Marianne began to cry, little sniffles turning into shuddering shoulders, pressing her hand against her mouth.
“Oh Celia,” she gasped. “Oh sweet Celia, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—”
Celia put her arms around her, and Marianne clung back, and Henrietta leaned into them, and even Rose placed a hand on her shoulder, and then, slowly, messily, like ice melting into slush and dripping into mud, Celia cried.
“That awful, miserable, bully!” Marianne squeezed Celia.
“I should have dropped the chair on his foot,” Rose muttered.
And Celia realized.
None of them knew that Clarence had been there too.
*
Celia heard men’svoices in the corridor outside the parlor, so she poured the tea, steady streams into three violet-rimmed cups. The salve was working, her ankle was wrapped, so therefore last night was forgotten. She would put aside her own feelings, her qualms about betraying Peter, and do what needed to be done.
She just couldn’t decide quite what that was. When Peter had agreed to meet with her, she had everything planned for what she would say this morning—but two days ago was now a thousand years. Celia was nothing but the bones of herself.
She had to protect Marianne; the chance to do anything for Henrietta and Rose was slipping through her hands like fine china in soapy water. Celia ought to focus on her cousin’s physical safety. But at sixteen, Marianne was earning an education, loved playing the pianoforte, wanted to help the poor—all things that Celia had already lost by that age. Celia yearned to give Marianne more than a house.
If Marianne grew to womanhood around a husband who resented and avoided his wife, it would only teach Marianne to seek the same. If bright and vivid Marianne boxed herself into a woman’s world where she was nothing but a burden… Celia’s heart would break. China on flagstones, the whole world crashing on flagstones.
Celia needed to give Marianne space where she did not need to be fearful of her own tomorrows.
Mr. Thompson and Mr. Hughes entered the morning room, bowed, asked after Celia’s health, accepted their tea. Mr. Hughes immediately retreated to the window, staring out as though seized with an urgent need to catalogue the garden sparrows, and Celia looked at her own hands. Yesterday, she had so many feelings to share with him, but now she was nothing but blank.
He had told her plain and clear that he would not, could not marry her, and she had tricked him into it. Everything else—the way he had caught her when Lord Edmund knocked her over, the expression she had imagined on his face when he said he must leave—all that was her overheated imagination. She always knew she was prone to fancies.
Celia folded her hands as her uncle settled beside her.
“Before we sign the paperwork, there are a few details I wish to ascertain.” Mr. Thompson patted her knee, just the way he had when Lord Edmund proposed.
Celia wanted to scream, but she smiled politely.
“You do like him, I suppose? You always seemed to like him.”
What sort of awful question was this? Celia could not afford to think about what she liked. She put a hand to her temple, unable to answer.
“We know the story he told last night was false, but we assume it was Hargreaves who hurt you. You have not told us what happened, my dear, and you are not obliged to, of course. But Hughes did not hurt you, did he?”
“No—he didn’t, but you mustn’t make him marry me just because he was there!”
Mr. Thompson patted her knee again, brow furrowed. “I have no say in anything, my dear. Well then, next question. Does the drinking upset you too much?”
“What?” Celia had forgotten that entirely.
“He promised that marriage will cure him, but I never trust a drinking man, my dear. They mean well, but can’t hold to it. Although I’ve never heard of him doing any worse than falling asleep on the sofa, I put some extra lines in the settlement. You may leave his household if he ever causes harm to you or your children, and he will provide you with financial independence until he can prove to your satisfaction that he is reformed. I wrote my nephew Giles already, and he agrees that you will always be welcome with him, should circumstances demand. There will be no trapped and battered wives in our family! Is that acceptable to you?”
Celia stared at her uncle, who looked hopeful and pleased with himself. Her eyes skittered over to Mr. Hughes, who quickly turned to the window again, but his body language was loose. Neither of them seemed angry, with her or each other. Celia didn’t have time to figure out why they were adding such an unusual provision to her marriage lines. She would never go and presume upon Giles Thompson’s hospitality, even if she could pay her own way, but she also knew that Peter Hughes did not drink.
“That is acceptable,” she parroted, hardly remembering what her uncle had just said.
She tried to find the right turn of phrase to ask where her uncle would be next, that he would send her to Giles instead of promise her shelter, but before she could gather her thoughts he was heaving himself to his feet.
“There’s a good girl. Hughes, go ahead and say your piece. I’ll sign the papers after my niece confirms the engagement. Good afternoon.”
Then he was gone, and it was just herself and Peter, watching each other. The temperature in the room went up a degree, and then another, heating in tempo with the beating of their hearts. Eyes locked on hers, Peter moved closer, his fingertips grazing against the backs of the sofas, and Celia found herself standing. They faced each other across the tea table.
