Bridget treated it all as though it were a spider in the pantry; something you chase with determination until it is gone. She clucked her tongue over the persistent scars and mixed up special creams, with which she rubbed Celia’s shoulders with the vigor of drying off an errant puppy.
Celia wondered what it would be like if Peter rubbed cream into her skin. The thought made her tingle, but reality made her cringe; she had red places and aches and he would only think of her exposed in the garden.
“The bad humors have made it into thesubcutaneouslayer,” Bridget explained, always ready with important words. “That means the muscle. Don’t you worry your head, I know how to get them out before they reach the bone.”
She had a great many highly specific theories about bad humors, and Bridget’s confidence improved Celia’s own mood. Bridget put Celia’s feet in hot water with herbs and put up her hair so the pins didn’t pull and gave her careful massages at night. No one had ever paid attention to her body, Celia realized, and she hadn’t dared to pay attention to herself.
Baths had changed from something practical to something both sensual and mortifying. Celia rubbed the soapy sponge across her collarbone; she did not want Peter to see the fine pink scars on her shoulders. Not that he was here to notice, and her thoughts tangled like thread—she wanted him to desire her; he had only married her for the scandal and never looked at her twice; she was afraid that any male desire would be rough and bestial. She closed her eyes and imagined he was kissing her like the day they were engaged—his fingers cradling her head, the smell of his skin, his smile fluttering warm against her temple. He had fetched Marianne for her, he was unfailingly courteous. He was nothing like those—other men. Surely. Celia sank lower, her hands and breasts floating free underwater, her chin brushing the bubbles.
He was nothing like her brother, nothing.
Bridget was in the middle of a lively lecture about proper skin care.
“You should do that too,” Celia answered.
“Don’t you worry! Every night, I take care of any bad humors. It is yourself who has been ignoring them for far too long. Here we go.”
She had a sweet-smelling soap for Celia’s hair and a special roller for her back. “As though I were a grand lady on my way to meet the queen”—Celia bit her lip to keep from making the joke out loud, belittling herself. Marianne was reading in the corner, and girls see everything. Celia had to be the person she wanted Marianne to grow into.
“You’ll be right as rain,” Bridget said. “Pretty girl for your nice husband.”
Marianne was listening, so Celia had to be a woman worthy of being loved.
Maybe she wanted it too…for Peter to see her whole self, even the parts she didn’t understand. She wanted so much; she wanted that kind of love too. For Marianne one day, and for herself right now.
*
The days passed.The rain fell, their sodden group was a few miles closer to home.
They laughed together, on their own or with Peter’s eclectic gatherings. Celia read Henrietta’s letter and thought about the differences between Peter and Clarence; it should be obvious, but she made herself say them aloud.
Celia and Leavenworth went over his ledgers; she shared her ideas with him and he encouraged her. Peter gave Celia compliments, Bridget gave her massages, and Marianne slept with her back to back every night. Celia began to remember herself; she began to live in her body again.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Our Hero’s Personal Waterloo
Peter had givenup attempting to travel in a sensible manner, so when Celia complimented a little posting inn and ordered a pot of tea, he just made reservations for the night. There were much better options farther on, but at least they’d achieved a few miles that day. Besides, he was beginning to suspect that when Celia made a fuss about Marianne being too cold and Marianne needing to rest, it meant that Celia herself was cold and tired. Marianne was as healthy as a filly, but Celia seemed frail recently.
The innkeeper, clearly overawed by gentry choosing to stay the night, led them to an annex with three cozy bedrooms and a parlor below. Celia trailed behind, looking tired, and Marianne chattered the whole way through the inn. They needed only two rooms, but whoever rented the third would be passing by their parlor and sleeping in close proximity.
“We’ll take them all,” Peter told the innkeeper.
Leavenworth made a move towards the smallest room, but Peter put a hand on his arm.
“Miss Marianne.” Peter pointed. “A treat for you. A room of your own.”
“And it has butterflies on the pillows! Aren’t they adorable?” Marianne bounced forward, examining every picture and testing the water pitchers and curtains and heaven only knows what.
Peter opened the other door for Celia, then took a quick walk through. All safe. No matter how much Celia loved Marianne, any sensible person would want a break from all that enthusiasm now and then. Peter worried about Celia.
“Very pretty,” Celia said. “Thank you, Mr. Alcott.” And she smiled the way that Peter didn’t like.
The afternoon halt meant that Peter had a couple hours to ask some questions in the local taverns. And it meant when he found out that Jackdaw had taken a room down the road, it could not possibly be coincidence.
And he had no doubt that Jackdaw had a spy of his own, nursing a beer and noting Peter’s questions. Peter had set the dominoes tumbling, and now he needed to act.
He was cleaning his pistols when Leavenworth entered their room.
