Her pale face in the carriage window, waving and waving as the coach drew away. He told her he would come back, but he couldn’t manage leave at the right time, his father caught word—excuses, excuses, and the years slipped by.
Peter smiled. “Of course. How we love to work together, Jackdaw.”
It was better to keep his promise now than let another nine years go by.
*
Peter dodged intothe park. Tried to stay steady and sensible, ran until he had a stitch in his side. But just on the side paths. Very sensible. He would not get hurt because that would hurt the others. Ran more. Until everything was just breath and pounding feet and beating heart, no room for thinking.
When he got home, the housemaid caught him in the hallway.
“For youse.”
She held out a small white square, and Peter’s heart nearly stopped. He could see his sister’s name, the squashed up capital letters—or his uncle, or even Celia—
But it was not. Smaller, fine paper, embossed with PL. “Be back at half 4. Need to see you.”
Peter asked the housemaid for tea, and dropped coins into her hand as he ran upstairs.
On his table, the letter to his mother. Everything changed, couldn’t send it now; he built up the fire and threw it on top.
Elinor. Crying. Elinor. Crying.God, he couldn’t stand it.
On the blotter paper, he wrote “Celia Celia Celia Celia Celia Celia” and threw that in the fire too. There you go. All his hopes and plans. It didn’t matter if he liked the way she laughed. It didn’t matter if it had felt like she trusted him, that moment at the Pipperlys’. She had other people to watch out for her, and he would never see her again. Never. He had to go to Italy and he had to find a way convince Jackdaw to leave him alone—to never want to see Peter again—most especially never thinking about Elinor again.
Thump—Peter jumped, but it was just Leavenworth with the tea tray. It turned out they were both hungry, and it turned out that Peter felt significantly calmer once he’d downed three scones and a ham sandwich.
“I need a favor,” Leavenworth said. They were on their second pot of tea, feet propped on the hearth, chairs tipped back.
He passed over another white square, and this time Peter’s heart was just fine. It was an invitation, beautiful calligraphy, and a different hand had scrawled Leavenworth’s name, “and your friend Hughes.”
“I want to go,” Leavenworth said. “Everyone important in radical politics is at the Macallisters’ annual fête. Just being there proves that I belong. Then they’ll start looking for me. Thinking of me when they need a new speech.”
“As well they should.”
“But I don’t want to go alone. Get dressed and come out with me tonight, Alcott.”
“Of course.” Peter brushed his thumb over the calligraphy. It was obvious to both of them why Leavenworth’s name was added in that harum-scarum way; it was obvious why he didn’t want to go alone. Macallister was a radical in many ways, but he had voted against Britain using its naval power to limit the slave trade, and his recent speech mentioned the American plantations were not so bad, since the slaves had a chanceto learn trades. He certainly thought that Leavenworth was an “exceptional example” of a race he considered intrinsically inferior.
Peter passed back the invitation. “You want to pick out my waistcoat? What time do we need to leave?” He was trying to remember how many of his Cambridge pals were Scottish and whether this would be the night someone blew his cover. At least the Thompsons were not political, so Celia would not be there. He’d have to face Francis, but claw one day closer to forgetting Celia.
Leavenworth pulled out his pocket watch. “Just enough time for you to run down the street and get your damn hair trimmed.” He chuckled, low and easy.
“All right, all right, I’m going!” Peter punched his shoulder and managed to laugh.
So, he’d miss the Rose and Cabbage tonight. Jackdaw wanted his Italy commission; he wouldn’t start a pissing contest if he still had a chance at the money.
Peter was walking a knife edge, but that was the way he lived. He’d make it work.
*
Celia admired thecandles sparkling in the chandeliers in the Macallisters’ vaulted ceiling, artistic treasures in glass cabinets along the paneled stone walls, and dozens of elegantly dressed men and women engaged in intense conversation. Celia heard snatches of Welsh and Gaelic amongst the English, and smiled. This was an elegant party, and it felt good to be arm in arm with her brother.
The Westhavens meandered around the gallery, snatching bits of conversation with each other. Clarence kept asking Celiaabout Lord Edmund. Celia kept referring to Henrietta. Clarence kept saying that Celia would soon be the mistress of a fine new house. Celia kept mentioning Killyreigh. She could almost believe they were joking together.
“You are looking well,” Clarence said, obviously pleased.
Celia lifted her chin and held out her hand to the next gentleman with a brilliant smile. Clarence liked to be proud of her, and she liked him happy.
