“Aname?” Rose was skeptical.
“Quite.” Lord Francis looked more relaxed and cheerful than Celia had ever seen him. “All good military divisions have a name, and this is quite the best one I have ever seen.”
“The Petticoat Battalion!” Marianne announced.
“We don’t want his lordship to feel left out,” Rose protested.
“Don’t worry, my dear, I admire petticoats quite as much as anyone.”
“We cannot say petticoat in public.” Celia was quite firm.
“And we do not want anyone to remind anyone of petticoat chasing,” Charlotte added.
“Quite right.” Marianne slumped back in her chair.
“The idea is good, though.” Celia was determined to keep them all energized, proud of themselves. “Let’s see. The Pelisse Regiment?”
Everyone laughed, as she had meant them to.
“The Bonnet Brigade.” Celia smiled, knowing as soon as she said it that it was right.
It was right. They all agreed it was fine as fivepence, Marianne sat up laughing again, Lord Francis was offering to wear a bonnet to White’s one night; even Charlotte was smiling and relaxed.
They had sixty days to solve the insurmountable, but Celia was beginning to hope The Bonnet Brigade could do it.
Part Two
Act 2
Chapter Twelve
Threescore, as the Israelites in the Desert and Our Heroine
Fifty-nine days inLondon.
Fifty-eight.
There was an unfamiliar fluttering in Celia’s chest, and she wasn’t sure if it was wonderful or dangerous. She knew how sudden changes can make life precarious. When Celia’s mother had fallen from her horse when Celia was thirteen, her father had been paralyzed with grief. Celia had taken in one of her mother’s dresses, sat at her father’s desk, and dealt with the barony’s queue of tenants and merchants. While learning how to make her handwriting look like a man’s and how to correspond in business English, she also learned how to dress a body for a wake and how to host sixty for a formal dinner—all skills she needed many times over the next decade. Sometimes her father returned to his gregarious, dynamic self; sometimes his new wife had been healthy enough to serve as hostess. But in all those years, there was one thing Celia had never experienced.
Having someone support her.
Fifty-four days in London. Fifty-three.
Celia reminded herself that she was responsible for her cousins; despite the Bonnet Brigade’s fine plans, she was the eldest and the one with social status.
Henrietta continued to organize their social progress at the balls, making sure the women’s dance cards were cluttered with safe partners, landing Celia and Rose in front of their friends just in time for an introduction from Lord Francis’s aunt or Charlotte’s mother. One party, Henrietta urgently begged Celia to assist her, and Celia thought she was taking care of her cousin until she realized that Lord Edmund had been drawing close and Henrietta was just fine, and Celia realized it was the other way around. She was rescued from the socially-significant second dance with the same gentleman.
And of course, Celia reminded herself, Charlotte was a grown woman with her own household, but she was rather shy and overawed in company and Celia must not rely on her too much. Which was true, but despite her reservations Charlotte planned a breakfast, a picnic, and a museum visit. Each time, she invited a couple of the gentlemen whom the Bonnet Brigade had approved as suitors, allowing Celia the opportunity to converse naturally with Mr. Cade and Mr. Penrose, Rose to have philosophical arguments with Mr. Hanson, and Henrietta to laugh with Mr. Pipperly and other young men.
Celia could not expect Marianne to be of any practical help, and Marianne was not. But she was constantly enthusiastic, and Celia always felt stronger when there was someone believing in her.
Fifty-two days until Charlotte’s house party.
Celia had no reason to believe that Lord Francis would fail at anything he put his mind to, but she could not expect him to continue to think about her little problems. But his aunt continued to serve as a respectable conduit for a flurry of notes, planning coincidental meetings in the park and happenstance introductions in the art gallery. On one morning visit, Lord Edmund cornered Celia with a barrage of information about art—patently incorrect, of course—and Lord Francis appeared,wielding rapier-sharp banter that the big man could not think quickly enough to parry. More importantly, since their social rank was the same, Lord Edmund could not do what he wanted and expect Lord Francis to scurry out of his way, and on three occasions Celia went in to dinner with her hand on her friend’s arm while Lord Edmund sulked beside some other poor lady.
Francis was careful to not pay so much attention to Celia that society would think he was courting her himself, although of course every dance and conversation set Aunt Thompson’s imagination sailing.
Forty-seven days left to find a husband, and another party. Celia tried to keep her expectations in check, but hope fizzed like seafoam. If Mr. Hanson’s behavior was any indication, Rose would not have to wait for a letter from Istanbul. As for herself, Mr. Cade made several comments about needing a hostess and Celia was avoiding social gaffes that might scare him away.
