Chapter 11
The Problem with Celia
They walked to the pub, if not in companionable silence precisely, then with a newfound air of peace settled around them. They were both a little raw and wary, but when Cilly glanced up, anxiously searching Damian’s face, he met her eyes with a wry smile.
The pub was ancient, quaint, and listing to one side as if it had imbibed rather too deeply from its own wares. Damian ducked his head as he guided Cilly inside and asked for their servants, who had enjoyed a marvellous time in their absence.
“It appears we are interrupting their dinner. Would you like tea, perhaps something to eat before we leave? Apparently, the meat pie is excellent.”
Damian regarded her, waiting for her reply.
Cilly’s stomach, long forgotten during the anxiety of the past hours, woke at the suggestion and made an insistent gurgling sound. She slapped her hands over it to quell the wretched thing, but Damian’s lips twitched.
“I’ll see what they can do,” he said wryly.
“Not the pie, I don’t think I could face that, but bread and cheese would be perfect,” Cilly admitted, watching with a smile as Damian set about arranging for her comfort.
Shortly thereafter, Cilly found herself in a cosy parlour with a merry fire crackling in the grate, a plate of cheese, pickles and thickly sliced fresh bread, and a large dish of butter before her.
“Heavens, I’m famished,” she exclaimed, spreading a thick covering of butter on the bread and taking it a bite. “Oh, that’s heavenly. Here, you try.”
She buttered a piece of the delicious bread for Damian, topped it with slices of cheese, and handed it to him.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, and then sighed as she gave him a look that suggested he do as he was told. “You’re a bossy chit did. You know that?”
“Of course I know that,” she retorted placidly. “Didn’t you?”
Cilly watched, secretly delighted as Damian absently put away four slices of bread and cheese, simply by not noticing she kept putting a fresh one on his plate as he finished the last.
Replete and feeling far more able to manage the journey home, Cilly was sipping her tea when the door burst open.
“There she is, my l-lady,” Nichols said, beaming beatifically at Cilly as she swayed gently from side to side. “Love her like my own daughter, I do. There’s no one better in the world. Such a lovely lady, too good for the likes of—” Nichols gave a loud hiccough and Cilly surged to her feet.
“Nichols, you are—you are foxed!” she said, torn between laughter and shock.
Nichols shook her head. “Idonthinkso,” she slurred unsteadily. “Apple juice.”
“Apple juice,” Cilly repeated doubtfully.
“The lanlor’ said… apple juice. Delicious, it were.” Nichols swayed backward and caught at the doorjamb to steady herself.
“I believe what Nichols is trying to say is that the landlord served her apple drink. It sounds innocuous, I’m afraid, but it’s not apple juice, but what they call rough cider in these parts, lethal stuff,” Damian said, eyeing the woman with amusement.
“Oh, poor Nichols!” Cilly sprang to her feet. She turned to Damian, indignant on her maid’s behalf. “I insist you speak to them and tell them how reprehensible it is to serve respectable ladies strong drink under the name of apple drink, as if that explains anything!”
Damian looked sceptical. “My dear, Nichols is a grown woman, I find it hard to believe she could not tell the difference between juice and cider, but I very much doubt the landlord did it on purpose. He would have assumed she knew what it was.”
“If the landlord told her it was apple juice, she would have no reason not to believe him,” Cilly insisted hotly.
“Never trust a man, my pet,” Nichols said, wagging a finger at her. “’specially one with cheekbones like that.” Her wagging finger pointed at Damian accusingly.
“It’s outrageous,” Cilly said in a harsh whisper. “You must speak to him at once.”
“Lovely man,” Nichols chimed in dreamily. “Lovely apple juice. He said I had eyes like damsons. I liked that. What are damsons?”
Cilly frowned at her. “A kind of plum.”
“I like damsons,” Nichols said with a sigh, leaning heavily against the doorjamb. “Think I’ll just rest my eyes for a bit.”
Then, like a theatre curtain, she fell, slowly and with dignity, sliding down to the floor where she marked the end of the performance with a soft snore.
“Oh, good heavens!” Cilly exclaimed in exasperation. She turned to look at Damian. “Now, what do we do?”
Damian shrugged. “Let her sleep it off, I suppose.”
Cilly threw up her hands.
The Cock and Pippin Pub, East Sussex, 17thSeptember 1816
To be truthful, Damian was relieved to have something to do. So, he had a stern word with the landlord, who was appalled, having, as Damian suspected, assumed Nichols knew what she was drinking.
“When she called for another, I warned her it had a kick, but she waved me off. I might’ve argued a mite, but she scared me, truth be told,” the fellow admitted ruefully.
This, Damian could well believe, having been on the receiving end of some of the less than friendly looks Nichols had sent his way that suggested she would cut off his manly parts if he put a foot wrong with her mistress.
“Mind you, she’s a fine, handsome woman. I beg you will send her my apologies, like. P’rhaps she’d like a lie down in one of our bedchambers for a bit. My sister, Nell, will look after her. Till she feels better, like.”
“An excellent notion, Mr Teskar. Thank you. Perhaps you might provide some strong coffee too, and perhaps some toast, to soak up the cider?”
Mr Teskar nodded gravely. “Aye, least I can do, my lord. I’ll see to it, never fret.”
Once Nichols had been escorted to a bedchamber under the watchful gaze of Miss Teskar, Damian returned to Celia.
Her gratitude and approval at his arrangements made him feel oddly pleased with himself and some of the gloom that had felt like it might smother him just hours ago lifted a little.
Though he’d done it for the best, poor Cilly had endured a horridly difficult day thanks to him, and she’d not once complained or blamed him. Perhaps he could mitigate the awfulness a little, as they could not return home for a while yet.
“We’d best give her time to sober up if we don’t want too much unpleasantness on the journey home. We’re only a few miles from Tunbridge Wells, though, and it’s early yet. Would you like to take a walk through the Pantiles?”
“Oh!”
Her face lit, and Damian congratulated himself on having thought of something to please her. God knew she deserved a little light relief. They both did.
He still could not think about the events of the morning, or about the things she had said, though they lingered in the back of his mind, both too painful and too fragile for him to return to yet.
For now, he wanted to forget the past, forget his mother and the horror of his revelations and Celia’s reactions to them.
For now, he just wished to spend a little time with his friend.
She had proven herself to be that, at least. Even if she were deluded enough to still hope for more, he could not deny her courage, nor her kindness, and she deserved something, some show of gratitude for that.
A trip to Tunbridge Wells was hardly enough, but perhaps it was a start, a token of his willingness to accept her friendship, though he feared allowing her even that much.
His mother’s actions had devastated his life, but he had survived. He was not so certain he would survive Celia if he let her too close.
The Pantiles, Tunbridge Wells, Kent, 17th September 1816
It was a strange sensation, walking with Celia on his arm, perusing the wares in the pretty shops along the promenade, bordered by the smart white painted columns.
Other couples nodded and smiled at them, parents with young children in tow, long married Darby and Joans, all accepting Damian as one of them.
There were no whispers, and no scandalised murmurs, which made a pleasant change.
Of course, that was merely because the ton had long since retired to their country estates.
The people visiting today were local gentry, a few military men, and gentlemen farmers with their wives and families, but no one who would know them or recognise them as being at the centre of a scandal. It was… rather wonderful.
“Do you wish to try the waters? They are supposed to be very good for you,” Damian said, slanting a glance at her.
“Oh, yes. Why not? I still haven’t visited the spring in Little Valentine.
Gee-Gee swears by it, you know. Not that she makes the climb herself, but she has the servants fetch a fresh bottle every few days.
She told me she drinks a small glass every morning before she gets out of bed.
Perhaps that is why she’s so spry still?
” she remarked, sounding pleased with the notion.
“It could be,” he said, hiding a smile as they walked towards an old lady who was stationed by the spring.
She bobbed a polite curtsey before lowering a long-handled metal dipper into the spring basin. Carefully pouring two small glasses, she handed them to Damian, who turned to Celia and handed her a glass, his expression entirely innocent.
“Down the hatch,” he said, chinking their glasses together. He braced himself for the vile taste, rich in iron but utterly disgusting, and managed to swallow it without gagging.
Celia, watching his reaction, took a large swallow and then froze. Her eyes bulged, her cheeks paled, and she looked wildly around her. With no other option, for ladies did not spit on the street, she swallowed it.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed, shuddering dramatically.
Damian burst out laughing. “Oh, your face was a picture,” he snorted, clutching at his stomach as her indignant expression only made him laugh harder.
“You rotten lout,” she said with a huff and, when he didn’t stop laughing, hit him for good measure.
It was only a tap, but for reasons he did not understand, that too was funny, and Celia was forced to escort him away as people were beginning to stare.