Chapter Twenty-Three
Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude
Sixteen days inLondon. Miss Pipperly called to check on Henrietta, who refused to leave her room.
Celia sent a note to Clarence. She needed Killyreigh or her own money, and she must charm her brother to get either.
Fifteen days; Celia walked with Penrose, but he said his goodbyes without any apparent intention of speaking to her uncle, even though Celia lured him into the house with a fairy cake.
Celia sent two more notes to her brother, who jotted a casual reply by return post but did not call.
Lord Francis sent word that the banker would not release the funds without Clarence’s approval, and Celia closed her eyes and did not scream.
Fourteen days. When Celia arrived at breakfast, she found Rose standing by the window fiddling with Celia’s daily tulip. It was purple and white, with fringed edges.
“Celia.” Rose brandished the bud vase. “One fortnight. We still have a chance.”
Daily floral offerings: the Excalibur of the modern lady.
Celia rubbed her temples. They needed Mr. Penrose, but all Celia could think about was Peter. He said he could not care for her, but he kept acting like he cared. “Let me pour my coffee first.”
The problem was that although external gossip might not have wounded General Henrietta, her parents had dealt her a mortal blow. Henrietta had refused to come out of her room since the Templeton’s party, and the Bonnet Brigade had ceased meeting entirely.
Celia handed Rose a cup of coffee, and Rose handed Celia the flower.
“You need to enact a transformation,” Rose said. “Tulips into something more practical. Like, oh, say, a wedding settlement.”
“I’m trying!” Celia was on the verge of tears, a flash of anger. Rose had been offered a wedding contract but here they were, with nothing but a purple tulip. “I don’t know what to do!”
“Can’t you convince him to do something more lively?” Rose plopped down at the table. “Plan an evening at Vauxhall, and then use his cane to whack any looby who so much as dares to look at Henrietta. We need some good, old-fashioned caning around here.”
Rose was scowling and Celia couldn’t help but giggle. “I can’t see Mr. Penrose caning so much as a mangy dog who had stolen his dinner,” she admitted, and Rose almost smiled.
“You do like Penrose, don’t you?” Rose demanded. “If you don’t actually care for him, no wedding settlements. Just caning.”
Celia sighed. “He is very sweet…”
“Well then. We need more men in the Bonnet Brigade. They provide a very useful facade for our activities.”
“I tried!” Celia was not sure how to express her frustration, for she couldn’t find the right way to nudge Penrose. “Yesterday he recited a poem about daffodils. Wordsworth, it was. He had the whole thing by heart. Daffodils, Rose,daffodils!”
Rose cocked her head. “Does that mean he’s courting you, or not?”
“How should I know?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything to Mr. Hanson.” Rose whacked her hard-boiled egg. “I should have kept him around until we were more secure.”
“Oh no!” The denial came automatically, but Celia didn’t mean it. She would have taken Mr. Hanson. She would have taken Mr. Jones.
“Or Mr. Jones,” Rose added. “I knew something was wrong, even then, the way Father was acting.” She glowered at the egg. “I didn’t want to think about it, but that didn’t make it go away. I was foolish.”
Celia admired Rose for owning up to her mistakes, and truly, the chance to say “no” is a very small power. It wasn’t worth being angry with her. “I can do something. Listen, I have an idea.” Barely.
But when Rose looked up, there was hope in her eyes. “It’s bound to be better than a whole passel of tulips and daffodils together. Out with it.”
Celia was figuring it out as she spoke. “There are other Westhaven relatives out there. I shall write to them about Killyreigh Castle. I’m sure my brother—”
“Why do you keep trusting your brother? After the way he treated you, he deserves nothing. Nothing!”
