*
Peter stood inthe hallway alone.
He put his own hand to his cheek, as though he could hold onto Celia’s caress. He was cold through and stupid.
He leaned a hand against the door jamb and dropped his head, needing a moment to gather himself before he spoke to Leavenworth. He had upset Celia. Everyone had been throwing terrible surprises at her all spring, and even something happy could throw a person off-kilter when they’re braced for the worst. He should have explained things to her but he’d mucked it up.
Did he want anything—what a dangerous question! If Peter dared to want Celia, he would want everything. Scolding him what to eat for breakfast, waiting up when he went out in the evening. He would want her smiles, her hands on his skin, her kisses, her body under his against the pillows. He would want her all night long and when the sun was barely rosy on the horizon, to watch her sleeping and wake her with kisses as sherolled into his arms, drowsy and loving and smiling the real-Celia smile.
But Celia had no reason to want to touch a man, and many reasons for the fear that kept pulling her back. If Peter asked, she would say yes, because Celia gave of herself until she was an empty husk. He would not be another man to break her.
The far door opened, and Peter heard the women’s voices before the maid closed it and bustled away. He shouldn’t stand in the hallway while Marianne was bathing. Besides, that tisane was the good recipe. He went downstairs to fetch it, but for once, his feet wouldn’t trot along. He was tired to his bones, relieved to get back to the bedroom. His hands were warm now, at least.
“Evening,” he said to Leavenworth, and paused.
What was that?
“Apparently, she left you a present,” Leavenworth said. “She missed you, you know.”
Peter stepped forward cautiously, as though the colorful bundle on the bed might leap up and bite him. “Fellows in London say Jackdaw is not in his office.” It looked like Lord George’s orders weren’t enough and his local contacts had reported seeing Jackdaw in the area. Peter had been asking at inns and taverns, but he’d been away.
Leavenworth raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Fine. We’ll talk about Jackdaw in the morning. I’m not trying to spy on your personal effects, but that bundle cries out that it’s Celia.”
“I knew a man, murdered by a snake left in his bed.” Peter stared at the card. If it wasn’t a snake, and it wasn’t from Leavenworth, it was something else to muddle his heart and that was even more dangerous.
“I heard that story too.” Leavenworth turned to the wash stand, giving Peter privacy to examine the package they both knew was from Celia.
It was perhaps the size of two fists, wrapped in a pink and red scarf, tied in a pretty knot. The card on top was a loose watercolor with a name in the center, a glimpse of color visible on the other side. The inked letters were outlines filled in with tiny flowers.
Elinor.
Peter had seen those letters so many times. On those three cards this spring, and three thousand times in his dreams and his fears.
Celia had filled them with flowers. E, L, I, N, O, R. Dozens of tiny flowers.
It was better to save one girl than neither, and Marianne’s problems were more immediate and more solvable. But Peter had held Elinor on the day she was born, he had learned to braid her feather-soft hair, he had held out his index fingers for her to clutch while she learned to toddle. Walked miles backwards, up and down the corridors.
Maybe they could help. Maybe his plans for his sister could come true after all.
Peter reached out one finger and brushed the scarf fringe, the fuzzy edge of paper. He did not want to disturb something so perfect and pretty, but the picture was just sitting on top. He would have to pick it up in order to sleep in his bed tonight anyhow.
He picked up the card and studied the intricate shapes. Ladies made things like this as gifts, affection in the form of paint and time and skill. All this time, he had not known how to bring Celia and Elinor together, and here was Celia. Justdoingthings.
He turned the paper over. Let out his breath through pursed lips.
Another garden watercolor, and Celia had written—in an exquisite script, like birds’ wings flying across the page, like a mother’s kisses—
“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.”
*
It was apromise. Somewhere under her nerves and her isolation, Elinor had a spirit of power, and Celia would know how to find it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Melting the Darkness
If Celia’s lifehad been a book, after Peter played the hero and rescued Marianne, the rest of the trip would have gone smoothly. The sun would have come out for at least a few hours a day. Peter would have fallen madly in love with her. The tollgate operators would have smiled and tipped their hats. The sheep would have become less sheep-like, or at least milled about somewhere other than the middle of the road.
