Celia laughed with the joy of it. “Me?” she asked, because she wanted him to say it again.
“I wantyou.”
His words vibrated in his chest, against her skin, and he nuzzled her neck with those cheeks that he had shaved just for her.
“You may have me,” Celia said, laughing and gasping and holding him close. “You may have all of me. Everything.”
Peter groaned and moved lower, his hand sliding over her waist to her belly and Celia cried out as he ran his fingers over her curves, pushing her night rail down, his hand caressing her bare skin and his smile against her shoulder.
“Forever.” Celia whispered it, because she knew forever was too big for him to hear, just yet.
Then Peter’s hand slid lower, and Celia stopped thinking about anything but right here, right now, with the only man she had ever wanted.
Chapter Forty
The Most Holy Band of Society is Friendship
The day beforesummer solstice, their party arrived in Durham City. It was their last stop on the Great North Road before turning inland, and the sun broke through as their coach was heaving up the narrow tangled streets, shining red and low over the medieval warren of steep roofs.
Celia, Marianne, and Bridget went out walking as soon as tea was done, the wind flattening their skirts against their legs. The whole city was a fortress, built on a steep hill looped by the River Wear. They were out of breath by the time they reached the cathedral, and for once, even Marianne said little. Across the green loomed the medieval stronghold of the Prince-Bishops of Durham, who even today could mint their own currency and call up their own militia. The clothing was different, the landscape was harsh, and the accent was practically incomprehensible. Celia had thought it would be like England and hoped it might be Scotch-Gaelic, but Durham was neither. It felt like they were stepping off the ends of the known world.
“Let’s have a party tonight,” Celia said. “To celebrate making it this far.”
She needed to make other people cheerful, to balance out the loneliness in her own soul. When she married, she knew she would lose Ireland forever, but in these yellow-green slab-shaped hills, the loss was real.
“I saw a bakery where we can buy fairy cakes,” Bridget suggested.
They were heading into the wild windy downs, where there might be no bakery, no fairy cakes. If Peter’s face was any indication, there would be no cause for celebration.
Their whole group gathered in the parlor after dinner. It had been several days of mud and sheep and broken axels, and the outdoor staff was awkward at first, but the fairy cakes and sugarplums did their work and soon the stories and laughter were rolling.
Celia poured tea, and Peter slid a box across the table towards her.
“Look.” He smiled slightly, but it was a good effort. “Lord Francis mailed this here, and I saved it for your party.”
“Oooh, let me go get a hammer!” Marianne cried, but JC produced a heavy blade sufficient for prying out the nails.
“From Lord Francis,” Celia read. Her heart soared, to have this connection with her friend.
On the top, there was a bundle of letters. Rose’s writing, and Henrietta’s, and even one from Charlotte. It hurt Celia’s heart, thinking of them all together without her, but that is the way of hearts. It was better to love people scattered all over, than never to have loved at all.
Wrapped in layers of paper was a narrow-brimmed navy wool hat for Celia, just a small spray of dark beads in the silk ribbon. She put it on, and Bridget and Marianne exclaimed in joy. It was the right color, it was the right shape, it was right in every way for her.
Celia laughed. “Of course it is. Lord Francis picked it out.”
“There’s still more,” Marianne said.
The corners around the hat were filled with silk flowers. Celia recognized Charlotte’s handiwork, and Marianne recognizedspecimens from her mother’s room, and the melancholy built around them like the crenellated walls of the castle keep.
“This one has your name.” Celia pushed the box back towards Peter, who rustled among the paper.
And then began to laugh. He had been so reserved for the last few days; they all turned, startled, while Peter laughed and laughed.
“Look what my friend has seen fit to give me,” he said, and held up the most extraordinary headdress. “My friend,” he repeated quietly.
It was a bonnet made of white straw, broad-brimmed, decorated with flowers and ribbons and glass beads in every possible color of the rainbow. There were even two small birds perched among the bedizenment. Everyone cheered.
“Am I beautiful yet?” Peter asked, plopping the entire rigamarole on his head.
