Celia stared at her hands. Very well then, it didn’t matter what he wanted, it didn’t matter what she wanted. Even Rose thought that Peter Hughes was competent, and he was sitting right here offering to bring his competence to their cause. Celia wanted to fix things herself, but Lord Edmund had proven just how useless she was.
She was not thinking about that monster any longer. She was an engaged woman now.
“Yes.” Celia looked square into Peter’s eyes. “You should get that special license. I will be ready by the end of the week.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Speak Comfortable Words
The pillows smelledof meadowsweet. Rose never wore rose in any of her perfumes or soaps; she said it was too obvious. If Celia kept her eyes closed and her mind on her cousin, maybe she could nap without falling into the mire of her thoughts.
Lord Edmund laughing at her—no.
Mud squelching into her slippers—no.
Clarence—no no no no no.
Meadowsweet growing in the streambed. She would paint it this summer. Did meadowsweet bloom in County Durham? Just what sort of run-down house did Peter happen to own?
The bedroom door whooshed. Celia recognized her aunt’s quick, solid footsteps, the drag and click of the writing table. Without moving, Celia visualized her aunt’s hands, the curve of her shoulder, the echo of her promises that it was so easy to find a husband. Something inside Celia reared up, hot and prickly, but something else was comforted by her aunt’s presence.
“My sweet girl.” Aunt Thompson spoke in that low undertone that Celia recognized meant one thought her patient was sleeping. “I just wanted you to be happy.”
Pen scratching. Aunt Thompson’s low alto humming.
“I’m sorry, poor ducky, but it’s over now. It was a terrible night, but it all gets better from here. All better.”
Better for whom? Celia did not twitch, did not wish to start an argument. It was not better for Peter, who had lost his job. It was not better for Marianne, learning that marriage was built on guilt and shame. It was not better for Rose and Henrietta, whom Celia could not sponsor while she was in the far north.
“I know you, Celie.” Aunt Thompson sighed. “You’re awake, and you’re calculating everyone besides yourself.”
What would have been better would be—
No. Meadowsweet. Mozart.
You’re mine, I’m yours, we belong to Killyreigh and the stones and the fields and the ruined abbey and our ancestors—no no no!
“Peter Hughes has five thousand a year,” Aunt Thompson continued. “He has an independent fortune for he’s put aside all his prize money in savings. He’skindto you, Celie.”
Until he spent the rest of their lives resenting her.
But she did like him, she did need a house, he did make promises for Marianne—Celia just didn’t know.
Aunt Thompson’s paper shuffled. “So I am keeping an eye out for what is best for you, and I tell you, this is it.”
Celia flopped over in bed, her back to her aunt. Nothing good could ever come from a night like this.
Nothing good could ever come from what her brother had done.
*
Peter returned thatevening. Supposedly, to show Thompson that he had the license; really, because he couldn’t leave Celia upset like that. Lord George had sent a note that he was meeting with Jackdaw and had already assigned a new man to the Italyjob. Peter sent his own note to Jackdaw; it was time to forget the name Elinor Alcott.
That prospect put a spring in his step, made it easy to tease Thompson, feel that thrill when he got him to laugh.
The Thompson’s butler announced him to Celia. It was early evening, tumbling towards solstice, the light stretching across the morning room in long golden rectangles.
Celia was settled on a sofa under a window, her injured ankle propped on a pillow, a quilt tucked around her, the tea tray arranged at the perfect angle. Peter was pleased that she was so well cared for. A tambour frame was arranged over her lap, left hand above the frame and right hand behind it; she looked up and smiled. So familiar.
