and Leavenworth’s voice filled their small parlor with warmth. He was reading out loud, Celia was stitching, and Peter was supposed to arrive tonight.
Celia had given up on being practical and bought herself a new floor stand, a lovely piece of finely woven linen, and the additional silk colors she needed to begin an embroidered picture she had been imagining for at least a year. Bridget had promised to help protect the laced frame in the carriage, and Leavenworth had spent the afternoon with a toolbox until the stand folded and unfolded smoothly. Celia felt much better about the rest of the journey.
She had also bought a warm pair of boots, a lap blanket, and presents for Charlotte and each of her cousins. It made her feel closer to each of the women she loved, selecting the perfect present, thinking through what she would say when she sent them, their faces when they opened them. And then, tingling with a deep-seated joy, she selected a present for Elinor. After all the gravestones, Celia finally had a sister. She adored Elinor already.
After dressing for dinner, Celia waited until she saw Leavenworth go into the stables, and then she tiptoed into the men’s bedroom. She meant only to leave the package, butshe couldn’t help it; she opened the wardrobe, slid her fingers along the fine wool sleeves and saw that Peter’s coats were still hanging. Touched each one, slid her hands across the shoulders and fingered the buttons. He had taken his watch and kit, but his writing box was still here. A stack of handkerchiefs. Celia lifted one and held it to her nose, and the scent of sandalwood brought tears to her eyes.
She wanted him so much. She wanted so much to trust him.
Celia refolded the handkerchief, set it with the others, and laid Elinor’s present on Peter’s pillow. Then she met Leavenworth for a pleasant dinner and a rambling conversation about Irish history.
By now, the hands of the clock were tilting past their proud position at midnight. Celia tried to focus on Leavenworth’s reading and stitching the outline of the Cu Sidhe, so she could not imagine Peter’s horse slipping in the mud. Peter taking fever where no one knew his name. Peter set upon by footpads. Peter—“Do you hear that!”
Leavenworth abandoned the book mid-sentence and turned towards the door. Peter burst in, shaking rain off his coat sleeves and tracking mud onto the rug, and both Celia and Leavenworth started forward. He was the activator in their chemical reaction, carbonating their placid friendship.
Rain or no rain, frustration or not, Celia was already running towards him when Peter ushered a woman’s figure into the room. Celia froze, off balance. She hadn’t really believed he had a secret wife.
Peter was laughing, body loose—highly unlike a man about to introduce his wife to his mistress.
The woman pushed back the damp hood of her cloak, and for a moment Celia could not even register what she saw.
“Celia”—Peter ushered his companion forward, laughing—“look who’s home.”
“Marianne,” Celia breathed. “Marianne, Marianne,Marianne!” The last one was screaming, and Celia flung her arms around her cousin, wet cloak and all.
Marianne was laughing now too, but only half-hugged back. “I’m sopping wet! I’ll get you cold. Let me take this off.”
Leavenworth had already arranged chairs in front of the fire, which he was stoking. He met Celia’s eyes and winked, but she didn’t mind any told-you-so in the entire world. She had feared the worst about her husband, but yearned to be proven wrong.
Celia took over. Marianne and Peter by the fire, both pairs of wet boots by the door. Blankets from the chest in the corner. Celia rang the bell and ordered her best recipe for a warming tisane, ensured the servants would build up the bedroom fires and draw hot baths.
“Oh, that will feel wonderful, Celie!” Marianne said.
“I don’t need it,” Peter said to the housekeeper. “It’s late.”
“Drawbothbaths,” Celia told the housekeeper.
“Yes, ma’am,” the housekeeper said, and went out.
