Celia selected a book at random, staring hopelessly at the page. “But he’s right, I’m not a proper lady.” She stumbled through a line of the poem in front of her. “Look, I can’t even read French. I had lessons, a long time ago, but I didn’t study. Just like I did not practice piano every day, nor learn geometry, nor read Wordsworth, nor—”
“Because you were doing real work!” Henrietta leaned closer. “Because you were balancing a budget, and overseeing meetings, and negotiating compromises.” She closed her book with a violentwhoofand selected a different volume.
Henrietta read several lines, fiercely attacking the German consonants.
“I don’t speak German, either.” Celia smiled wistfully.
Henrietta rolled her eyes. “You speak and write two languages fluently, while most of us merely dabble. But really—” she put out one gloved finger—“really, why Cade ought to appreciate you—why theyallought to appreciate you—is because you spent those years taking care of people. You know how to do it. You know how to make people feel good.” Her eyes were glittering and her voice sank to a wavering whisper. “You know how to love.”
Celia leaned against the books and watched her mother pass her mind’s eye, and Mama Beth, and her twin brothers. She thought about her father. Gone, all gone.
Celia stared blankly at the French poem in front of her, the memories of the red fever swirling around her. She could feel the draft through the castle corridors, thin voices crying out “fuar, fuar” no matter how many blankets she found; smell the bile that permeated everything, long after Mama Beth and the twins had vomited themselves empty and weak and empty yet again; feel shaking hands clutched in hers while she checked burning foreheads.
After her stepmother and the first twin had died, Celia was too desperate to leave her littlest brother in bed. She walked back and forth, up and down the hallways, his little body held against her heart, her shawl knotted around them to help her bear the weight of him—bones traced tight against his chalky skin—singing the same snippet of song for hours because she was too exhausted to think of the next line. Everything will be all right, she had said, over and over. Everything will be all right. His mother had died, his twin had died, and he gave Celia another week of hope, another week of love. Holding him all day long because he was cold and sore in bed. Catching naps curled up in a chair, living off biscuits and cheese while she rocked with her brother slumped whimpering in her arms. The housekeeper and nurse had tried to take him so she could rest, but he wanted only “Celie, Celie,” and by then, Celia was afraid every hour would be their last. She held on.
“It doesn’t do much good.” Celia opened her eyes. “Knowing how to love.”
“It does good to me.” Henrietta reached for Celia’s hand.
Celia dragged herself out of those long-ago days. Celia had made promises to baby Marianne, and Marianne had lived. Henrietta was here.
She wiped her eyes one last time and tucked the handkerchief away.
Henrietta touched Celia’s hand lightly. “Let’s find you a husband who appreciates you as much as my sisters and I do… But for now”—a mischievous glint snuck into Henrietta’s face and she raised her eyebrows significantly—“let’s put these books back. We don’t like foreign poetry and it doesn’t like us.” She wobbled the French book into its row. “Goodbye, tangled-up Mr. Hanson.” She shoved the German book onto the shelf with a clunk. “Goodbye, stuffy Mr. Cade. And now then—let’s go find a story that is wonderful. We’re off to find a book that loves us back.”
She linked her arm through Celia’s, their half-boots making hollow taps on the gleaming floor as they set out to look at novels.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Worm, the Canker, & the Grief
Peter’s body wastoo heavy to drag up the stairs. One step, other foot. Fingers hard around the banister. Step. Step. Left knee throbbing. He didn’t know if Pipperly and his crew could keep going day and night because they were young, or if it was the brandy and drugs. It wouldn’t be any better with young Leopold in Tuscany. Holy mother of mercy, but he didn’t want to go.
He pushed open the door to his sitting room, dropping his bag on the floor. This wasn’t right—warm—candles—panic—
“It’s just me,” Francis called, waiting a moment before appearing in the doorway.
Peter slid his stiletto back into its sheath and limped to his sitting-dining-library-bedroom.
“Took you long enough.” Francis gathered his own papers, stacked on the table next to a dented chafing dish. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“Now you see why I’m not married.” Peter threw off his neckcloth and jacket, splashed his hands and face in the basin.
Francis swung a hook out from the hearth and poured water into the teakettle. The bright scent of herbs filled the room.
Peter dropped into his seat, his head sinking onto his hand.
Francis puttered with the dishes, and pushed a plate towards Peter. “I haven’t seen you this bad in a long time. Here. Drink.”
Peter wrapped his fingers around the mug, breathed in the sharp aroma. Sustenance was necessary for function, so Peter ate.
Francis didn’t speak until the food was gone, just sliding another slice of beef onto Peter’s plate, buttering another bun. Peter should have protested but it felt too good. He wondered, at home, if Francis or Brennan took the woman’s role, or they both took care of one another. He wondered if Elinor would preside over the table when she came to live with him, or rock for hours with her eyes blank. He wondered if Celia was already engaged to Cade, sliding him buttered buns and lingering kisses.
“I wanted to know what you’re doing to get yourself in trouble this time.” Francis sat back, still. “My little sparrows tell that someone’s asking around about you, and now they’re mentioning Elinor.”
“Damn.” Peter crossed his ankles, dropped his fork. “I said I’d go to Italy. Why won’t he leave me alone?”
Francis passed a clean fork. “I can’t tell. But I have been sending out rumors of my own, connecting you with the Alcotts in Sussex.”
