25
April, 1780
London
Her Ladyship, Harriet Winslow Munro, Marchioness Rathbone, greeted her guests for the Season with many delighted kisses and questions, the answers to which were interrupted as quickly as they were asked.
"Celia!" she trilled, taking Celia's gloved hands and spreading them wide to inspect her toilette. Her face fell. "Oh, Celia, darling, how ghastly!"
"Yes, Aunt," Celia said dully, pleased that she had managed such a grotesque concoction and, furthermore, that the rest of her wardrobe was equally grotesque.
"That lovely gown will fit so much better once your waist has been trimmed. Or your stays tightened. But I will see to your nourishment and your lady's maid will see to your stays."
Oh, good Lord. That. How could she have forgotten?
Lovely gown?
And overly tight stays now did nothing but arouse her beyond bearing.
"And Marianne! Oh, my dear sister, come!"
The embrace between Celia's aunt and mother was long and, she noted, as sincere as it had ever been. Both women's eyes were filling with tears as they clung to one another.
"Are you well?"
"I am failing, Sister," Mary said tremulously. "The doctors fear I may not be able to make the return journey at the end of the Season. They bade me not to come this year, but I needed to see my dear sister one last time before I die."
Aunt Harriet only squeezed her eyes tighter as more tears leaked out.
A sliver of guilt pricked Celia.
But then the moment passed when Mary pleaded weariness from the journey, and Aunt Harriet sent them upstairs.
Thus, Lady Marianne Hylton (long-lost wife of Admiral Nathan Bancroft, nineteenth Baron Hylton) (who "spends her winters in southern France with her protector") (because of "its arid climate, which mitigates the pain from the wasting illness") and the Honourable Celia Bancroft (long-lost daughter of Admiral Nathan Bancroft, nineteenth Baron Hylton) (the four-years-younger sister of Lucien Bancroft, captain of the HMS Grace, recently lauded in the press for extraordinary bravery at sea) (niece of Marquess Rathbone, rear-admiral and captain of the HMS Purity, equally celebrated for the same reason) found themselves once again standing silently in the chambers they had used for the past two Seasons, surrounded by a bevy of maids scurrying this way and that. George stood aside, mouth slack.
Suddenly, Celia shrieked and pulled at her chestnut wig, startling the maids (who already looked at her askance). "Out!" she screamed. "OUT!"
"Now, now, Celia," said her mother calmly, caressing her silk-clad back.
"Out! You must go! Cease touching my things! MY THINGS!" Celia ran to one of her trunks and cast herself upon it as if to protect it from marauders.
Lady Rathbone's sharp clap came from the doorway. "Please, girls. Do as Celia asks. You've shown remarkable efficiency, but Celia is special, remember. Fragile, if you will, and has brought her own maid this time, to whom she is accustomed."
The Rathbone House maids, casting frightened glances back at Celia, fled.
Her ladyship glared at Celia. "There will be no more of that, Little Miss."
"Yes, Aunt," Celia whispered, her eyes wide. She gulped as conspicuously as possible.
The marchioness looked to George. "Please take care of your mistress, Birdie. I shall have a sleeping draught sent up. She has done well with it in the past."
George bobbed the correct curtsey. "Yes, m'lady."
The door closed, and Mary rushed across the room to lock it. Celia stood and calmly brushed off the front of her saffron gown, which made her look the veriest of cadavers. "Well?"
"A splendid performance as usual, my love," Mary replied, stripping off her gloves.
Celia looked to George, who was still a bit discomfited, and chuckled. "Recite the history for me once again, George."
The girl took a deep breath. "You are utterly mad. Captured by pirates when you were eight years old, spirited away to endure horrors you do not remember. Lady Hylton, as an adult woman, bore the capture better, but she still will not speak of what was visited upon her. You cannot abide for your things or your person to be touched by anyone you do not know and trust. You see everything unfamiliar as a threat and will react accordingly."
"Good. Now try not to look so startled the next time I do that. You will have no warning."
George, still shocked, whimpered, "Aye, Captain." Celia huffed with great disgust. "I mean, yes, Miss Bancroft."
"Don't lose that sennight of training now, George—" Celia growled and huffed when her mother chuckled. "Birdie."
That made the girl smile tremulously. "You were quite frightening, Cap—Miss. More so than when you took our ship."
"Ah, so you believed it?"
She nodded so vigorously her mobcap fell into her eyes. She pushed it back.
Celia beamed. "Excellent!"
"Also," Mary said briskly, "remember that Harriet is half-mad in truth. I believe she sees in Celia something of her own daughter, who truly was captured by Ottoman slavers when she was thirteen and spirited away. Harriet was held at swordpoint and forced to witness it. I cannot imagine."
"'Twas about the same time Papa took me," Celia interrupted, "so a double blow, that."
"Sarah has never returned," Mary finished. "And Harriet now rarely—if ever—acknowledges she had a daughter at all."
"I might be convinced she thinks me Sarah returned but for that," Celia muttered as she opened her trunk and began to empty it, flinging dresses everywhere. "My presence here seems to comfort her, though. It would be nice, I must admit, if I could pass for thirteen in any light, no matter how unflattering. Ah ha!" she said once she reached the false bottom and found the mechanism to open it. "Though my hair is not the Winslow women's beautiful blonde, I dare say my new wigs are as beautiful a chocolate color as yours, Birdie. Put my clothes in the press."
"Yes, Miss," she said with a salute.
"Curtsey, Birdie," Mary said low. "Do not dare salute her. This is no longer a game of make-believe and dress-up. Your lives are at stake."
"Yes, m'lady."
"I cannot stand how much I paid for these rags," Celia muttered.
"You made that modiste's revenues for a year, my dear. Think of it that way."
A knock sounded and Celia swiftly banished herself to the antechamber in which George would sleep, whilst footmen brought in dozens of trunks and an extra press for Mary's wardrobe. It was a concession to Celia's madness (and a testament to the unspoken tragedy they had endured together) that Lady Hylton chose to reside in the same chamber and sleep with Celia. It was also an excellent way for Mary to hide her extraordinarily good health and keep Celia's frequent absences from being noted.
"I'm hungry," Celia announced once the footmen were gone and the doors again locked. Locked doors, too, were an acknowledgment of Celia's unpredictability and not, as the case were, yet another way for Celia's and Mary's masquerade to be furthered.
"And you will remain hungry for the entirety of the Season if you do not care to staff your office."
It was true. The townhouse Celia had leased had precisely nine of her crewmen in residence—none of whom could cook. Celia cursed her lack of foresight.
Again.
The first Season, she had not eaten much anyroad, grieving as she was Talaat's death, so she had not noticed the lack.
Last Season, she had not remembered how little Harriet fed her the year before.
This Season, she had been too caught up in thoughts of Judas to jot that item down on her list before leaving Rotterdam.
She could expect to lose a full three stone in the next five weeks, necessitating a trip back to the poor little modiste's shop for alterations.
A reluctant smile stretched her mouth when she thought of that girl, barely older than George, paying for her dubious freedom with a lack of income and the probability of time in Fleet Prison. She could not rent a shop closer to the ton to attract more wealthy trade because she had no money, which meant more wealthy trade could not darken her doorstep because they did not know she existed. Her talent and skill were irrelevant in such a situation.
It made Celia ache to demonstrate a modiste's freedom to Judas and that it in no way compared to Celia's.
Madam, I pray you do not tell anyone I made these gowns for you.
I will pay you extra for my violation of all boundaries of good taste. Will that do?
Yes, ma'am. Thank you.
But if Aunt Harriet's opinion could be trusted, the ton's taste may have taken a turn toward the atrocious.
Another knock. Another visit from Aunt Harriet.
"Mary, do be a dear and join me in the parlor for tea. Celia, you will take tea here. Do you think yourself capable of attending a rout with me this evening or must you wait until tomorrow's soiree after you have rested from your journey?"
"Tonight, if you please, Aunt. I do so love the music." It was well known that frequent exposure to good music belayed Celia's propensity to mad outbursts. Thus, she was taken to every ball and concertina, opera and musicale, as well as any other event that might have music. It was the only thing about this ruse to save Celia's sanity.
"Splendid! You will be ready at ten of the clock. Birdie, please make sure she has an adequate nap. Have you given her her laudanum?"
"Yes, m'lady. She should be asleep soon." Celia almost smiled at the girl's convincing improvisation.
"Good enough then. Mary, if you please."
•
"Well?" Celia whispered when Mary returned with extra biscuits for Celia secreted away in her skirts.
"She has Nathan well in hand, though his solicitors are arguing that she is also mad and thus, not fit to defend my position as your guardian. But as long as I am alive and it's demonstrated that you are well enough in my presence, I can retain your guardianship."
"'Tis better than being handed over to him, I suppose."
Mama! Mama! Mama!
Go with James, Celia, my love.
Mama! Mama, don't make me go with him! MAMA, PLEASE!
Celia, you must. Please do not be frightened. He is a good man; he will care for you.
Get her out of my sight before I kill her!
Papa! Why would you say that?! I love you, Papa! What did I DO?! Papppaaaaaaa!!!
Go! Go, Jamie! Take her. Please!
Mama, help me, please! MAAAAMAAAAAAAA!!!
Every time Celia thought of the day Admiral Lord Hylton learned his daughter had been sired by another man, it filled her with rage. Would that he had been captaining the HMS Grace instead of Captain Lucien Bancroft. She would have made sure he'd died and Washington could have said nothing about it.
"Her solicitors are better than Nathan's and she is a marchioness. He cannot get near you."
"What does he want with me? And why now? He threatened to kill me! A child!" she raged. "He didn't threaten Dunham! He threatened me! What did I do? What a bloody coward, to threaten a child for her parentage when her father is right there to be called out!"
"And too bad we cannot bring that out in the open."
"He cannot want that any more than we do. I could break my masquerade and threaten to go to the papers."
"Who would believe he would do such a thing? He is the darling of the admiralty and the marquess's superior officer, who is thoroughly in sympathy with his position."
"But! If Rathbone knew it was a great fraud he had perpetrated on everyone—and why—he would turn on him."
"He won't believe it. Better to play the hand we have than risk such a devastating trump."
Celia could understand the logic. "Lord, how I wish Washington would relent. I would—" Celia gritted her teeth and circled her hands and shook them violently as if Admiral Nathan Bancroft's neck were already there. "I despise that bastard! One chance— Just one— I'm a pirate! I don't have to do as I'm told unless I please!"
"You're a privateer now. You'll lose your letter of marque."
Celia turned away.
Mary sighed. "We could simply ... leave and not return."
"Mama, you know why we are here. This is a debt of honor, and I pay my debts."
"You're paying my debt," she said low. "Not your own."
"Your debts are my debts and I can pay them. I will discuss this no more."