She shrugged, unable to meet his eyes.
“Do you remember what I said? Back when it was raining like winter would never end?”
Celia didn’t look up.
“I said I believe in you. That you will take your sweet manners and your understanding of being an outsider, and you will forge it in the heat of your determination, and become a leader among women. A leader for our entire generation. And I said—Miss Westhaven.” He tapped her gloved finger, making her look up. “I said I wanted a seat at your table. Do you remember that?”
Celia nodded.
“I cannot sit at that man’s table.”
Francis spun, drawing Celia forward, charming and playful once more. “So you must do better, you understand, my dear? For me. For the entire world. Do not compromise your principles.”
Celia hurried alongside him, trying to catch up to her cousins. She wanted a moment alone to savor his trust, to envision the future he suggested.
But she didn’t have time for the future. She didn’t have energy for visions. She had to find a husband before her cousins lost everything.
*
The Pipperlys’ drawingroom was wallpapered in large burgundy flowers, looming with potted palms, and heavy with the smell of lilies. Their pianoforte was the latest model, gleaming with inlaid rosewood and shimmering ivory keys, and the latest string quartet took their bows.
“You should go sit by Mr. Hanson.” Celia glanced around the room. “Your mother shall be angry with us if we talk together the whole night.”
“What does it matter?” asked Rose. “Nothing I do can please her.”
“Oh, she’s not doing lilts, is she?” Celia’s eyes were on the soprano, not interested in discussing Aunt Thompson. “Let’s go get some punch. Hurry.”
Rose didn’t need to be asked twice, and as they bustled out of the over-warm parlor, Charlotte joined them.
“Nothing worse than English girls singing Irish songs?” Rose waggled her eyebrows.
Charlotte smiled. “Is it the English accent?”
“No, it’s the English voices,” deadpanned Celia, and they giggled behind their hands, catching each other’s eyes and laughing as they made their way down the corridor.
“I shouldn’t be so rude.” Celia turned into the supper room. “We ladies should all support each other, and I’m sure she is trying her best. If she only sang anything else…”
“You’re allowed to have one or two things that annoy you,” Rose pronounced. “Even aparagonof feminine virtue and diplomacy such asyourself.” She curtsied to Celia, and they all broke out in giggles again.
They wandered over to the table where a cheerful maid was serving tea and lemonade. As they requested drinks, Celia glanced idly through the adjoining door to the card room…straight into the eyes of Peter Hughes. He was lounging on a divan at the back of the room, one foot hooked over the carved arm, hair disheveled, a sparkling glass dangling from his fingertips.
Having seen them, Mr. Hughes did the gentlemanly thing and stood to greet them properly. Gentlemanly, that is, if he had been in a better condition.
“Miss Westhaven, Mrs. Bigelowe, Miss Tho—Thompshon.” Mr. Hughes only bumped the doorway slightly. He set down his glass, ran his hands through his hair, and replaced his insouciant grin with that gentle smile that played at his eyes. “Your servant.” He bowed, still graceful even with a slight stagger.
Charlotte touched Celia’s arm lightly. There was a question in her eyes, but Celia didn’t know what it was.
“How nice to see you, Mr. Hughes,” Celia responded politely.
Rose sniffed, disapproval writ large across her face. The maid gestured, and a footman appeared in the far doorway. A very large footman.
Celia was oddly agitated, remembering the feel of Peter’s fingers on her own. She could envision herself reaching out, his steady hand clasping hers. Nonsense! “Did you hear Miss Henrietta play? She had the room enthralled.”
“Sadly, I have been with Mr. Henry Pipperly the whole evening.” Mr. Hughes gestured back into the card room. “But this afternoon I attended an organ recital at Shaint…. Saint….. Saint Something church. You would have enjoyed it. You too, Miss Thompson. I would have enjoyed your company.”
He spoke to both of them, but his eyes were latched onto Celia’s. Warm, tired, hopeful.
Celia half turned aside, silent. The vision of Mr. Hughes sitting alone in a church, listening to music and thinking of her, made her stomach clench and her throat tighten. He probably was just saying it to be polite.
