I married a good man, Celia reminded herself, over and over. Marianne is safe with us now.
But still, she glanced at Peter and saw his mouth drawn, and winced because he might be angry with her. Rationally, she knew he hadn’t seemed angry, but after these last few months, she couldn’t stop bracing against anger everywhere.
Still, she only went out on the streets when she could walk with Bridget or Leavenworth. Still, she undressed half at once, chemise down to her waist and nightgown over her head, so she didn’t have to look at her own bare breasts. She was still not herself.
Day after day, they made it a little farther north. The roads were in terrible condition and Celia could not bear full days in the carriage, so this journey would take more than double Leavenworth’s original estimate. Four weeks, perhaps five. The trees changed and the accents changed and the houses changed,and Marianne found it all so interesting that Celia was drawn into noticing. Celia told the innkeepers that they would take a full breakfast in their parlor and hot breakfast for the servants; she was in charge of the health of her family. One day, she insisted that Leavenworth’s valet ride in the carriage with the women because she did not care for the sound of his cough. JC was scarred and grim on the outside, and he told the most terrifying and entertaining stories, and almost nothing that he had to say was proper for ladies to hear. They hung on his every word and laughed until their sides hurt.
In Doncaster, Peter asked Celia deferentially if she would desire to be his hostess, seeing that he knew a few people by the way. Solemnly, Celia said that she would. After that, Peter’s acquaintances appeared in every town. Sometimes, Celia ordered dinner and they all gathered at their inn; elsewhere, they were invited to someone’s home. The company was beyond eclectic, and Celia could no longer deny that her husband’s prior life had been lived outside of the boundaries of polite society. She liked it; life in the hills deep in Ireland had been outside of polite society too.
They both enjoyed the gatherings. Celia liked to entertain and Peter liked to be entertaining, and it began to feel like they were something that fit together.
Celia started putting her guesses about Peter’s former life into words. She kept them playful and teasing, but he answered her questions. She realized that he wasn’t actively keeping his plans a secret from her, he just didn’t know how to talk about himself. Perhaps in some way, Peter was a secret even to Peter, hurtling through the world on instinct and momentum.
*
In the night,Celia always wanted someone to hold her. Now she was married and still, no one held her.
When she could not sleep, she watched Marianne, her breath rising and falling, her face soft and girlish, very much alive. Celia twirled the end of the chestnut braid around her own fingers and laid down, back to back. Even in her dreams, Celia never cried out. Marianne always slept through.
*
Being sixteen isdifficult. Being responsible for a sixteen-year-old, on a journey that neither of them enjoyed, was also difficult. Celia had always taken some responsibility for Marianne, but had not appreciated how much more challenging it was to be fully responsible.
One evening, Marianne conversed with their dinner guests, mature and thoughtful. Celia was proud of her excellent education; she could not express herself nearly so well…although she would be even happier if Marianne did not express herself quite so constantly.
The next night, Marianne threw her whole dinner on the floor in a fit of temper, although she was very sorry afterwards. Celia petted her hair while she cried—although she was so frustrated she wanted to throw something herself—but did not order Marianne a new dinner.
“Would Elinor ever throw her plate?” Marianne asked Peter in the morning. After a hungry night, she was devouring breakfast with excellent manners.
Peter raised his eyebrows, nonplussed. “No,” he said after a pause. “No, I…cannot see that.”
Marianne asked about Elinor all the time, intrigued by how they were born only three days apart, treasuring every detail they had in common. She wanted to write Elinor, call upon Elinor, play a duet with Elinor.
“Did I tell you about when my little sister complained about the roast being difficult to chew?” Leavenworth said, breaking the tension. Leavenworth’s little sister seemed as wild as Marianne, which comforted Celia—but she was some years older, making her significantly less interesting to Marianne herself.
The next day at their daily debate at breakfast, Marianne argued so well that Leavenworth said he would use some of her points in his next rebuttal. It turned out that he also took commissions for political writing; working for Peter would keep him busy because he would have two jobs instead of one.
But that afternoon, Marianne refused to use the facilities behind the posting inn. It was too cold and she thought there were spiders in the corners. This forced Celia, two hours later, to have a very uncomfortable conversation with their coachman, who turned down an isolated road with excellent tree cover. They had to go all the way around the bend past a cottage, and they would have to go farther again before they could turn around, and Celia wanted to scream with impatience. Peter would be disappointed and she was trying so hard to not disappoint Peter. He was so tired.
He swung off his horse and helped the women clamber down from the carriage. The last one out, Celia made a stumbling, tumbling apology.
Peter’s face relaxed into softness. “It’s nothing.”
Their eyes met, and sharing a smile felt good.
Standing at the edge of a hayfield, holding up a cloak while Bridget held a blanket and Marianne tried to keep her skirts out of the mud while she relieved herself, Celia was suffused with a fierce protectiveness. She was glad Rose had told Mr. Hanson the truth and still had a chance for Owen Featherstone, whom she wanted; she would do anything to give Henrietta and Marianne those extra few years to learn who they truly were before they went off into the world. It was worth everything to find a man who was kind.
Still, she was annoyed with Marianne.
*
Celia imagined whatshe would write to her cousins constantly, but sent a letter only every few days. She didn’t want to eat up her uncle’s thousand pounds with postage fees, but she was glad her cousins were not so cautious about Peter’s income. Henrietta must have embarked upon a campaign to send mail to every major inn on the Great North Road. Since their progress was less like a military deployment and more like a drunken dragonfly, they did not actually stay at most of the inns on Henrietta’s sensible list, and learned that they needed to ask for mail when they changed horses in the larger towns.
Celia treasured every letter they found.
Most were cheery troves of gossip, pithy commentary on the social life around her, homey observations about what they had enjoyed for dinner or which piece she was practicing on the pianoforte. Sometimes there was a letter from Aunt Thompson or Rose, but Henrietta was the one who wrote every day. Perhaps multiple times a day, just to be sure that Celia found a letter when she needed it.
Aunt Thompson wrote an entire letter about the suitor Marianne had mentioned, but Henrietta barely mentioned him.
