Chapter 9 #2
“It doesn’t sound as if he was ever truly free,” Celia whispered as tears filled her eyes. “It sounded as if he was imprisoned by his own dreams, by his own failed hopes.”
“So many are, my darling girl,” her grandmother said sadly. “So many can never find themselves in those dreams. They lose themselves instead. They can’t reconcile with the way life is versus how they wish it was, and despair consumes them.”
“You sound a great deal like the current Duke of Roseford, Grandmama. I did not think that was possible. He does not believe in hope.”
Her grandmother reached for her snifter and took a small sip of brandy. “I don’t necessarily believe in hope either.”
Celia sucked in a sharp breath. “What? Grandmama, you are the most hopeful person I know.”
“Hope can be dangerous, my dear, because it can keep you going, believing that something will change when every sign indicates that it will not. Change is necessary and hope can get in the way.”
“Oh my, Grandmama,” Celia groaned, amused. “You do have a great deal in common with him.”
“So what is the dilemma then, my dear?” her grandmother asked merrily. “If he’s so very like me, then he should be fine.”
“No, Grandmama,” she replied swiftly, readjusting her skirts so she could turn and look up at her grandmother.
“I think he is determined to make a statement with his life. He doesn’t understand what it’s going to take if he wants to make the change that he says he does, and I’m afraid that he will end up just as brokenhearted as his father.
He insists he is not a romantic. He insists, I think, that he’s a pragmatist. But I fear… ”
Her grandmother nodded, her wise eyes soft yet unyielding. “You fear he is as romantic as his father was and is lying to himself?”
She nodded.
“Explain what you fear,” her grandmother instructed, the firelight dancing over her wrinkled face and silk robe.
She licked her lips, wondering where she should even begin.
So, she dove in and rushed, “He’s living like a pauper in the East End, determined to prove to the world that he does not care about wealth or power, and yet he wants to wield it.
I don’t think he truly understands what he’s going to have to do to win people to his side here, and living like a monk won’t do that.
You know that, Grandmama, as well as I.”
Her grandmother leaned forward and patted Celia’s hand, pointing out, “But you would live like a monk, my dear, if you could.”
It was true. She had tried, with Emilia, to move closer to the city, to move near the Shakespeare school.
But for her parents, she and Emilia had agreed not to do so, to stay safe, as it were, to live in comfort because there was no point in dying of a horrific disease in the East End when they could do so much more by staying alive.
It was not easy though, and she did often feel… Guilt was the wrong word, but she did feel quite complicated about it.
“Can you have a word with Uncle Leander?” she asked, hoping beyond hope that she could find a way to help Dominic. He did need help. Despite what Emilia had suggested. “Can someone sort him out?”
Her grandmother smiled. “Why don’t you try, my dear?”
“No, because I don’t want him to think…”
“What?” her grandmother prompted.
“I don’t want him to think that he should do as I say,” Celia explained, desperate to make herself clear. “He should do what he thinks is best, of course. You see, I don’t want him thinking…”
“That you’re falling in love with him?” her grandmother said.
Celia froze. Then she nodded.
“Are you falling in love with him?”
Why did Emilia and her grandmother insist on asking such silly questions?
“Grandmama, I am not falling in love with anyone.”
Her grandmother tilted her head to the side. “Emilia thinks differently.”
Her jaw dropped open. “Are you two talking about me?”
“Of course we’re talking about you, my dear,” teased her grandmother. “We always talk about you, and you and I always talk about Emilia. It’s the way our family is. It’s because we love each other and want to look out for one another.”
“Fine,” she allowed. “I like him. He’s wonderful. He’s interesting. But I have been on my own for so long, Grandmama. I prefer it. I have my own money. Why in God’s name would I ever marry someone?”
“I never said you had to marry him, my dear,” her grandmother pointed out, clearly amused but kind. “I asked if you were falling in love with him.”
“I have only been in his presence for a few hours. And, yes, when we are together, it feels as if we have always known each other. And we—”
“My dear, you have given so much of yourself to him already.”
“Grandmama,” she breathed, her cheeks heating, “that doesn’t mean I love him. You know that.”
“Not that, my dear. Though that is a beautiful thing between two people.” Her grandmother was firm but gentle as she said, “I mean you have clearly already given him your care, your interest. You are trying to help him over and over, and that is not a small thing.”
No, it was not, and she did not know entirely what to make of it, and yet she could not stop herself.