In Darlington, Celia noticed immediately that the letter looked different. Henrietta’s hand was darker, the letters more upright and squashed together. When Celia broke the seal, she saw across the top in red pencil: Read in private.
“I have a bit of a headache,” Celia said, rising from her chair in the parlor. “I will go to my room for a few minutes.”
“Oh dear!” Marianne leaped to her feet. “I can come with you, and put a cloth on your forehead. I can—”
Celia may have let escape an actual sigh of frustration.
Leavenworth turned from the secretary desk. “Miss Marianne, why don’t you and I go for a walk? See the flowers in the churchyard.”
“I will bring Mrs. Alcott a tisane for her headache, see that I don’t”—Bridget sent a speaking look at Celia—“whenshe wishes to have one.”
“Thank you,” Celia said. “Not just yet. Thank you.”
Peter never came to the parlor until dinner. The door was ajar to the men’s bedroom, and Celia paused. If Peter was inside, it would be comfortable to read the letter with him in the room.
She didn’t hear anything, and she didn’t quite dare knock. She continued to her own bedroom.
Dear Celia,
This is the sort of thing that they never tell us, but that women like you and I need most to hear. Knowing will not stop the nightmares, it will not give us back our stolen confidence or our faith in the world, but it is some little kernel to hold on to. We are wounded, but in going down we delivered one last blow. I take comfort in guessing that this strike will cause great pain.
Celia had to press her hand over her heart, which was galloping almost painfully. There was one pain that she and Henrietta shared, and she didn’t want to think about it.
She read on.
You shall feel better if you do not ask me how I learned this. I told you once that you think the best of people too often. Lord Francis did not tell me himself, I shall tell you that, and my father certainly did not.
Your husband told us about Lord Edmund’s mysterious first wife, some time ago. I hope you have never thought too much about that poor girl, but I see now that the knowledge meant that your Peter was focused on getting you away from him, and Lord Francis was focused on… well, sweet Celia, he wanted revenge.
No. Celia closed her eyes, as though it all would go away if she could not see Henrietta’s words. She did not want to think about Lord Francis being less kind than she believed. And she did not want to think about Lord Edmund at all. Not at all, not ever again.
Francis seduced Edmund. Not the salacious kind, but the kind of gentlemen in dark rooms, their secret talk and promises over endless glasses of spirits. He sniffed around the edges of conversation until he knew which hints to drop. Edmund has no friends in London, and Francis has friends in every corner. They made Lord Edmund comfortable, and one night, they made him talk. Do you remember Francis telling Charlotte how to have a party? To include some friends, and some gossips to carry the word? He seeded Brooks’s the same way.
Edmund started talking about mistresses and whores, and Francis’s friends made him feel like they agreed.Who cares about fallen women? They are nothing like gentlemen’s sisters and daughters, are they? Nothing like. You and I know that, don’t we, Celia?
Until the night he talked about the girl who had been his wife.
Upon further consideration, I don’t think you want to know the stories, Celia. I think you just need to know you were right. He wanted to frighten you. He enjoyed your pain and he enjoyed your fear. He needed to see if you were alone, or if anyone would stand up for you. And by “anyone” I’m sure he was thinking any man, although if Rose had dropped that armchair on his foot it might have given him another think. I don’t believe our lovely Lord Edmund cared very much for Rose. I used to think she was foolish for not just pretending to fit in, but now I see that her way has a different sort of power. You or I could never have scared that man if we had a knife in our fist, because he could only see what he expected to see.
So I will not tell you what he did to his first wife. But I will tell you that there were magistrates in the room. And lordships may get away with more than misters (as my father says) but there is a limit, and what Lord Edmund did to his wife went past that limit.
Nothing is final until the next Court of Assizes, but no one believes that his lawyer will have a leg to stand on, with that amount of perjury in front of that many witnesses.
Actually, the real problem is that they don’t like him anymore. Powerful men will protect their own, and he could have slipped out of the noose if he had pretended to play their game a little longer. But he irritated too many important hostesses, showing up with no invitation and making a fuss among the macarons. Lord Francis helda trap beneath his feet and Edmund Hargreaves walked straight in.
I hope your brother still owes him money. Then at least his downfall will do some good to one of us. I know it is too late, and he has stolen some sweetness that will never belong to you again. I shall spit on his grave, as soon as he has one.
Much love,
Henny-Penny
Celia spent a long time watching the bustle in the street below, the light slanting lower and warmer. It was too hard to think about her own family, the fate that was almost hers, so she said a prayer for the soul of that poor girl who really did have no one to watch out for her. Then a prayer of thanksgiving for her own cousins and friends who had protected her. And for Peter, who had saved her life. That poor girl’s parents must have believed that wealth and external comfort meant that her life would be good enough, like Celia herself had once believed.
Believed with a sweetness she would never have again.
*
It had beennearly a month since the attack that did not hurt Celia, not really. Her body had healed—but then it was not. Pain flared up one day and vanished the next. Her bruises had faded, but then a nudge could make her wince.
