Peter Hughes bowed when he met Celia’s eyes, but did not ask her to dance. That was just as well; for some reason, it was easy to pretend to flirt with Lord Francis and Henrietta’s Mr. Pipperly, but Celia could not stomach even pretending to flirt with Mr. Hughes.
*
Aunt Thompson bustledinto the music room, humming, hands full of papers. Celia rinsed her paintbrush, glanced at the clock, and did not sigh. There was still a half-hour until Rose’s turn at the pianoforte was over. If her aunt had not come to practice, she must have come to—
“How pleasant! Since you both are here, I thought we would have a little chat!”
That was exactly what Celia was afraid of. The Bonnet Brigade was maneuvering into position, but they were not fast enough for a matchmaking auntie.
Rose spun on the piano bench to face her mother. “Do you wish to discussSchubert’s Sonata in A? Perhaps you believe I am not doing justice to the joyous melodies because, unlike the composer, I do not have enough experience with love.”
Celia envied Rose’s easy repartee. Rose spun back to the keyboard and ran her hands up the series of ascending scales in octaves, making the questioning pattern more ominous than playful.
Not to mention, no one could converse while she rumbled through all that, which was perhaps her intention.
Studying Rose, Aunt Thompson absently flattened papers against the table beside Celia, her cheerful expression fading into weariness.
“I am glad you play so well,” she said, when Rose’s chords finally trailed off.
That was probably the unadorned truth.
“I only fuss with ladies’ arts because you require it of me,” Rose rejoined.
Rose might believe it, but Celia didn’t think it was true. She reached for the papers, trying to waylay the argument, noticing the neat columns of lists and figures. “Auntie, are these new household tasks? I’d be happy to…”
Celia slid the first page to the side. Not the men. Not again. And not with Rose, now stomping over and reaching out her hand.
“Yes!” Aunt Thompson was all cheerfulness once again. “You both are doing a lovely job this Season, just lovely. I just thought I’d put together a bit of information to help you. You like research, Rose, dear…”
“Not this kind!” Rose thwapped her own sheets down on the table, having barely glanced at them, which was more fortitude than Celia had. Like craning one’s neck at a carriage accident, Celia leafed through the pages, one by one. Facts and gossip about each of their potential suitors: income, family connections, property, government connections. Naturally Lord Edmund and Lord Francis looked perfect on paper, but fortunately so did John Cade; here were several lists about gentlemen who had sent flowers or asked for dances but made no serious overtures of courtship. Gracious, here was poor Samuel Derrick, whose excellent income befitted a gentlemen of six-and-eighty. Hm. Although Penrose was a younger son, his parents had a nice estate just outside London, and she had thought his job paid better than—
“Isn’t this just like you.” Rose crossed her arms over her chest, staring at her mother. “The most important decision of a woman’s life—”
“Which is why I’m gathering information for you—”
Rose stomped her little foot. “This isn’t what truly matters. For a woman, choosing her husband is selecting her entire course in life. All of these men”—she waved her hand at the papers—“will give us different opportunities, different communities. If it is our duty to influence the world for good, it is through our husbands that our chances open. Or close.”
Celia shut her eyes. Of course that was what the sermons said, but it had been so long since she had thought about doing anything meaningful. She was just trying to get through the day, the year.
“Rose.” Aunt Thompson’s voice had an uncharacteristic note of pleading. “You are right, but you are looking so broadly. Marriage might be the most important choice a woman makes, but don’t you understand, sometimes the choices run out?”
Celia tensed, wondering if her aunt would finally treat them as adults and explain the situation to them. All they knew of Mr. Thompson’s financial situation was gained by subterfuge and supposition.
Rose waited a beat, perhaps hoping too.
Aunt Thompson smiled, placating and encouraging. “So let’s use some facts so you can find the right choice, girls. You can—”
“You are reducing these gentlemen—and therefore ourselves—to cold, unfeeling numbers.” Rose crossed her arms.
“And you are imagining that numbers mean nothing?” Aunt Thompson mirrored her daughter, facing off like soft-cheeked, brown-haired little bulls. “You can talk all the philosophy you want, quote all the poets you can find, but at the end of the day”—she tapped the page in front of Celia—“these numbers are what define your happiness. Furthermore and beyond which, youropportunitytoinfluencethe world!”
Rose slammed her hand on her page. “So we are supposed to judge these men by the success and connections of their fathers?”
That made it sound petty, but Celia supposed it was true. Just think of Clarence, who had not earned anything. Surreptitiously, she slid the pages aside to check the one labeled Peter Hughes. He had made his fortune in the military, had he not? It seemed so, for her aunt had not found any important family connections nor a country house. Yet another reason he could not be a serious contender for Celia’s hand—besides, of course, that he did not want Celia’s hand. Her fingers unsteady, the corner of the page wobbled into Celia’s mixing tray. She yanked it away too quickly, annoyed when red-purple drops spattered into her nice browns and yellows. Very annoyed. Incredibly annoyed.
Aunt Thompson was irritated now, too. “Family connections are important, and even more so the choices men make with—”
Celia batted Peter’s page with misjudged force, and it skittered across the table, smearing paint and scattering pins as it flew onto the floor beyond Rose. All three women stared in silence, as though one measly scrap of paper had some significance. Tears prickled Celia’s eyes, although the page didn’t matter at all. Not at all.
