“No to everything.” Gently, Celia tugged at her skirt, shaking out the wrinkles her brother’s hands had left.
“Just let me—” Clarence reached out his hand.
“No,” said Celia. “It’s time for you to go.”
Clarence stared at her.
Behind her, a rustle as Marsh moved.
Bridget set down her sewing.
“We can talk later, then.” Clarence stood, brushed off his knees, raised his chin with the same gesture as Celia. “I have a room here. We can have dinner together, and—”
“No,” said Celia, but it was getting difficult. Her hands were shaking, and she pressed them into her lap.
“I think you’d better find a different inn.” JC crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’ll explain to the manager,” Janie agreed.
“But I don’t want—”
“I can walk you to the door.” Leavenworth rose to his feet, steady and solid and large.
“Celia! You must understand. You must forgive me—”
Peter stood as well, and his voice was sharp. “Kilairne, you may not tell my wife what shemustdo. Not ever again. Do you understand me?”
Clarence turned in a slow circle, his expression ever more blank. “Celia.” His face crumpled again. “I want to do the right thing. What can I do?”
It was too much; he always knew the way to her heart. Celia turned her head aside, biting her lip.
“This isn’t a fair thing to ask of Mrs. Alcott,” Leavenworth said.
“I know what you can do,” Marianne said.
Peter walked behind the settee, stood beside Celia.
“Go back to London,” Marianne continued, “and attend every party with my sisters.”
“They don’t like me any longer,” Clarence grumbled.
“Well of course they don’t!” Marianne shook back her hair. “You needn’t try to talk with them. Just hover about, and glare at anyone unsuitable. The old men only look at Henrietta’s bosoms when you aren’t there.”
“But I—”
“Well then!” Bridget jumped up, bright and efficient. “It sounds like we have a plan! New hotel and being useful to defenseless ladies! Wonderful! Let’s go!”
From all directions, all the men moved forward.
“I’m going!” Clarence threw up his hands. “I didn’t want to stay in this flea-infested hovel anyhow. I do like Henrietta, as it so happens. She is sweet.”
He shoved at Marsh as he went past, then paused at the doorway.
Turned to look at Celia.
“Sister,” he said in Irish. “I loved our mother, and I love you, and I never wanted you hurt.”
“Slán leat.” Celia made the sign of the cross. “Dea dhuit.”
