“Ta-ta, if you will excuse me,” Francis trilled to the group, and joined Celia, his face melting into seriousness.
“It’s Henrietta,” Celia half-whispered.
“She needs to get home,” Miss Pipperly repeated.
Francis nodded. “I will call my carriage and meet you all on the front steps.”
All the way home, Henrietta did not speak a word. Francis did not leave the Thompsons’ until he was assured that the maids were awake and Celia had everything in hand.
Once in the big bedroom, Henrietta collapsed on the hearthrug, and Miss Pipperly wheezed hysterically while the housemaids looked on in mute horror. Celia thumped Miss Pipperly’s back, giving everyone instructions. Henrietta must be comfortable, out of her tight clothes and stiff hair. A medicinal tisane for both girls, fire stoked, pillows propped up. Celia sent word that Miss Pipperly would spend the night—anyone would feel better if they didn’t have to sleep alone—and bustled her into one of her own night rails. Everyone calmed with something to do.
Eventually, the girls were tucked in bed, sipping chamomile and valerian. Celia sat beside Henrietta, holding her hand, and finally said what needed to be examined in the light.
“What happened?”
Henrietta looked down.
“Did someone touch you?”
Henrietta nodded, looking very young and scared.
“Who?” Celia wanted to force Henrietta to say it all now, like vomiting bad mushrooms.
“Mr. Lyon. But it doesn’t matter—if it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else.”
“It’s not your fault.” Celia stroked her hair.
“He said the more I refused, the more it drove him crazy with longing.” Henrietta scrabbled her own hands all over her chest and throat, miming the event, then turned to huddle into her pillows.
Now for the worst of all. Celia spoke gently. “Where were your parents?”
Henrietta squeezed her eyes closed, tears welling, nose dripping.
“They were in the next room,” Miss Pipperly said. “But when Henrietta went to tell her mother, she said—”
“Straighten your clothes,” Henrietta croaked, “and put that smile back on your pretty face. And…”
Miss Pipperly watched her anxiously, but eventually looked at Celia and completed Aunt Thompson’s directive. “If you’ve got the honey, don’t complain when bees come buzzing. Sometimes you’ve got to go down a dark hallway in order to catch a husband.”
“No,” Celia said, remembering that Henrietta had threatened exactly this. “No.” She was angry now, an impotent black wall of rage and fear. “It’s your honey. Your life. Your sweetness.”
“I am not sweet,” Henrietta said.
“You are valuable,” Celia said. “Any man who cares for you will be able to conquer his own filthy longings.”
“You too, then?” Henrietta opened her eyes, stared up at Celia. “You will not go with that filthy Lord Edmund?”
“I must marry.” Celia would do whatever it took to keep the Cu Sidhe away from Henrietta. She would have marched all the way across Mayfair and promised to make Lord Edmund a happy man if he could have protected them; she would have given up her own body and her own freedom—
Miss Pipperly piped up. “Miss Westhaven, my cousin says she sees you walking with a gentleman, even when it’s drizzling. Perhaps any day you will be engaged?”
Oh—there was still Mr. Penrose! Celia was not entirely out of options. At that moment, his mild smile and enigmatic poetry was all that stood between Celia consenting to become Lady Edmund Hargreaves.
“Yes,” Celia answered. “Any day now, I hope to announce my happy news.”
She must keep Henrietta out of the dark hallways, either pursued by the lecherous Mr. Lyons of the world, or seeking to ensnare her own self. Especially young Mr. Pipperly, since it sounded like his brother was plunging the family into some mysterious late-night disaster.
It did not matter that Celia wanted to speak to Peter. At this point, she needed to put her own wishes aside.
