by Diane Farr
Celia was shaking when she placed the first panel neatly against the wall and returned for the next. She had sat here, next to Jane. It was her own place she was removing now. Hers and Fanny’s. They had bickered constantly as children; now she would give anything to have Fanny back again, temper and all.
And the last panel. George, as the eldest son, had always sat next to Papa. They had been so alike. George’s laugh had been just like Papa’s, and his walk, and his kind and studious ways. Papa had been a good and decent man. George would have been just such another, had he lived. And across from George’s place, Marianne’s. Dear, sweet, loyal Marianne, who had laughed at all her jokes and kept all her secrets.
Marianne was, to Celia, the biggest loss of all. She had embodied everything bright and precious in the word sister. They had been friends always, playmates as children and confidantes as they grew older, but bonded closer than other friends or confidantes could ever be, through common blood and shared experience. It was not Mama’s name Celia woke up crying, these past weeks. It was Marianne’s.
How sad and empty the table looked with a gaping wound where its leaves should be. She pushed the two ends toward each other and felt them lock together with a soft, final click.
Only Papa’s and Mama’s places remained. This must have been the way the table had looked in the early days of their marriage, when the other bright faces round the table were only dreamed of. Now the faces that their love had brought into being were gone, and they had gone with them. Celia alone was left behind. And, deep within her, some part of her was sure that a terrible mistake had been made. She ought to have gone, too. Had she been home when the angel of death touched this house, she would even now be sleeping in the churchyard between Marianne and Jane.
The dining room did look bigger with the table leaves removed. Less crowded. But, to Celia’s taste, the room had looked better after all with the table filling it. What did people find so attractive about empty space? She was intimately acquainted with emptiness now, and saw nothing good about it. Nothing at all.
A traveling chaise with the Arnsford arms emblazoned on its side had taken Celia away, and she had not looked back. She had not dared. She had occupied her mind, instead, by looking ahead and repeating to herself the names of her new-found relatives. She had gleaned the bare facts of their names and birth dates from her father’s dusty copy of the Peerage, and had idiotically supposed that knowing their names in advance would somehow prepare her for a stay at Delacourt.
Nothing, however, could prepare a country vicar’s daughter for a stay at Delacourt. She was the proverbial fish out of water. What a shock it had been, when the carriage had swept round that last bend and she had caught her first glimpse of the place! She’d been gasping like a landed trout ever since.
Delacourt would be a wonderful spot to come for a day of picnicking and gawking, but Celia’s imagination failed her when she tried to picture people actually living here. What would it be like, to hear one’s footsteps echoing on a marble floor and bouncing off a forty-foot ceiling on the way to breakfast every morning? What would it be like, to think nothing of a fifteen-minute hike through one’s own home—and without ever stepping outdoors or walking through the same room twice?
It seemed that Celia was about to find out.
At least temporarily.
It was all very awkward; she had no firm idea how long she would be staying here. One could scarcely buttonhole the Duchess of Arnsford and demand particulars. She wasn’t sure if the duchess had insisted on her bringing everything she owned merely as a courtesy, since she knew Celia would be supplanted by the new vicar’s family in her absence, or whether Mrs. Floyd had been right and her intent was for Celia to actually stop at Delacourt indefinitely. What had become of her furniture and packing crates? Celia didn’t know. It made her feel uneasy, as if she were losing control of her destiny. She felt very small and powerless since the duchess had pulled her into her orbit. But when the time came for her to leave, she promised herself firmly, she would not feel the least bit shy about asking these wealthy Delacourts to transport her belongings to her new home. Wherever that may be.
But she would not think about her uncertain future—she had enough anxieties in her dish at the moment. The most pressing of these was that she faced an audience with the duchess in half an hour. And, later, dinner. Dinner! Her heart quailed at the thought. This was exactly the sort of household where everyone would stare if she came down to dinner in her morning dress. Well, she would have to contrive something.
She slid off the bed, feeling vaguely guilty for having mussed it, and prowled through the room in search of her baggage. Her battered trunks were nowhere to be found. What a nuisance. She hated to call for a servant, just to find out where her things had been taken. Then she realized her reluctance stemmed from embarrassment: she didn’t want a servant to see the imprint she had made, bouncing on the bed like a child. Celia blushed for her foolishness. Silly! she told herself. You must not care what the servants think.
While she was scolding herself for her nervousness, she moved to put her discarded redingote and bonnet away in an ornate wardrobe against the wall. But when she opened the wardrobe door, she froze in startled dismay: it contained her clothes. There they were. Her frocks had been neatly hung on pegs, and everything else crisply folded and placed in orderly stacks on the wooden shelves.
Celia’s cheeks burned. Foolish or not, she was embarrassed. She couldn’t help it. Some unknown person had gone through her things. Whoever had done so was probably regaling the staff below stairs with tales of her meager collection of inexpensive garments, her home-dyed mourning attire, her mended stockings and plain petticoats, the pelisse with mismatched buttons, and the holes in her shoes that she had patched with paperboard.
She looked with new eyes at the dressing table. Sure enough, those were her combs laid in perfect rows atop its highly-polished surface. She hadn’t recognized them in their new surroundings. She crossed to the table and lifted the top of the elegant porcelain box that sat beside her cheap combs. Yes, there were her pins. How mortifying. Now she had to picture some curious housemaid pawing through her comb-case. Thank goodness she had thrown out the comb with the two missing teeth; she had very nearly brought it “just in case.”
Twenty minutes later, Celia supposed, despairingly, that she was as ready as she would ever be. She had tried, and discarded, virtually every garment she owned, finally settling on a high-necked, long-sleeved grey broadcloth. It was not meant to be grey. At one time, it had been a sort of salmon color, and rather pretty. Her attempt to dye it black had resulted in its present nondescript and muddy hue. It was dreadfully ugly, but it fit her well and there was nothing glaringly deficient in its workmanship or the quality of the fabric. Most of her clothing suddenly looked cheap, unfashionable, and poorly-made. She supposed her attire had always been cheap, unfashionable, and poorly-made. She simply hadn’t known it. Or cared twopence, for that matter.
She cast a last, anxious look at herself in the pier-glass. It wasn’t just her clothes. She wished her hair and eyes were any color other than plain brown. She wished she were tall. She wished her hair were straight, or longer, or shorter, or at least more fashionably cut. She felt inadequate in every area. Celia drew a deep and shaky breath. Then she lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and, trembling, went forth to seek the duchess.
It unnerved her further to be met in the passage by a footman who was waiting there to escort her to Her Grace’s apartments. Evidently Celia’s summons was known to the staff. She supposed anyone living in this style thought nothing of having her comings and goings tracked and anticipated, but it gave Celia a most uncomfortable sensation.
Her Grace received Celia in her private sitting room, offering two fingers and a thin smile. She did not rise. Celia curtseyed deeply, thinking that it was exactly like having an audience with the queen.
“I am glad to see that you are punctual,” remarked Her Grace. She in
clined her head graciously when Celia rose from her curtsey. “Pray sit down, my dear. Is your room to your liking?”
“It’s splendid,” Celia assured her, perching nervously on the edge of a spindle-legged chair. The duchess’s keen eyes had flicked over her, reminding her painfully of her deficiencies, but Her Grace gave no indication of her thoughts. The same servant who had accompanied the duchess to the vicarage hovered behind Her Grace’s chair. Celia stole a glance at her. She was one of the strangest-looking persons Celia had ever seen—extremely tall for a woman, gaunt and big-boned, with tiny, close-set eyes bracketing a large and crooked nose. Celia’s fingers itched with the desire to sketch her.
“And what do you make of Delacourt thus far?”
Celia tore her eyes from the fascinating features of Her Grace’s tirewoman. The duchess was regarding her with a proud smile, plainly expecting Celia to fall into raptures. She swallowed, and tried to oblige. “It is pretty, of course. Lovely. A lovely place.” More was clearly expected of her. She tried again. “It’s very large, isn’t it? Immense. I mean—I mean—it is a bit overwhelming, you know. Just at first.”
Her Grace’s smile froze. Oh, dear. Celia simply could not think how to describe her impressions of Delacourt without giving offense. Perfection was all very well in its way, but the thought of living with it on a daily basis was horrid. One could not say so, of course.
Celia took a deep breath. “I’m not expressing myself well, am I?” She sighed, and spread her hands apologetically. “You saw my home, Your Grace, so I am sure you can imagine—well, perhaps you can’t. Delacourt takes a little getting used to, for a girl who has lived in a country vicarage all her life. I’ve never seen anything to equal it. Never imagined anything so—so—huge. So flawless. So much space! And so many servants. And so many—well, things. Beautiful things. Expensive things! You will think me foolish, I daresay, but I’m almost afraid to touch anything for fear I might break something valuable.”
Her Grace relaxed infinitesimally. “Interesting,” she commented. Her eyes rested on Celia, their expression unfathomable. “My first impression of you is confirmed. Your manners are direct. You have a tendency to speak your mind with, perhaps, a little too much frankness. We must strive to rid you of the habit. There is no need for a girl of nineteen to be quite so forthright. Indeed, it is generally considered undesirable. You will not wish to seem froward, or disagreeably pert.” She smiled gently, but her eyes held no warmth. “When you are older, my dear, your opinions may be deemed to be of interest. At the moment, however, they are not. You will do better to say what is expected, rather than what you actually think.”
Celia felt her jaw dropping, and took care to close her mouth. The duchess continued blandly. “I understand that your education has not included instruction in the behavior that is expected of young ladies of birth. Indeed, there is no reason why it should have. Your position has altered, however, and you will now need to apply yourself to such lessons. I shall undertake your instruction myself.”
Celia nearly choked on all the things she wished to say. She struggled for a moment, and finally took the duchess’s advice. She uttered only the phrase that was expected. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said woodenly.
“You may be wondering what your status is, here at Delacourt.” The duchess bent an inquiring look upon her visitor. Celia did not trust her voice, but managed a brief nod. The duchess seemed satisfied. “I have instructed my daughters to think of you as a cousin. You have my permission to address them as such. Pray remember that you may call me ‘Aunt Gladys.’ You may also refer to my husband as ‘Uncle Henry’—I have prepared him to expect it.”
Celia cleared her throat. “Very thoughtful of you, Your G—Aunt Gladys.”
“You will have guessed, I think, that I intend for you to stay indefinitely. You may consider Delacourt your permanent home. Ah. Perhaps I mistake, and you did not guess?”
Since Celia’s jaw had definitely dropped this time, she saw no point in polite prevarication. “No, I did not guess. Mrs. Floyd tried to tell me, but—no, I had no idea. Or certainly no expectation that you would—that is—”
Her Grace’s brows lifted. “Are you displeased?”
“Displeased! No, how should I be? I am—I am grateful. It is just that—” Celia broke off. She could not continue without voicing her thoughts, and the duchess had already expressed a disinclination to hear them. Still, she could not help blurting out her most pressing question. “Why?”
Celia flushed scarlet as the duchess’s eyes bored into her. But however much Her Grace deplored bluntness, she did not seem to be actually offended by it. She was tapping her fingers meditatively on the arm of her chair, as if considering how best to reply.
The odd-looking henchwoman standing motionless behind the duchess’s chair suddenly coughed. It was a small cough, and quiet, but Celia heard it. She also saw Her Grace’s reaction, which was to send a swift, searching look at the servant’s face. Whatever she read there seemed to make up her mind, for she immediately turned back to Celia with a polite—and patently false—smile wreathing her features. “Oh, I think you need not wonder overmuch about that,” she said soothingly. “All in good time, Celia. For the present, you need only adjust to your new home and learn your way about. We shall undertake your instruction in deportment, as I mentioned. You are a member of the family, recently rescued from a distressing situation and restored to your rightful place. That is all.”
But that was obviously far from all. Had the duchess begun with that assertion of family feeling, rather than ended with it, Celia might have been persuaded to take it at face value. As it was, however, she felt a shiver of fear.
What undergame was the duchess playing? And why would she not say outright what she wanted? Some hidden motive she surely had—and she must have reason to believe that Celia would not like it, whatever it was.
Chapter 4
Celia’s days soon settled into a routine. Since her cousins consistently rebuffed her, she stopped making friendly overtures to the other young ladies of the household. She sat silently through breakfast with whatever members of the family were present, then withdrew to the duchess’s rooms. There she would endure several hours of daily instruction in the rules of polite conduct, in the history and glory of her ancestors, and in the attitudes and beliefs deemed proper for an aristocratic maiden.
Most of Her Grace’s pronouncements struck Celia as petty, and some seemed downright wicked. But the first thing she learned was that a young lady, if she must have opinions, must keep them to herself. Since this was difficult for Celia, the mere maintenance of a calm demeanor was, in itself, a lesson in self-discipline. She hoped this would do her some good. Apart from learning self-control—and, of course, pleasing her benefactress—it all seemed a pointless exercise.
Her impatience finally showed itself when Her Grace recommended, for what seemed the hundredth time, that Celia pattern her behavior on that of her cousins. “Do you know what your daughters call me behind my back?” blurted Celia, her voice shaking a little. “They call me Cinderella.”
A slight frown disturbed Her Grace’s masklike serenity. “Nonsense. You are imagining it. I have instructed my daughters to welcome you.”
Celia gave a despairing little laugh. “Your Gr—Aunt Gladys, you cannot command what others feel! I overheard them quite by accident, but I tell you truly, they resent me. They do not understand why you have brought me here and shown me so much kindness. And frankly, ma’am, I cannot blame them. I do not understand it myself.”
She clenched her hands together tightly, trying to rein in her frustration. “Pray do not misunderstand me. I am grateful for your invitation, I am grateful for your support, I am grateful for—oh, everything! I am all too aware of how much I owe you. I do not like to contradict you, but—but I cannot understand why you wish me to model my behavior on that of your daughters. They are women of rank and fortune. The manners that are appropriate for them are, in a lesser be
ing, an intolerable affectation! Can you not see how it strikes them? They despise me.”
“They will not do so when you have learned to conduct yourself with dignity,” said the duchess severely. “As I have told you time and again, your manners are far too informal. Your kindness to the staff borders on familiarity. Nothing could be worse! I am disappointed, but not surprised, that my daughters keep you at a distance. Your status is beneath their own, and your ill-chosen behavior reinforces that unfortunate fact. But your lineage is not, after all, so far removed from theirs. If you would act the lady, you could easily pass for one. It is precisely that end that I am trying to achieve, Celia. Strive to be a little more conformable.”
Celia felt her cheeks flush angrily. “I do try. But I must tell you, ma’am, I heartily agree with my cousins! The behavior you deem appropriate for me is, in a penniless orphan, simply putting on airs!”
“You are expressing yourself again, Celia.”
Celia closed her eyes for a moment, struggling, and then opened them again. “I beg your pardon, madam,” she whispered, choking on the words, and was rewarded with a tiny smile from the duchess.
“I understand how difficult this training is for you,” said Her Grace mildly. “All the Delacourt women are strong-minded. I do not take offense at your frankness, Celia. I merely point it out, so that you might be on your guard. In public, any such outburst would put you beyond the pale.”
“Yes,” said Celia tonelessly. “I shall confine my remarks to the weather.”
Amusement flickered briefly in Her Grace’s ice-blue eyes. “You would like very much to point out to me that we are not in public,” she remarked. “Quite right. You may express yourself to me, Celia, so long as we are alone, and so long as you do it without heat. You have a temper, my dear, and that has been the downfall of more than one young lady.”
