Chapter 18 #2
“Cerys, my potato flower,” her mother said. “We only ever wanted you to be happy. Have you enjoyed your time on the stage?”
“I’ve learned a great deal.” She’d seen so much of the world, or at least of Gloucestershire, and she was better for the knowledge.
“And she hasn’t been one of the disreputable kind,” Lady Diana put in. “You never really know, with an actress.”
“But Louisa Brunton is Lady Craven now,” Gwen said. “And Mrs. Siddons has always been respectable. Will you stay with Dorsey’s, once you marry? I should hope Mr. Manelli will allow it. Miss Wade could not stop talking about the impression your Hamlet has made on the town.”
Miss Wade was currently hovering near the piano, basking in every smile and kind remark from Lady Vaughn.
Gwen, a viscountess, she was too awed to approach.
Her brother Winston stood in animated conversation with Mame and Dorsey, explaining ways to create chemical explosions onstage with minimal risk of injury to cast members or audiences.
Tryphenie listened, wide-eyed, while Dot interjected and argued with the young man.
Rhoda had drifted near the pianoforte, watching with envy while Anne instructed Arwen on a tune.
“I begged Dorsey to play Hamlet because Lady Baeccon wanted to see me die as Ophelia,” Cerys said. “Just what is the gossip saying?”
“You are telling an old story in new ways,” Lady Diana answered. “So many of my callers and friends have told me they never really cared for the character until they saw your production. You have brought them a new understanding.”
“You have begun a legacy, it would seem,” Gwen murmured. “Well done, cyw.”
“Then I have something to show for having abandoned you all,” Cerys said, putting a hand on her mother’s knee. “I did not desert you in vain.”
“Calon bach.” Dovey smoothed a gentle hand over Cerys’s hair. “Did you think we meant for you to stay at St. Sefin’s always? To make you part of the running of what we built? Not unless it was your own choice. We want you to build what you wish, and be happy with it.”
Cerys’s gaze floated to Dante again. He had finished his sketch and tucked the paper back into his coat, listening and nodding at what the other men said while he puffed once or twice on his cigar.
As if he felt her gaze, he glanced in her direction, and his slow, lazy smile made a heat grow deep in her belly. She wanted to be in his arms again.
“I felt guilty leaving home,” she confessed to her mother. “And for no reason other than to follow my own whims. I will feel guilty again if I leave Dorsey’s in distress without me.”
“And where do you get such ideas?” Her mother’s smile was amused. “We are not a landed family where you must marry to secure our fortunes. We do not have a heritage you must preserve. You can make whatever you wish of your life.”
The smile turned wistful, and she cupped Cerys’s cheek.
“At your age, or a little younger, I was trying my hand at millinery and falling in love with a green-eyed Dutchman. I wouldn’t have a thing to do with my father’s family, not after how they treated my mother.
I was determined to make my own way, and I did.
And if there was heartbreak, it was worth the joys. ”
“An extraordinary thought,” Cerys muttered.
A knot she’d long carried in her chest loosened and eased at her mother’s reassurance.
She hadn’t been mistaken. She hadn’t been wrong.
She hadn’t been willful or selfish or heedless or cruel.
She was trying to blaze her own path through the world, and it had brought her to Cheltenham, and Dante Manelli, and a home of her own making.
By the time she said her goodbyes and retired for the evening, he had left the parlor.
It seemed the other men meant to smoke all night, despite Lady Diana’s glares and complaints that cigars were lewd and snuff was much more fashionable.
Her parents had been given a room on the other side of the house, and Dovey withdrew with Gwen and Anne to put Arwen and the boys to bed.
Cerys carried a candlestick to light her way, but she didn’t need it on the turn of the stair, where light from the young moon spilled through the window and cast paths of silver through Dante’s hair.
He came forward from the window seat, took the candlestick from her hand and set it aside, then slid his arms around her waist. She turned her head up for his kiss, and much was answered in the slow, delicious tease of his mouth against hers.
“You have not changed your mind, then?” she asked. “I feared Bathsheba would play one last trick when you saw her.”
“She is through playing her tricks on us,” he said against her lips. “If she tries to harm you again, I’ll tell her husband the truth about her.”
“Oh.” Cerys managed quiet for all of ten seconds, in part because Dante moved his lips to her cheek, and the scrape of his evening stubble gave her a delightful thrill. “What is the truth—”
“She doesn’t matter, Cerys. She is not between us any longer.”