Dunham

Chapter 25

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."