The bustle went quiet. Celia stood behind Marianne’s chair, pulling out her hairpins and checking her dress. Beneath the cloak, Marianne was chilly but not too wet; just her hands and feet. Celia finger-combed her hair, chestnut curls tumbling over her fingers, so much like her own. This hair, this heart, this cheek; it was a part of her heart and she could not live with Marianne in danger far away. Celia bent and kissed the top of her head, breathed in the scent of rain and charcoal fire and sweet orange soap.
Peter passed them on his way to the other chair. Celia wanted to touch him, rub warmth back into his skin, strip off that terrible wet clothing that must feel so heavy; she wanted to tuck her head into his shoulder and feel his arms around her. She had told Clarence that it was actions that mattered, not words, and Peter had proven how he would care for her. For them.
Peter did not meet her eyes, but he slipped a letter into her hand. Celia glanced down; her aunt’s writing. She unfolded it.
I know you have always loved Marianne like she was your own. I love her too, but sometimes love is saying goodbye. You are a good girl, and I ask this one last favor of you…
Celia couldn’t read the rest right now; couldn’t confront the dark truths when she was ready to be so happy. She slid it into her pocket and looped her arms over Marianne’s shoulders.
“What happened?” Leavenworth asked.
“Cousin Giles came to our house in London,” Marianne answered. “But wait—that isn’t the beginning of the story. Did you hear? Papa has money now. I don’t know how, but he’s planning to stay in Town for a while, and Lord Francis says it has restored trust among the untrustworthy, whatever that means. Rose checked the books and said it’s a thousand pounds. A thousand! Larky!” Marianne laughed.
Celia glanced around and saw that neither man was surprised by this news. She raised her eyebrow at Peter, who fiddled with the buttons on his cuffs.
She decided she didn’t want to know how Peter had procured a thousand pounds for her uncle. Larky, indeed!
“So I thought everything was settled,” Marianne continued. “That should last long enough for Owen Featherstone to get back, and Henrietta has a suitor already. A proper one, the correct age and terribly serious. But then Cousin Giles came to the door, and said he had a letter from my guardian and I was to pack my bags. All of them. Right now.” Marianne shrugged and laughed. “Henrietta went all about the house, gathering my things, as though she couldn’t wait to be rid of me.” She laughed again.
Tonight, Celia would let this remain a mere jest, but she could see the brittleness in Marianne. It was no small thing, tobe told all at once to leave behind everything in your entire life. She kissed her hair again.
“I didn’t know if Giles would get my letter,” Peter said, turning towards Celia. “I didn’t know if he would approve. I didn’t know if your father would let her go. The guardianship is only in the case of his absence, it does not give me the right to gainsay his word.”
It sounded like he was attempting to apologize. “You could have told me all that,” Celia said, over Marianne’s head.
“I could have,” Peter said, quietly.
Celia hadn’t expected him to admit it.
The maid arrived with the kettle, filling the room with chicory and ginger. Celia poured for everyone, adding plenty of honey for the travelers. She was discombobulated, shaky with protectiveness and confusion and exhaustion and relief and thissomethingfor Peter. Her husband. She prepared a mug and biscuits for Marianne, who was chatting with Leavenworth, and when she turned back to the table Peter was reaching for his own. Suddenly angry, not sure why, she snatched his cup away.
He looked at her. His eyes were searching hers, solemn.
She didn’t want him totakehis tea. She wanted togiveit to him. She was being thoroughly childish.
She took a step towards him, offering the mug. “Here you go. To warm you.”
Peter reached out. Placed graceful fingers on the handle and the base, without touching hers at all.
Celia didn’t let go. When he was gone, she had wanted him. She had understood that she loved him, but this was a type of love that Celia didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” he said. There was a question in his voice, like he was ready to apologize for anything.
Celia scoffed and looked away. That wasn’t what she needed from him.
“Celia,” he said, and leaned closer.
He might scold her so the others couldn’t hear.You’re being foolish, Celia. You should be grateful. I’m leaving tomorrow, and this time for good.She heard his slow breath, smelled sandalwood and rain and sour, tired sweat.
Peter kissed her cheek. Lingered a moment, sweetly, long enough for her to notice the pressure of his lips, the cool of his face, rough stubble where his cheek brushed hers. Long enough to make it clear this was a husband’s greeting, not the dutiful kiss of a brother or the merry greeting between women friends.
“Celie, did you hear?” Marianne raised her voice. “About the Lamb & Flag?”
Celia and Peter were standing directly behind Marianne’s chair, and Leavenworth was turned deliberately towards the fire, away from them.
“What about it?” Celia answered. She wanted the kiss, Peter’s reassurance—not Marianne’s chatter, however beloved.
Peter took the mug from her hands, and now she let him. He set it on the table, as though they could not be trusted with hot beverages at the moment. And then he put his hand on Celia’s back, and she leaned closer, just slightly. Because she was so wobbly, that was why.
