The garden partyhad been rained out. The guests were crowded indoors, pretending to enjoy the prospects from the windows, wielding their fans vigorously in defense against the increasing cloy of wet wool and human sweat. The hors d’oeuvres had run out an hour ago, the tea leaves were on their second steeping, and Celia missed the green open swells of home.
Celia ended up in a long conversation with Samuel Derrick, who was unfortunately a good four or five decades beyond what Celia would consider a marriageable age. She caught her aunt’s appraising eyes upon her, and hoped that Aunt Thompson would not press for such a May-December match—especially for Henrietta. She supposed she might have to consider it for herself.
Lord Francis approached with a flourishing bow. He was one of the eminent dandies of London, animated and bold, with smooth dark hair in a queue. Celia’s first year in London, she had fallen just the littlest bit in love with him.
She had been oppressed by all the stone in London, the yawning flat accents, the men all wearing the same black greatcoats and the same heavy beaver hats. Lord Francis wore bright colors, smiled easily, loved to dance, and these things touched something in her lonely Irish heart. He did seek her out—not enough to ever constitute particular attention, let alone a courtship, but enough that she felt… well, it felt like she existed.
Lord Francis had gently disentangled himself from her romantic notions. She had fallen back out of love with him that same spring, two years ago. Or perhaps that sort of feeling wasn’t love, but it was still uncomfortable to remember.
This afternoon, he was dressed in a coat that was both a vivid raspberry in color and also cut in the country style, as though purposefully commissioned to be worn to country parties within London.
“Mr. Derrick, so pleased to see you. Miss Westhaven, when you have a moment, I was hoping to accompany you for a wee walk through the gardens. The rain has paused for a moment.”
“Then you must go.” Mr. Derrick smiled genially.
Celia smiled obediently. Here it was—another friend informing her that he did not care to marry her, as though she didn’t know.
Five minutes later, Lord Francis was leading Celia out into the garden. There were several couples out, despite the chill; it was a good way to have a conversation or a flirtation, perfectly respectable and in full view of the house. Lord Francis chattered and gossiped and teased, striking poses and making Celia laugh. From the top of the rise, the pewter clouds hung low over the horizon, the Thames stretching wide and lazy, grand houses and their pleasure gardens laid out like green and brown patchwork squares.
“Lovely, just lovely,” Francis purred. “Now, do you think if we walked another mile or two, we might find a flower blooming? Just one?”
Celia laughed. She enjoyed the wind; she felt alive out here.
“You look well with a touch of color in your face, Miss Westhaven. Speaking of which, a little birdie told me that you intend to get married this Season, my dear.”
Lord Francis had little birdies singing to him from every corner of London, but Celia wished his flock weren’t paying so much attention to her. Out of patience with this fuss-about gad-about, she spun to face him.
“So, my lord. You have brought me out to announce that you cannot be caught in a leg-shackle with me. Is that right?”
Lord Francis’s smile faded, but not into anger. It was a new expression for him, the corners of his mouth loose, his brown eyes steady. “You are right that I cannot marry you, Miss Westhaven, but it is not what you think. Look at all this.” He opened his mouth, as though to continue, but took a slow breath, as though he had to convince himself to say what he meant. “I am a wealthy man in a wealthy country, and what does it buy me?” He spread his hand to indicate the opulent estates around them. “I choose freedom from a society marriage, Miss Westhaven.”
“There is someone else, then?” Celia said on instinct. A marriage that did not fit into society.
Lord Francis did not deny it, but he did move them forward along the path. “I brought you out here to ask”—he made it sound like he was teasing—“if you even wish to marry. At all.”
“What?” Celia was startled.
“You have not, in these past years, encouraged courtship,” Francis continued. “Look! There is a bird. Perhaps you have left your heart in Ireland, with the blacksmith’s son, or the daughter of a linen merchant in Omagh.”
“I have left my heart in Ireland,” Celia said, “but there is no one person who claims it.” She tried to speak playfully, but her words came out terse.
“So again—do you wish to marry?”
Belatedly, Celia wished she had asked what he meant by mentioning leaving her heart with another woman. She tried tofocus on his question, but her mind skittered to theLittle Belt, the graveyard behind Killyreigh, Marianne’s trusting expression.
“I wish to have a house,” she said slowly.
She meant to go on, but Lord Francis slapped his belly and burst out laughing. “That’s all we are? We men are so much baggage, like”—he swung playfully at some tall stalks—“a flower bed that comes attached to a house?”
“Some men are garlic beds,” Celia suggested, and giggled along.
“Nettle beds!” Francis laughed again. “Briar patches!”
If Celia could have gathered her thoughts and unmixed her metaphors, she would have tried to explain that she did not need to risk her time with testing out men who might be stink cabbage or might be rose bushes, because she already had a home. She would have tried to explain how much she loved Killyreigh, that every person in the town and every brook in the hills was part of her heart. But on second thought, Francis was a younger son and she did not want to make him feel badly for not having a home of his very own.
As soon as Lord Francis had mastered his merriment, he peppered her with another question. “Do you not believe in love, then?”
“Of course I do!” Celia laughed. “It is not like the sidhe, to question whether it exists or not.” Celia wanted to believe in both the sidhe and true love. “Do you?”
