At forty-six daysleft in London, the Thompsons prepared to attend a dinner at Mr. Hanson’s home. Aunt Thompson was beside herself with enthusiasm; Rose was crotchety.
“I am not sure if I even remember what Owen Featherstone looks like,” she grumbled, while pinning up Celia’s hair. Celia said nothing. She was not sure that Rose had time to figure out if she wanted to make a love match with a man whom she could not even remember clearly. If Rose became Mrs. Hanson, Henrietta could accompany her to her new home. Much more socially and financially feasible than Celia asking a brand-new husband to support all three of her cousins. It was time to focus on the present, and time for Rose to do her part.
The dinner party turned out to be wonderful. Mr. Hanson’s home was welcoming, the conversation was philosophical, and Mr. Cade brought Celia in to dinner. On the carriage ride home, even Rose was bubbling and cheerful, and as Celia followed her family into their house, she couldn’t stop smiling. It seemed like Rose could see the value of this match, and Mr. Cade had an opportunity to know her better.
“Anyone care for a spot of tea?” asked Mr. Thompson, in the old familiar way, as they passed their wraps to the butler. When they arrived upstairs, Henrietta spotted a pair of stocking feet poking over the arm of the most comfortable sofa.
“Terribly sorry!” Clarence startled awake, swinging down his feet and running hands through his hair.
Celia’s goodwill exploded into fireworks. There could be no better end to this wonderful evening.
“I decided not to go out with my friends tonight, and thought I would pop in.” Clarence rubbed his face and brushed down his coat. “Your man said you’d be home shortly, and I can’t think how I fell asleep. Terribly sorry.”
“Oh, hand me your neckcloth,” Henrietta laughed. “You’ll never get it straight again, and we don’t need to be formal.”
Clarence pulled it loose, smiling at her with that shy sweetness Celia knew so well. Were they falling in love? Perhaps Henrietta would be happy with him. Celia perched next to her brother on the couch, and he pulled her into a hug.
Real-Clarence had come to visit tonight, that old sweet smile peeking out, the way he laughed at all the things Celia herself found amusing.
Celia moved to her favorite chair with her tambour frame, glancing at Henrietta to see if there was any extra softness in her expression. Babies—Killyreigh—she must not get ahead of herself, but that would be a thousand times better than becoming Mrs. Cade. The feather-light effervescence under her ribs… was this hope?
Rose resumed an argument about Rousseau, Clarence cited news from America regarding the success of rational law but misremembered the quotation, Aunt Thompson raised her voice to correct him, Marianne drew an analogy to the miners’ strike. Clarence recounted the discussion in the House of Lords that had followed the strike, and everyone listened carefully as that had not yet come out in the papers. Then they all began talking at once.
Celia filled her silk flower beds with French knots, smiling as she watched the conversation ricochet from one opinionatedThompson to another, voices ringing out and laughter shadowing behind.
Celia wanted a thread strong enough to loop her family all together, to spin her needle around this familiar routine, this loving jocularity, pull the thread tight to hold everything in place. She would stitch down their world until there was no more threat of loss.
*
Forty-four days, butnow the thought of leaving London sounded like failure. A third of their time gone, and Lord Edmund engrossing all of her attention.
Celia and Henrietta were trotting down the stairs towards the morning room when they encountered none other than Mr. Hughes. Celia smiled naturally, then remembered she was upset with him for vanishing so completely.
“We haven’t seen you so often this year.” Henrietta made her curtsey, pouting in the charming manner that was so popular. “Last year we thought we were friends!”
“I will always be your friend, Miss Henrietta—Miss Westhaven.” Mr. Hughes spoke lightly, but there was an undertone in his voice. Come to think of it, the corners of his mouth were tense, and his smile did not reach his eyes. “This year, my business has much occupied me. You must pity me”—he flashed a teasing grin—“that I do not have time to relax in the company of such amiable ladies.”
Celia turned away, fingers tight on the handle of her painting case. Much occupied staying out all hours at card parties, brandy always in hand. Such sacrifice. Being Irish, she knew how to hold her whiskey, and being a lady, she knew when to stop. She felt prim and disapproving.
Henrietta and Mr. Hughes had exchanged another round of laughing pleasantries before Mr. Hughes continued up the stairs to Mr. Thompson’s office, and the cousins went up the hall towards the front of the house.
Henrietta paused with her hand on the door to the music room. “Celia, there is something about Mr. Hughes.” Her voice dropped. “He acts like a fool, but I don’t think he is. I am not even sure he is a drunkard.”
“I have wondered if his name is even Hughes,” Celia hissed back, “and also perhaps if he is an unusually well disguised kangaroo. Come now, Henrietta!” Celia snapped the door closed behind them. She didn’t like the way she felt and Henrietta’s observation seemed dangerously prescient. “I don’t disagree with anything you have said, but it doesn’t have anything to do with us. If he acts like a drunkard, he’s as good as a drunkard. I am going to paint from the sketches I made yesterday. What are you going to do while my aunt is away?”
“The mice shall play?” Henrietta laughed. “I shall go upstairs and read my novel.”
Half an hour later, Celia was experimenting with mixing the shades for the magnolia buds, wondering whether she should add Hooker’s green or ultramarine to her shadow tones, when the door to the music room swung open.
“Here she is, sir!” Marianne burst in with her usual vigor, sliding her hand affectionately across Celia’s shoulder on her way to the piano bench.
It was Mr. Hughes. Celia rinsed out her paintbrush and placed it on the ceramic brush to rest, avoiding his eyes. She didn’t know what she was upset about, so she ought not let it bother her.
Marianne opened the keyboard lid and set out her books with a flutter and a bang, so Celia tried to be a gracious hostess and offer Mr. Hughes a seat.
He paused by the chair she indicated, flashing her a tentative and teasing smile that almost restored him to Celia’s good graces. She did like that smile. Then she followed his gaze.
“Oh my! I’m so sorry!” Celia darted in and scooped up an armful of lavender flounces, searching for somewhere to stash them. They both looked around the room, Marianne began rolling up and down a series of scales, and Celia started to chuckle in spite of herself. A spool of thread escaped her harum-scarum bundle and plonked onto the floor. Mr. Hughes retrieved it.
