Celia wanted Killyreigh, but she would take any gentleman with an offer for any of them. She hoped it was Mr. Cade, with his perfect list and his perfect connections and his boringly perfect English demeanor. Or Mr. Pipperly with a declaration for Henrietta and a promising list of income. She would be delighted with Mr. Penrose, single tulip and meandering poetry and shaggy hair and all.
Henrietta came scurrying in: it was Mr. Hanson, an optimistic bounce in his step.
“One marriage!” Henrietta twisted a glove in her hands, eyes sparkling. “Just one marriage will buy some time for you and me. A hundred days instead of twenty-six.”
“Oh!” Celia cried. “As our brother-in-law, Mr. Hanson could escort us to Killyreigh!”
Henrietta squealed and hugged her. For the next half hour, they kept themselves busy, mending and tidying and chattering.
But all this time, they had thought they had known what Rose was thinking. They had thought that Rose’s grumpiness was like their own; an impotent frustration with the way things had to be.
But Rose had principles.
“I didn’t actually refuse him,” she told her family, after Mr. Hanson trudged down the stairs and out of their lives. “I just explained the situation with Owen Featherstone.”
“And what exactly is the situation with Owen Featherstone?” Aunt Thompson’s voice was as cold as a mountain stream in January.
“You ought to know!” Rose threw up her hands. “You made Papa write the letter!”
“It was only a letter.” Now Aunt Thompson was the North Sea. “There is nosituationuntil a man makes a promise. In writing.”
“Mr. Hanson just said we should wait until it was resolved.” Rose raised her chin. “You said—”
“You should—”
Gradually, the others all slunk from the room. Rose and her mother could fight for hours, venting their feelings in hyperbole and ad hominem attacks. Marianne attacked Beethoven in the music room, Mr. Thompson retreated to his club, and Celia retired to her bedroom to put her head under the pillow, which was where Henrietta found her.
“Tap tap tap.” Henrietta imitated a gavel and crawled onto the bed. “Emergency meeting of the Bonnet Brigade, now in order.”
The pinching fear inside Celia released slightly.
“She’s not even sure she wants to marry Owen.” Henrietta settled on Celia’s bed. “If she had just phrased it gracefully, Hanson would have been honored to stay.”
“Rose has no skill for subtlety.”
Henrietta’s laugh was tired. “Is it so hard to admit that one of our family is imperfect, that you have to say it through a pillow?”
Celia pushed the pillow aside and rolled over. “I wouldn’t want her to marry someone she doesn’t like. I really wouldn’t.”
“Neither would I.” Henrietta wrapped her arms around her bent knees. “And I admire that she honors her commitment to Owen. I really do.”
“And it’s good she’s considering her sentiments. That’s hard for Rose.”
“Mm-hm.”
They were both silent.
“Mr. Pipperly is hoping for a promotion, but perhaps I could convince him that I don’t need to wait.” Henrietta twisted a curl around her finger. “Should I seduce him?”
“No!”
“Celie, we don’t have time to be all proper and ladylike.”
Celia pushed herself up on her elbows. “I’m not. I’m not being prim.” She arranged the pillows behind her in the ordinary way. “But not like that. There’s so many ways it can go wrong, and all of it hurts the woman the worst.” Especially with the despicable rumors that were already started.
Henrietta sighed. “I think he would be honorable and marry me. One marriage. We just said it, Celia. He could escort us to Killyreigh.”
That was Rose’s job, not Henrietta’s. Celia flushed with anger—sudden, boiling, painful. How dare Rose, knocking the spillikins on to the next of them.
