Henrietta’s smile slipped through, and she dropped her head to Celia’s shoulder.
Celia squeezed her close, bursting with love and pride, breathing the scent of her hair. But still, her selfish heart wanted someone to hold her. Someone she could trust with her own aching weakness.
“Don’t worry”—Henrietta sounded like the cat in cream—“something is going to change soon. I just know it.”
“Oh dear,” Rose muttered, and Celia had to agree.
*
Mrs. Templeton didnot rescind the Thompsons’ invitation to her Versailles-themed soiree, and Henrietta trotted down the Thompsons’ stairs with an uncountable number of curls and a self-satisfied smile. Celia felt a terrible sense of foreboding and resolved to keep a firm eye on her young cousin.
But the party was crowded and lively, and the family members were soon drawn away with their own particular acquaintances. Aunt Thompson remained close to Henrietta, and as Celia went away with a young mother who desired her advice, she just had to hope that Aunt Thompson stayed there.
Half an hour later, Mrs. Pipperly greeted her.
“Are your sons here?” Celia leaned in to kiss the air by her cheek, trying to sound like she was not thinking of Mr. Hughes.
Mrs. Pipperly gave her bright, trilling laugh. “It’s a ladies’ outing for my daughters and me, tonight!”
“Then I shall be delighted to look at the lace displays together.” Celia smiled, obscuring feelings that were both overwhelming and opposite.
Relief, that there was no Charles Pipperly for Henrietta to make a fool of herself with.
Regret, because no Henry Pipperly meant no Peter Hughes.
Ever since the Macallisters’ political party, when he had left her with his whiskey and a tortured look, Celia had been unable to pretend to herself that Peter mattered nothing to her. Their friendship had meant something, and it could not be a coincidence that he had interrupted her with Lord Edmund. Twice.
Enough of this flim-flam mincing about. Celia yearned for ten minutes alone with Peter—walking in a garden alone,standing to the side of a party alone, pouring him tea in her aunt’s parlor—so she could say what she really meant. Ask him what he really wanted.
But she had not seen him at any of the parties lately.
Mrs. Pipperly turned over the lace samples, raising one for Celia’s perusal. “I’ve hardly seen my older son lately, you know, dear. He seems much occupied at night.” She raised one eyebrow.
Celia reached for the lace, flustered.
To Mrs. Pipperly, she commented on the clever designs of the French lace-makers, but inside, she went hot and steely.
Celia suspected that whatever absorbed his nights was no good, and Peter was leaving for the Continent any day now. She wanted to see him. She needed to see him.
Half an hour later, Celia spotted Lord Edmund lurking behind a display of merengues, and she wanted Peter right now. Lord Edmund surely could not hurt her, could not bother her, not in public, not after she had already refused him. Twice.
But Celia went to listen to French poetry, and Lord Edmund appeared. She slipped away to the library, and Lord Edmund leered around a bookshelf. She darted into the tearoom, heart pounding, feeling very alone. What nonsense! He was just a gentleman afflicted with bad poetry and worse manners.
Celia jumped at a touch on her elbow. “Oh! Miss Pipperly!Delightedto see you.” Excessively delighted.
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl twisted her hands in her skirt. “Can you get Miss Henrietta home, Miss Westhaven?”
If Henrietta’s best friend was looking for Celia, then something was terribly wrong and Aunt Thompson had refused to help, just like when she pretended all could be fixed after Celia’s tumble on the dance floor.
“Of course,” Celia answered, unsure how. “Should I attend to her first?”
Celia was flooded with visions of Henrietta lying sick—years of attending Mama Beth, her eyes nothing but pain—
“She is neither bleeding nor feverish,” Miss Pipperly answered. “She is with my mother, but she needs to go home.”
“Come with me.” Celia took her hand, retracing her mad dash through the rooms. If Lord Edmund got in her way, she would kick him in the shins, and that she would!
Thankfully, Lord Francis was right where she recalled seeing him. Celia gestured.
