Chapter 41
Four weeks later.
Celeste’s fingers ached as she sewed another button into the coarse wool, but she kept on.
The regiment needed uniforms. Around her, the ballroom was scarcely recognizable—makeshift tables replaced dancers, bolts of heavy cloth occupied the places where young ladies had once stretched in graceful arcs.
The warm scent of wood polish and beeswax had yielded to a heavier aroma of starch and coffee.
Sunlight slipped through the tall windows, lending a deceptive cheerfulness to the rows of women quietly sewing coats and rolling bandages.
Prue came near, twisting her apron between nervous fingers. “There is a gentleman to see you, my lady. He says he is General Hawkhurst’s solicitor, and it is rather urgent.”
Celeste hesitated, her pulse quickening with unease. Solicitors only arrived bearing difficult tidings or requests she felt ill-equipped to address.
When she entered the drawing room, the solicitor stood near the window, framed by heavy velvet curtains. He was older, thin-faced, dressed impeccably in sober black. A leather case rested beside him on the polished rosewood table.
“Lady Cecilia Stratton?” he said briskly, studying her with a practiced eye.
Celeste’s heart tripped, unaccustomed to hearing her name from a stranger’s lips. She steadied her breath, forcing calmness into her voice. “I am Lady Cecilia, yes. May I be of assistance?”
He cleared his throat, adjusting a stack of papers. “On the contrary, I am here to assist you. I bring excellent news. I have just come from Leighton Park. How soon might your bags be ready for travel?”
Celeste’s fingers tightened on the half-sewed coat she was still holding. “I beg your pardon?”
The solicitor gave an impatient sigh. “Come now, Lady Cecilia. It would be most unseemly for you to remain in a widower’s home without proper supervision. The Dowager Duchess of Leighton has kindly offered herself as your chaperone until your marriage can be arranged.”
A chill swept through her limbs, and she took a small step back. “Sir, is this a jest? You must see that there is a war going on, and I am here assisting the soldiers—”
“Precisely the point,” he interrupted, folding his hands primly. “Because of the war, General Hawkhurst wisely transferred your guardianship to me.”
“He did…what?”
The solicitor’s expression shifted into a satisfied smile. “The general fulfilled his duty admirably. In turn, I’ve concluded negotiations with the Duke of Leighton. It is quite a coup for you, my lady, if I may say so myself.”
Celeste’s breath faltered. “His…duty?”
“Yes,” he continued cheerfully, oblivious to her distress. “His duty, of course. He arranged your future security, and rather impressively, I might add. The duke’s family is already preparing for your arrival.”
Numbly, Celeste released the coat.
The solicitor caught it awkwardly, surprise flickering across his carefully controlled face. “What is this? Uniform wool?” he asked absently, examining the fabric.
Celeste’s throat was dry, her voice brittle as old leaves. “It’s for the soldiers,” she said softly. “The stitches are not perfect but they will hold in the winter.”
Or perhaps they wouldn’t.
***
Celeste hurried from the drawing room. Every step she took felt uncertain, like the ground had lost its solidity. Graves. She needed to speak with Graves.
She left the house and followed the gravel path to the training grounds. Several recruits stood in an uneven line, holding muskets with hesitant fingers.
Graves was among them, his dark coat impeccable despite the weather. Rue’s stance mirrored Graves’ authoritative poise. At the sight of them standing side by side, a sharp ache bloomed in Celeste’s chest, tightening around her heart.
“Captain Graves,” she called softly.
Graves glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes instantly darkened. “Lady Cecilia, are you well?”
He turned back to the recruits, offering a curt nod of dismissal.
Celeste held out the solicitor’s document to Graves, her fingers trembling slightly as the paper brushed against her palm. “Can you help me understand this, please?”
Graves’ brow furrowed as he traced the words. Celeste watched him closely, searching for signs of a misunderstanding, but his expression only grew more serious.
Her stomach twisted painfully, and she couldn’t seem to breathe steadily.
Graves finally lowered the paper. “This document bears the general’s signature,” he said quietly.
Alexander had given her away. He had taken her heart, and now he was sending the rest to another. And worst of all was that he would say it was his duty. That it was for her own good.
She was done. Hawk won. In the battle for his heart, he had won.
Graves straightened. “I don’t understand why the general would do such a thing. This estate is your home, Lady Cecilia.”
Rue touched Celeste’s arm. “Graves is right, love. We’ll not stand by and allow some solicitor to take you away.”
Celeste forced herself to remain composed. The wind felt colder now, stirring tendrils of her hair around her damp cheeks. “I believed so as well. I truly thought this was home, my only real home. I hoped I could make it brighter, warmer. Clearly, I have failed in that.”
Graves drew himself up to his full height, his shoulders squaring firmly. “Lady Cecilia, you do not have to leave. You have my loyalty, and you always will.”
Rue’s grip tightened reassuringly on Celeste’s arm. “And you have mine. We can send that officious solicitor packing until General Hawkhurst returns, and this can be set straight. That stubborn man loves you—”
“I’m done waiting for him. He gave me away, Rue, after everything, and I—” She could not speak for the lump in her throat. “It was my mistake. The general who never surrenders cannot give himself over to love.”
Rue watched her with troubled eyes. “What will you do?”
Celeste turned toward the house, the quiet rain touching her cheeks. She felt suddenly weary of waiting for others to determine her fate, weary of hoping and dreaming only to be pushed aside once more.
“I will do what the general wants me to do. I will go away.”