“He didn’t really hurt me.” Celia looped the garment around herself, eager to hide her skin. “Not like he could have. He pulled the clothes apart, but he didn’t even touch—what was underneath.”
Henrietta dropped a chemise over Celia’s head, then returned with her arms full of soft cerise muslin. She waited until the dress was settled, kneeling at Celia’s side, buttoning the flowing sleeves, before she answered.
“Mr. Lyon touched me there,” she said casually, “but he didn’t leave any bruises. And I still cried, and you still took care of me. You don’t have to tally up what happened or what didn’t happen.”
“Oh,” said Celia, and blinked her eyes, and didn’t cry.
Marianne entered with the breakfast tray, Rose following with a heavy iron kettle, although it was surely too late for breakfast and Celia didn’t need her cousins waiting on her.
“I thought you needed some sweets, after all that crying.” Marianne arranged scones on the side table.
“She hasn’t been crying,” Henrietta said.
“Really?” Marianne turned and stared at Celia. “I have been, Celie.”
“Thank you for the food.” Celia coughed, trying to push out that lump in her throat, and sat on the sofa by Marianne. “I’m sorry I’ve ruined our plans. I’m sorry.”
“No, you goose.” Rose stood and brushed off her dress. “She’s cryingforyou. Because you’re hurt.”
“Not really that hurt,” Celia protested, taking a sip of the tea Marianne handed her. It was strong and sweet and she closed her eyes to savor it.
“We’re not counting,” Henrietta reminded her.
“Just feeling,” Marianne added, wiping her own eyes and taking a biscuit.
Henrietta sat by the tea tray. By Celia.
“I can’t marry Mr. Hughes.” Celia could hear the panic in her voice. “He said he didn’t want to. He said he wouldn’t help me.”
Rose raised her eyebrows and examined Celia for several long seconds. “After considering the evidence carefully, I have concluded that he has changed his mind.”
“But why?” Celia grew agitated. “It doesn’t make any sense!”
“People do that,” said Rose. “Change their minds.”
Henrietta placed a hand on Celia’s arm.
“I can’t marry him.” Celia set down her cup, clattering in its saucer. “It would not be honest. I said I would not force him. I said so.”
She waited for someone to argue with her: they all needed her marriage, Mr. Hughes wasn’t that bad, it was too late to change her mind.
No one argued.
“Go ahead and hold onto what you believe is right,” Henrietta said. “Your choice is your own.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Rose said. “We’ll manage, together.”
“But since he’s been a good friend,” Henrietta added, “just hear what Mr. Hughes has to say.”
“I don’t approve of the man, but he’s competent,” Rose said, echoing what she had said before. “And he’s always been kind to you.” She sighed. “I agree with Henrietta, you should let him explain.”
Celia drew several ragged breaths. She wanted to go back to bed and sleep forever, never have to confront the confusion in front of her.
“You just have to get through the day.” Henrietta’s voice was unusually gentle. “One step in front of another. You’re strong. You can make it.”
“I don’t feel strong.” Celia tried to laugh.
“One never does, when the going gets hard,” Rose answered.
