Dunham

Chapter 33

33

Celia allowed George to awaken her after noon and give her a small saucer of hot chocolate and one slice of dry toast.

"That's all she'll allow, Cap'n," George whispered. "A footman is stationed at the larder and the housekeeper informed me I was not allowed to fetch you food. No one accused me of stealing for you, but the cook noticed."

"I hate her," Celia grumbled.

She allowed George to dress her in yet another atrocious gown while she informed Mary of Rafael's news. "I hate Bancroft," Celia grumbled.

She allowed George to guide her to the dining table for nuncheon. I hate this, Celia thought.

She allowed herself to be fed exactly one bowl of beef broth, a small cucumber sandwich, and a biscuit. Also dry. I hate her.

Even after her large meal last night, Celia was ravenous, and this was all she was allowed. What she would not give for a roast capon or two.

Or three.

"Celia," her aunt said as she swept into the dining room. "Where is your mother?"

As usual, she schooled her features to betray nothing but vague interest. "She is coming, Aunt."

"Good. We have a dilemma or two."

"Here I am, Harrie. Good afternoon, Celia."

"Good afternoon, Mother." Celia looked up to see her mother progress slowly through the door toward the table. With the help of a footman, she was soon seated beside Celia and patting her hand, even as another footman served her a plate piled high with delicious items. Celia looked longingly at it, not bothering to hide that, as it was normal for The Simpleton to want more food.

"You look fetching today, my love," Mary said, her voice trembling a bit.

"You as well, Mother."

"I quite agree," Aunt Harriet said tightly in the manner of someone who is not paying attention.

But in fact, they were both hideous: Between Mary's illness and Celia's madness, neither of them were in the least presentable. Celia may not have inherited a jot of Mary's beauty nor a tittle of her skill with money, but her acting ability was all her mother's doing.

"Where is his lordship?" Mary murmured.

"At the Admiralty, reporting to Hylton and getting word on when he can expect another command."

Celia took a careful glance at her aunt. Something in her voice made Celia want to ask whether she preferred Rathbone to stay or go.

"And that," she said, murdering a piece of toast with her butter knife while she spoke, "is what I need to discuss with you, Marianne."

"What has happened?"

"Several things. Firstly, the court has granted Hylton custody of Celia." Mary pulled in a breath and Celia whimpered as if they did not already know. Aunt Harriet slid her a side glance. "I am so sorry, Celia. I know you cannot want this."

"No, Aunt."

"On what grounds?"

"That you are ... infirm ... and that, in the face of Hylton's paternity, I have no right to provide for her care once you—ah ... "

"I apprehend," Mary said tremulously, then dabbed at her eye with a kerchief.

Harriet cleared her throat. "Secondly, he has settled a dowry upon Celia for her to wed straightaway. He is practically taking applications."