There was a long stretch of silence, but it was not the right kind. Francis did not move, did not cast silly insults.
“Peter.” His voice was almost gentle. “I can’t do this. I’ve spent the last two months working with Celia Westhaven. I like her. Irespecther.”
“You can’t tell a man whom to marry and just expect him to do it!”
“You can’t—” Francis cut himself off.
Peter dropped his gaze back to the room. Francis picked up his cloak, swung it over his shoulders, his movements ungraceful for once.
“I am not going to choose between you.” Francis took a step backwards, into the shadows. “Get your act together, Peter Alcott. Figure out how to do the right thing.”
He turned.
Light footsteps across the creaky floorboards.
Peter’s front door opened. Closed. Francis had offered him kindness, and now Francis was gone.
Peter’s left knee gave out, and he staggered to the side. Caught himself on the table, pain shooting through his wrist, plate flying. He twisted away, forced his leg to take his weight through the pain. Blew out the candles, pulled off his shoes, threw himself in bed. Alone. Frozen, frozen solid.
Peter sobbed, great big choking gulps, knees pulled to his chest, thin pillow clutched to his face.
He didn’t know how. Didn’t know didn’t know didn’t know.
Peter had spent his entire adulthood as a military man, ricocheting from cavalry to officers’ tents to reconstruction to intelligence work. He worked hard and the chest of medals said he’d done well.
But somewhere in there, he had lost himself, and he had no idea how to come home.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In Which Our General Takes a Blow
On day twenty,Lord Edmund arrived to renew his proposal, just like Clarence had threatened. Aunt Thompson managed him on her own, scolding like a jay and not allowing him beyond the entrance hall, while their butler maintained a granite-like post blocking the stairway. Henrietta reported the entire story to Celia, who had retreated to her room.
Small parties, church, meeting Lord Francis in the park, shopping arm and arm with Charlotte or Miss Pipperly, tea with respectable matrons like Charlotte’s mother and Francis’s aunt: Celia and her cousins went through the motions of life that was closer and closer to normal.
But fresh rumors fanned the flames every day, led by Lord Edmund and abetted by everyone who had ever held a grudge against their entire family or the Irish in general. Some people pointed and others refused to acknowledge them.
“I’m not sure it’s worth it,” Celia admitted, the three of them curled by the fire in the big bedroom, their nightly meeting with mugs of chamomile. “Maybe we should just see if Charlotte can bring us to Soreng House now.”
“And then what?” Rose was blunt. “Our nineteen days are to secure our future. We can’t just give up.”
Celia pressed her forehead against her knees, her nighttime braid tipping over her shoulder. Every day was a torment to her heart which longed to make people comfortable.
Henrietta fluttered a list. “Lord Francis is busy. He’s hosting another party next week and has evenmoreintroductions for you.”
Celia didn’t want more men, flapping and yapping. “Killyreigh,” she mumbled.
“We can’t travel to Ireland by ourselves,” Rose said.
Marianne sighed. “Maybe after nineteen days, your brother will be in a better frame of mind.”
“And maybe Lord Francis will have found a way to release our money!” Rose sounded delighted.
“You can make it, Celie.” Henrietta scooted close, put an arm around her. “I know this is particularly awful for you, but I have faith in you.”
Celia forced herself to sit up, put an arm around Henrietta in turn. She was a grown woman, accustomed to hardship. Henrietta already kept them organized, snuck letters back and forth to Lord Francis, mobilized their network of supporters.
“I have faith in you, too,” Celia said. “You are the best general anyone could imagine.”
