This was a political gathering, so Celia kept her eye out for Lord Francis. She caught sight of his green velvet tailcoat just as several Scottish MPs wished to draw Clarence into a private discussion. She waved her brother away.
As she wended her way in Francis’s direction, she kept checking ahead for that splash of green, but when she popped around a large batch of Welshmen she was shocked by what she found.
Lord Francis had his back to her, but his always-moving hands were crisp and angry. And he was speaking with…Peter Hughes.
It took intimacy to argue, and Celia hadn’t known these two men knew each other at all. She paused, recalibrating. Their voices were low, but even from yards away Celia could see their tension—demand and refusal and belief and determination. This was no parlor disagreement. This was not politics. They were angry about something that meant a great deal, to two men who both pretended that the world was sunny and foolish.
Just then, Mr. Hughes looked up. Straight into Celia’s eyes.
He touched Lord Francis’s arm. They turned, faces wearing matching inscrutable expressions. Francis came towards Celia, and Mr. Hughes turned the corner. Celia’s eyes followed him.
Would wonders never cease! Another gentleman was waiting for him, and they fell in together with easy intimacy, as though they were mid-conversation. He was about Peter’s age, with thesame upright military bearing. But this man was taller, with broad shoulders and dark skin. His hair was wooly, but from his features Celia guessed he was mixed race. Mr. Hughes shook his head and the other man touched his shoulder. Mr. Hughes had allowed him to both watch the argument and comfort him afterwards.
So, Peter Hughes hadn’t sprung full-fledged from the head of Zeus. Despite the blankness of Aunt Thompson’s lists, he had people to whom he was deeply connected. He cared about… something.
Lord Francis bowed, and Celia snapped her mind back to the present. It was difficult to catch a few moments together with a gentleman, and she wouldn’t waste them asking questions which her friend would almost certainly avoid.
Celia extended her hand. “We need you to go to the bank for us.” The soaring ceilings and hard surfaces swallowed her words.
Lord Francis kissed her gloved fingers, eyes dancing. “And good evening to you, too.”
“We need the interest on our own money. Rose and I, that is.” Celia put her hand into her reticule, awkwardly sliding a tightly folded paper into her palm.
“Is it in Thompson’s name?” Lord Francis bowed and extended his crooked arm.
Celia tucked her half-closed fist into his elbow. “He’s just an executor. Clarence is on both accounts as well.” Yet another thing he had inherited, unearned. “Both are in our own names, and we both have our majority.”
“The younger girls?” Francis steered them towards a table with lemonade and French pastries.
“All three sisters will divide my Aunt Thompson’s dowry, but that remains in her name until the girls marry. Rose received an inheritance from a great-aunt, meant for her dowry but completely in her own name.”
“Which bank?”
Celia named it. “We just need the interest.” Between herself and Rose, they had just over ten thousand pounds—an incredible amount. The principle was promised to husbands who had not yet materialized, but there must be some way to access the interest from their own money in their own names. A man could just walk into the bank and request it in quarterly payments.
Lord Francis patted her hand, deftly withdrawing the folded paper. “Are they signed?”
“Yes.” She turned to face him. “Can you get it for us?”
Francis checked the time, sliding paper and watch together into his waistcoat pocket. “Probably not.”
But Celia knew he would try. “Thank you, my lord.” She curtsied, a formal bob.
Francis passed her a lemonade and bowed.
An older woman greeted Celia in Irish, bearing her away for more introductions. These matrons were watching Celia, not waiting for her to fail, but for her to rise up and continue the fight they had begun in their own youths. The king was crowned, and Catholics still did not have the rights that England had promised when the French revolution began. Tonight, the echo of Lord Francis’s prediction made her smile.
A leader among women.She leaned amongst a group she had known from her family’s annual visits to Omagh. The wife of one of the MPs was around Celia’s age, and they had attended their first ball together.
The premier hostess of our generation.Half an hour later, Celia paused by women discussing how they solved seating political rivals at their dinner parties. She hesitated.
“At Killyreigh,” she began, and everyone listened.
She’d had Castle Killyreigh for ten years, and she would have it again. She had the right to be in this conversation.
She was bustled near Lord Francis on their way towards the supper room.
Celia raised her eyebrows at her friend, imperious. “My lord, your answer earlier was not acceptable to me.”
