Dunham

Chapter 36

Celia did not know quite how she expected Woman to act after two months aboard a privateer vessel, having been flogged, and set to cleaning up after one hundred twenty-four people's bodily wastes, but whatever humility she had displayed on the Thunderstorm had vanished.

"Girl!" Woman snapped at a poor maid who'd brought tea to the morning room. "Do not turn your back on your betters!"

Considering she'd turned her back on Woman to heed a marchioness's request—moreover, the marchioness who paid her wages—surely it was understandable. Celia's mother and aunt exchanged unamused glances from across the room, which Woman missed. Celia sat quietly, her hands primly folded in her lap. She pinned her gaze on the rug.

Soon tea was left to Aunt Harriet to pour.

"Who are you?" Woman demanded in Celia's general direction.

"This," said Aunt Harriet smoothly, "is my niece, Miss Celia Bancroft. I thought I had performed the proper introductions, but in any case, there it is again. Celia, please greet Mr. and Mrs. Mocksling. Again."

Celia kept her eyes averted and nodded once. "Pleasure," she whispered.

"You look familiar. Have I met you?"

"Prudence—" Prudence? Celia almost laughed. "She is only a few weeks out of France. You can't possibly have done."

"Oh. Well. What's wrong with her?"

"She is ... tender, Prudence. I would that you be mindful of her feelings."

Woman harrumphed and said something under her breath about places one put lunatics, but that was the last of that.

"Have we met?" Man asked, directed toward Mary in the manner of a man besotted and searching for something—anything—to say.

"Not to my recollection," she replied tremulously and sipped at her tea.

Betimes Celia thought Mary could seduce the stars from the skies just by standing on deck at night.

When at sea, Mary wore breeches and shirt as did the rest of the crew, her hair artfully braided and pinned, her face and arms tanned a beautiful gold. In the last weeks, her tan had faded, but at the moment, her hands and arms were covered in white lead powder. Additionally, her robe à la polonaise was an ugly green hue that made her appear even more sickly than she was said to be. One untidy curl escaped from her mob cap.

But Man was staring at her, entranced, and Celia was certain that at any moment he would recognize—

"Cuthbert!" Woman snapped, then helped herself to a biscuit. Celia wondered if she could sneak two or three more biscuits than she was allowed. "Do not stare. 'Tis rude."

"Yes, dear."

Certainly Man's spine had not stiffened any during his time aboard the Thunderstorm, which Celia found rather sad. And she still wanted another biscuit.

"Celia," Aunt said. "Lady Haversham's salón is this evening. Did you remember?"

"No, Aunt."

"Ah, I thought not. I would not have burdened you with the task of attending since there will be no music, but Lord Covarrubias sent word today he looked forward to seeing you there."

Celia sighed.

"I have it on good authority Lord Tavendish was invited, so you might have the opportunity to meet him. I hope you find him more to your liking than Lord Covarrubias, since," Aunt cast a pointed glance at Woman, "he so recently lost his fiancée."