Celia had the absurd and irrelevant thought that her brother, who was the man’s social superior, still called Lord Edmund by his formal title, while Mr. Hughes had called him “Hargreaves” like Lord Francis did. It almost made her giggle, but she bit it back quickly, not wanting Clarence to know how nervous she was. Besides, she already knew the answer was all about confidence. Although she had no idea how Mr. Hughes had become so assured, she knew why Clarence always had to second guess himself. No one else would forget what he was.
“Would you like a gingerbread?” Celia asked. She had gathered her emotions, but still spoke in Irish. It did no good to pretend they weren’t.
“Thank you.” Clarence answered in the same language, slightly too solid on his tongue. “If Cade does ask leave tocourt you, it will show Lord Edmund how desirable you are. But—there are complications, Celia. You really must marry this spring, and Lord Edmund would be best.”
He crossed one leg over the other, mouth tighter than ever.
Mr. Hughes had mentioned gambling debt. Celia tried to think how to mention it without mentioning it, but after a moment of fussing with the tea tray, her main point burst out.
“There is another solution to my problems, and yours too. Let us move back home.”
Clarence flung himself back against his chair, arms crossed. “It’s too late for that. Far too late.”
“It’s not!” Celia smiled even more. “You have expenses from Killyreigh whether or not you live there, and it will save on food and living.”
“There are too many expenses. You don’t know the half of it, Sister.”
“You can afford to be a fine gentleman at Killyreigh. You can retrench and rebuild what you have lost.”
“And what doyouknow about what I have lost?” In a flashing change of mood, Clarence threw himself to his feet, chair staggering behind him, one finger aimed at Celia.
“Nothing.” Celia switched back to English to match his, heart beating too fast. “Nothing at all. I am only guessing about things like, oh, subscriptions to Brooks’s, and entertaining at Claridge’s, and, oh, things like that.”
They were both silent. Clarence puffed and paced and drew himself back to drawing room demeanor, flopping into his chair. Celia stirred sugar into his tea, made sure she looked demure and pleasing. It was for Marianne, and Henrietta—she must stay the course, she must!
“You could open the castle, and I could be your hostess.” She passed him the teacup. “I could live there year-round, and be quite saving in how I managed everything, and it would be lovelyand homely whenever you were there. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to relax in your own drawing room? So much nicer than rented rooms. You could travel to Dublin whenever you wished, and London when Parliament is open.”
“You make everything sound pleasant, but—”
“Do you remember the lace biscuits Cocaire used to make?”
Clarence smiled. “I don’t remember our cook, but I remember you making biscuits for me. That apron—it was bigger than you were.”
Celia smiled even more sweetly. “I could be mistress at Castle Killyreigh once again, and really just as happy as I would be—”
“I’ve told you that I can’t and I won’t!”
“And I’ve told you that I can’t and I won’t marry Lord Edmund!” Celia flared up in counterpoint. “I shall wait for the right man.”
“You have no more time to wait. None.” This time Clarence was cold and steady; no tipping chairs, no clattering teacups. “I’ve told you to marry Edmund. I’ve told you, and you will do it! I am responsible for you, and you must obey me.”
“My dear Clarence….you are my brother but not my guardian.” Something had changed in the room; Celia felt their connection slipping through her fingers, like sharp tiny scissors slicing through embroidery silk while she was trying to sew.
Clarence was cold and sharp. “I am the one who must deal with your future, I have explained to you the reasoning, and you must marry Lord Edmund. You will tell him yes, and you will be a smiling bride. Do you understand?” He stood abruptly, his shins banging the table, rattling the dishes.
“I understand what you want.” Celia followed him towards the door. “I shall not do it. I shall not marry Lord Edmund to please you.”
Clarence turned and slapped her across the face.
Hard. Or perhaps that was the way all men hit. Or the way all slaps felt.
Celia staggered back, hands over her cheek. Tears had jumped to her eyes, but she was not sure if it was from pain or betrayal. In her mind, striking a woman belonged to another class: the desperate, destitute, or drunken.
It hurt. Celia shrunk into herself, alone and very small.
Clarence himself looked slightly startled, slightly scared. He pulled back, mouth trembling, swallowing hard. They stood in mutual confusion as the clock ticked. Raindrops fell from the eaves.
I love you. Celia stared at him, feeling the words pound in her chest as her cheek throbbed. I love you, you’re mine, I’m yours, we belong to Killyreigh and the stones and the fields and the ruined abbey and our ancestors and the green fields in springtime and the ancient ballads in the winter and the land itself.
