Henrietta squeezed Celia’s hand. Henrietta had been running Bonnet Brigade meetings every night in the big bedroom, making lists, making everyone feel useful, making them laugh. Thirty-three days left in London; thirty-three daysto find a husband who was not this one. Henrietta made each day seem possible.
The office was hot and smelled of cologne, and the bookshelves loomed like stone giants. Failure, they growled at Celia.
Celia sat next to her uncle and smiled politely through Lord Edmund’s rambling and poetic proposal.
“No, thank you,” she said.
He insisted she loved him, he opened the jewel case and made whatever-it-was inside sparkle in the firelight, he increased his financial offers for their marriage settlement. It was meant to wear her down, but the longer he went on, the more stubborn she felt. Mr. Thompson patted her knee and nodded solemnly.
The clock ticked on. Rose would have marched Lord Edmund out of the office by now. Marianne would have thrown a fit. Lord Francis would have convinced him that his interests were better served elsewhere. Peter would—
But Mr. Hughes was leaving, and he had never meant to marry her at all.
“No, thank you,” said Celia.
But Lord Edmund kept right on talking, and her uncle just patted her knee.
*
One day. TheThompson family had one day of peace, practicing pianoforte, returning calls, dinner with Cousin Giles. They believed that they had moved on from the whirlwind that Lord Edmund had created, but he switched to poisoning the well.
First, it was rumors about Celia, spreading on the tinder of everyone who hated the Irish and resented their seats in Lords.Like ink soaking through linen, the gossip leached out to touch every member of the Thompson family.
“Just keep your chin up,” said Aunt Thompson, her own head drooping. “Rumors with no truth to them die quickly.”
Henrietta called meetings of the Bonnet Brigade.
By twenty-nine days, the Thompson women startled at every knock. Twice daily when their butler entered with the silver salver of mail, everyone held their breath. They debated whether to go shopping on Jermaine Street, not sure whether it was better to act like everything was ordinary. Even Rose was drawn into the discussion about which bonnet would convey the correct level of confidence.
Celia sent a note to her brother, but he did not respond. He had been so cheerful at the Macallisters’ soiree—but that was a week ago, before she refused Lord Edmund.
Henrietta sent a note to Clarence, but he still did not respond.
Marianne pretended to be violently ill so that her mother had an excuse to cancel their usual morning at-home. Her theatrical moans and hands clasped at her breast would not have fooled even a man, but Aunt Thompson cancelled the event.
Twenty-six days. Henrietta went walking in the park with the young Pipperlys, but Mr. Charles brought her back almost immediately. He was flushed, and Henrietta was trying not to cry.
“I think she’s safer if she stays at home,” he mumbled, but he kissed her cheek before he rushed away.
“But she didn’t do anything!” Marianne wailed, over and over. “She only even came out last month! No one even knows her!”
Lord Francis sent a letter that afternoon, confirming the substance of Marianne’s complaint but reaching the opposite conclusion:
No one knows Miss Henrietta. It’s too easy to color their own conclusions on the blank fashion plate of a brand-new debutante. They look at your cousin and see that she’s too confident, too cheerful. In short, that she catches the eye of too many men, and since she has neither high birth nor impressive dowry to recommend her, they easily believe she must be employing nefarious techniques. We know, of course, that Miss Henrietta is entirely nefarious, but her methods are that of anima rather than corpus.
As for the other matter you have engaged me to pursue… I have obtained genial agreement, but not of the sort involving signatures and disbursements. They would prefer to see either a marriage license or one of the executors. I am afraid of spooking your uncle, but I await a reply from Kilairne.
Well, that made three of them! Leaving Rose and Marianne quibbling, Celia shook her head and went to fetch her bonnet.
This would not do. She was a baron’s daughter, and Celia would not be confined to her house by a little chin-wag. Out she went. Instead of waiting for others to acknowledge her, Celia greeted every young lady she had hosted and every matron whose parties she had attended. Some of the women were uncertain, but faced with her untiring smile and personal interest, none of them quite dared to give her the cut.
Lord Edmund could be rude, he could bury her brother at the tables—but if he thought he was going to ruin Henrietta, she was very well going to undeceive him of that notion.
*
Celia was puttingaway her newly purchased silk threads whenshe heard the door. Frozen, like a fox in the brush, ears cocked—male voices, not family, too low for Lord Francis or Peter. Not that Peter would come, of course. Footsteps, tapping, and then the butler’s voice.
“Just upstairs, sir, to Mr. Thompson’s office.”
