Mr. Penrose smiled.
They walked in the park and almost found something to talk about. He did not stay to address Mr. Thompson, but maybe next time.
If they could wait until next Thursday—day fifteen—perhaps the gossip would blow over. Perhaps Mr. Pipperly would get a promotion. Perhaps Mr. Cade would call.
*
“If our allowancesare going to do us any good, we might as well spend them now,” Henrietta reasoned, so on Day Twenty-One she and Celia meandered down Jermaine, contemplating hats, gloves, and shawls on display. The constant rain had made a mess even of the paved Westminster streets, but the pedestrian pavements were clear.
“You should consider this capote bonnet.” Henrietta tugged Celia to a stop in front of a bow window.
“With the embroidered pink ribbon?” Celia didn’t usually spend her allowance on herself, but if a pretty hat could get her one step closer to a husband, she would try it.
“No, I was thinking the one in the back, with the navy blue ruching, but the pink one could go with your wool walking gown.” Henrietta had an abiding faith in sartorial power. “Capote bonnets have such an elegant line, and would complement your narrow face. Maybe you should get two.”
“Mr. Cade would like them.” Then Celia giggled. “And Lord Edmund would prefer something foolish—like that.”
“It would go nicely with his lime-green tailcoat.” Henrietta elbowed her playfully.
Celia thought she was laughing, but it stuttered away into misery.
“Sometimes, you need to expect the worst of people,” Henrietta said, a sympathetic hand on Celia’s arm. “You think people are going to be as thoughtful as you are yourself. Even I am not as nice as you would like to think I am.”
Celia was shocked into silence.
“Don’t you love the adorable ribbon on those gloves?” Henrietta pitched her voice to carry and posed with a cocked head and one finger on her lips. Celia quickly placed a gracious smile across her countenance, and turned to address her cousin so she could scan the pavement.
Mr. Cade was heading towards them, wearing a dark coat and carrying a small package, upright and respectable. Celia’s heart leapt and her throat clenched, partly because he looked so handsome and partly because he was more important than ever.
When he drew close, Celia stepped forward slightly and both women smiled and curtsied.
Mr. Cade glanced at the display behind them.
Celia smiled, even more perfectly.
Henrietta held her curtsey, head bent.
The bells rang and Mr. Cade turned his gaze to the spires of Temple Church.
Celia felt sick.
Mr. Cade continued down the pavement, handsome and calm.
The cut sublime.
Henrietta grabbed Celia’s elbow with unmaidenly force, trotting Celia down the block until they could duck into Hatchard’s. They spent several moments catching their breath in front of the display—Celia could not have described a single book—before entering the dense quiet and ascending the curved staircase. Henrietta marched them to a nook surrounded by towering shelves stocked with French and German poetry; apparently no one was interested in foreign poetry today, and they had some privacy.
Henrietta passed Celia a handkerchief, and Celia pressed it to her eyes, not making a sound. Standing between Celia and the main room, Henrietta selected a book and let her fingertrail down the page, reading softly to herself. “Damn Cade,” she murmured. “Damn Hanson. Damn Rose.”
Celia decided to pretend it was part of the poetry.
Celia needed him. He could save Marianne, he could defend Henrietta. Sheneededhim!
The calm settled into them: low voices barely audible echoing up and down the stairwell, the smells of old paper, leather, and binding glue.
“I actuallylikedhim,” Celia said, once her breath was even enough to allow her to speak.
“If he believes a word of this terrible gossip, he doesn’t deserve you.”
