Celia didn’t recognize that deep voice, and her panic plunged like a falcon. She didn’t want anyone to see her, not anyone—
“Good evening, sir, madams.” That was Peter. “Pleasant night for a stroll?”
Pattering steps from the other side. “Mr. Hughes, Mr. Hughes!”
No one must see her like this, no one, no one. Behind the folly, he said. In the shadows, he said. Celia lurched forward, her shoes sliding.
“We are searching for Miss Westhaven.”
She didn’t even know that man! He must not find her!
A woman’s voice. “She went out into the garden and has not returned. Have you seen her, Mr. Hughes?”
Celia tripped on her gown, or perhaps her feet slid in the grass. She fell, her hands hitting the ground hard. One shoe tore off and she tried to crawl forward, caught in her skirt.
“Of course.” This was Mr. Hughes, calm and casual. “She is right behind us.”
Why did he tell them that? Celia gave up on reaching the folly. Perhaps he was disgusted by her, no longer cared if the whole world shamed her. Perhaps she deserved the shame. Celia curled into herself like a bug.
There was shuffling outside the yews, voices overlapping, more steps down more gravel.
“Wait just a moment, sir. If you please, madam.” Mr. Hughes’s voice was calm, firmly in control.
Rustle of fabric, wet footsteps in the grass. Celia froze.
“Celie!”
“It’s us.”
Oh dear God, it was Rose and Charlotte. Celia shivered in the grass but their warm hands lifted her.
“Get her to the bench there.”
“She’s so cold!”
Charlotte pulled Celia close. “My sweet, my sweet, we have you now. It’s all over.”
Celia huddled against Charlotte’s chest, gasped one sob. She smelled of neroli and fear. Something soft touched Celia’s shoulders and Charlotte pulled soft wool around them.
Rose was crying, ragged gulps and sniffles. Celia wanted to shut it out; it was evidence that everything was wrong. She was wrong.
On the other side of the hedge people were arguing. “Just a moment,” Peter said.
Rose’s hands were busy in Celia’s hair. “That Dead-mund! He found her after all! Tricked her!”
Thank heavens—they didn’t suspect Mr. Hughes.
Or her brother. They didn’t know she had come out with her brother.
“He hurt her.” Charlotte stroked Celia’s face, and Celia had never heard her voice like that.
Peter, outside—“Just a moment, let me explain—”
“We have no patience for explanations, let us see the lady!”
The bench was even closer to the knot of people arguing, more voices, more confusion. Celia didn’t recognize any of them; these were not the friends Mr. Hughes had meant to fetch, these were the gossip-mongers, the vultures, the mushrooms enthralled by Lord Edmund’s title—
“Oh my God,” Charlotte said. “Give me the Egyptian shawl. Hurry.” She pushed Celia up to sitting, wrapped the lighter shawl around her in a snug X, tied it firmly. “Now the big one.”
