“It’s all like Spillikins, one thing tumbling into the next.” Now even Charlotte was irritated. “It’s not just about you anymore, Rose.”
“Nonsense!” Rose scoffed. “Marrying Mr. Jones doesn’t matter to anyone but me, and I have other things to do! Wollstonecraft said that a woman’s—”
“Tell her what you told me,” Charlotte said.
Celia’s heart, flickering through so many emotions, stung with jealousy. She shook her head, trying to escape her own sordidness. It wasn’t until Celia moved to England at three-and-twenty that she learned that Rose had her own best friend, better educated and more elegant than Celia. The two women had immediately included her in their circle, but Celia could never quite forget that she was the outsider.
“Fine! Very well. It’s nothing.” Rose abandoned her needle and stomped over to the worn velvet sofa.
Charlotte returned to stitching, quick and firm. Celia wondered if Rose had a proposal from Owen Featherstone or if she preferred to work with her father for her entire life.
“All that fol-de-rol about lilacs…” Rose sighed, bit her lip, crossed her feet one way and then the other. “I think… I think my mother is ill. Even dying.”
Celia gasped, mostly to keep herself from laughing. Aunt Thompson was brimful of life and energy.
Rose thumped her feet. “I think she’s going to be too weak to chaperone us next year. So she wants us all married in a hurry.”
“All, Celia,” Charlotte gave Celia a significant glance, which meant…
“What about Owen?” Celia turned to Rose.
Rose glanced away, lacing her hands neatly. “Papa wrote to him in Istanbul and said if he was going to correspond with me then he must… call it an engagement.” Rose’s sturdy voice wavered. “We’re waiting to hear back. But!” Rose held up a finger, victorious. “I’m sure Mother made him do it.”
“When was your father’s letter?” Celia would have preferred to ask if Rose wanted an engagement and ignored the jibe at her aunt. Talking to Rose could be like juggling pincushions.
“January.” Rose scuffed her toe.
So for three months, Rose had been hiding her fears. Celia hadn’t cared for her in that particular way that Rose needed—
Charlotte let out a little puff of a sigh. “The point being, she wants all of you to marry. Not just Celia.”
“Yes. She still wants me to marry if I can, instead of waiting for Owen’s response.” Rose rolled her eyes, but Celia could see her bravado was false. “Henrietta too.” Confession over, Rose was poised between scorn and jest. “But you know she actually likes all the fuss. She thinks it will be great fun to find someone handsome, rich, and kind while hopping through a do-si-do and sipping lukewarm tea.”
“Henrietta has barely any dowry,” Charlotte muttered, face turned towards her stitching.
“But she’s pretty,” Rose retorted. “Charming. Flirtatious.”
“And you are handsome, well-spoken, and clever.” Celia was exhausted by the useless competition between the older Thompson sisters.
But what about Marianne? She was too young to marry. Celia’s self-pity melted away like frost in the bright sun of her love; as strong as the mountains, steady as the ocean.
“There, done.” Charlotte snipped the thread, brow furrowed. “It will last the night, and all three of you are intelligent women who will find husbands of your own. It might as well be this spring.”
Celia patted Charlotte’s hand in thanks. “I remember when you talked about literature all day long, but you’ve become quite the proponent of romance this last year.”
Charlotte shrugged, laughing. “I admit it! But it really is so pleasant to be married—provided the gentleman is the right one!”
Celia brushed out her dress, thanking Charlotte, who had stitched it just slightly shorter so she could move freely.
As they bustled towards the door, Rose paused to tug her undergarments back into place, deliberately blocking Celia’s way. When Rose looked up, her face had the sort of blank dread that froze Celia’s breath.
“What are we going to do?” Rose whispered.
Celia needed time to think, time to make sense of this cascade of half-reasoned information, but she couldn’t stand that look on Rose’s face.
“Don’t worry.” Celia touched Rose’s arm lightly. “I’ll figure out something.”
“You can be our chaperone if Mother is indisposed, can’t you?”
