“Any day now.” Aunt Thompson smiled brightly. “I am sure someone will notice how lovely you are.”
Three years of chafing under the restrictions of being unmarried in high society, and no one had shown any interest yet.
“Lovely like an elephant in the British Museum.” Celia wanted them to laugh, but no one did.
“Charlotte, dear?” Aunt Thompson had abandoned the sewing. “Don’t you think someone is going to fall in love with Celia? Any moment now?”
“Not just anyone,” Charlotte answered, darting a reassuring smile at Celia. “Someone kind.”
“With a good income.” Aunt Thompson’s smile stretched her cheeks.
“And intelligent,” Rose added.
“Who appreciates art,” Charlotte said.
“Perhaps a nobleman’s son, to match your position,” Aunt Thompson suggested.
That feeling flared again, scorching Celia’s throat. What a foolish, practical, thoroughly boringly English sort of list. This paperboard cutout of a man—wealthy, smart, educated—meant nothing to Celia. Especially not compared to living with her family who loved her and her cousins who needed her.
“Don’t look so startled!” Aunt Thompson patted Celia’s shoulder encouragingly, frenetically. “You just need to smile over the edge of your fan, flutter your lashes a little bit. They’ll see you’re available, and come running!”
“Let’s just hope the next one doesn’t run Celia over,” Rose muttered.
“There now.” Aunt Thompson beckoned and passed her needle to Rose, who did not enjoy sewing any more than her mother. “I must return, for Henrietta’s sake. She is having quite the success tonight, isn’t she? But remember”—firm and warning—“find an engagement. This Season, Celia.”
“Thank you, Aunt,” Celia replied automatically.
The latch clattered, a cacophony of distant conversation briefly swelled the room, then cut off again once more. Celia sagged, her busk digging into her breastbone. An engagement that began at a ball like this would mean Celia would lose Ireland forever.
Never mind—if her aunt said she must marry, then marry she must. Killyreigh and its income now belonged to her brother, and he didn’t choose to go back. She was dependent on her uncle, who apparently wanted her out of his house and off his ledgers.
Rose joined them, hovering halfway behind Celia, and took one stitch. Ironically—for Rose adored her father—Rose was a physical copy of her mother, short and round and full-bosomed, with a stubborn chin and remarkably small hands and feet.
Rose glowered at the ruffle.
“Is there another needle?” Celia wanted something in her hands, and the job complete.
“You’ll pull it out of line, since you’re wearing the dress,” Charlotte said. “It’s faster if we just do it.”
“You mean, if you do the sewing and Rose speaks to it sternly,” Celia teased, and all three women began to laugh, slowly at first, and then bursting into cascades of giggles. It was absolutely unwarranted and beautifully familiar.
After they had laughed themselves out, they wiped their eyes, sharing smiles.
Charlotte jabbed a pin into the pincushion and stared firmly past Celia’s shoulder. “Rose,” she said, her tone crisp with warning.
Rose rustled. “Not Mr. Jones again.”
“It matters!”
“His offer didn’t change anything,” Rose grumbled.
A marriage proposal always changed things, Celia thought, even if it was just a woman’s status within her own family. She was getting the odd feeling that this spring, it mattered more than usual.
Charlotte wasn’t giving up. “Wasn’t your mother’s little lecture oddly familiar?”
“Mr. Jones didn’t care about my writing or anything I can do,” Rose said. “He is just a widower with two children and a big house, and my dowry is the right size.”
Celia had thought that Mr. Jones was kind and friendly. Besides, he was often on the Continent for business, leaving his wife in blissful peace in that big house with two lovely children, and he had watched Rose like an adoring spaniel.
