Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"But the Wedgewood tea service?" Sylvia asked. "Are you quite sure?"

"You know as well as I do that we must sell everything of value if we have any hope of surviving. Besides, we can't take it all, can we? We don't even have a home to put it in."

Celestina picked another porcelain plate from the dresser, examined it for markings, and then put it on one side.

"Yes," Sylvia said. "But the Wedgewood ? You adore that tea service!"

Celestina shot her a look from beneath her brow. "There are lots of things about this house that I adore, Sylvia. But now is a time to be practical. Besides, it's all packed up for you and ready to go. All I ask is that you take it to Mr Winslow in Mayfair. It's a very sought-after tea service. I have no doubt he'll offer you a pretty penny."

Sylvia sighed but picked up the box all the same. "Very well, Mrs Courtenay," she said, falling back on formality as she always did when she disagreed with Celestina.

"Thank you, Sylvia," she replied with a knowing smile, returning her attention to her sorting.

"Whatever's next," Sylvia muttered as she made her way to the door, encumbered by the box. "The Gainsborough?"

Celestina looked up at the painting and sighed. "Probably, yes," she said, but Sylvia had already gone. She put down the plate she'd been holding and lowered herself onto a stool, looking around. The dining room was littered with boxes and piles of things to be sold or discarded, her entire life turfed out onto the tables, floors, and chairs.

She had never been particularly sentimental about material possessions, but this felt so much worse than losing a few prized items. She was selling off her memories as much as they were her belongings. She remembered the day David had come home with the Gainsborough painting.

He'd been so overjoyed and told her all about the auction, how he'd outbid several competitors with their eager eyes upon the thing. He'd put it in pride of place in the dining room so that all their guests would see it—on the rare occasion he allowed guests, that was.

"But you will still have the memories," she reminded herself aloud. With another sigh, she pushed herself off the stool and resumed her considerations, saleable items on one hand and those to be donated to the orphanage on the other.

She picked up the jug of another—older and significantly uglier—tea service when a knock came on the front door. Celestina glanced towards the door as if she could see through the wall, a sudden twist of anxiety in her gut. She was quite alone in the house.

She had no one to answer the door for her nor anyone to act as chaperone. She supposed she had to get used to it, but it still made her feel terribly uncomfortable. And if she had any hope of returning to society from this nightmare, she had to tread very carefully indeed.

She stared at the closed door for a long moment, wondering what best to do. But when the knock came again, and more insistently this time, Celestina put down the jug and made her way down the hallway. Perhaps it was something important. She was halfway to the door when the voice came.

"Celestina?"

It made her blood run cold. Edward Willoughby was all she needed today. He was all she needed any day. She closed her eyes for a second to gather herself, then continued down the hallway.

"Celestina?" he called again, his voice sing-song and all the more irritating for it. "Oh, Celestina?"

"I am sorry," she called through the closed door, "but I am unable to receive visitors at the moment. Please call again another time."

"It's me, Edward," he said as though they were best friends.

He can only hope.

"Good afternoon, Mr Willoughby. As I say, it's impossible for me to welcome you at the moment." Thank goodness . "Perhaps you could return another day?"

"Don't be silly, Celestina," he cried with a laugh. "It's me. I promise I won't take up much of your time, and I'm certain you don't want the neighbours to see me standing here, yelling through the door."

Celestina groaned. He was quite right in that respect. There was enough gossip about her situation as it was. She turned the handle and opened the door a crack, peering out with an attempt at a smile. "Mr Willoughby. To what do I owe—"

"Ah, there's your pretty face!" he cried in a jolly manner. "Whatever took you so long?"

"As I said, I'm afraid I can't receive anyone today, being quite alone, but I—"

"Nonsense," he said and quite pushed past her, marching his way into the house as if he owned it.

Celestina was forced to open the door wider to allow him through. She turned and gaped at him, though she didn't move from the open door. She couldn't very well enter with him—to be alone in the house with another man while she was still mourning her husband? Why, it was a disaster waiting to happen, and it was safe to say that her life was already enough of a disaster as it was.

"Really, Mr Willoughby. As grateful as I am that you have come to check on me again , there is no one else here, and I really must insist that—"

"I have great news," he said, his arms out in an expansive display, quite ignoring everything she said. He had a glimmer in his eye, though of what Celestina did not want to know.

"Yes, perhaps, but it might be better if we talk about this another—"

"I told you the other day that I have several properties sitting empty. You remember, don't you?"

"Yes," she repeated, looking at him from the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her as if that might give her the patience she needed. "But—"

"I set up one of my townhouses," he declared, his victorious grin smug and somehow unfriendly. "It's ready for you to move into right away."

Celestina swallowed. She would rather die than take him up on his offer.

"Well, that's very kind of you, Mr Willoughby," she said, still not moving. "But I'm afraid, as you know, I have encountered some financial difficulties of late, and so I would be entirely unable to pay for—"

"Pay?" He frowned at her. "We're old friends, Celestina."

No, we're not.

"You don't have to worry about a thing," he continued. "I am aware that the bank is about to take this house, and I couldn't stand to see you homeless. If for nothing else, however would David forgive me? I know for certain that he would want—nay, he would expect—me to look after his darling wife after his death."

No, he wouldn't.

"While I appreciate the gesture, Mr Willoughby, I simply cannot accept—"

"Is my kindness too much for you?" he asked, his bright tone now laced with a note of irritation. "And what is all this Mr Willoughby nonsense? My name is Edward, as you well know."

She smiled and looked at the floor, humouring him for a second, hoping that would make him leave sooner. "Quite, Edward. I am sorry. It is the grief. It makes me … confused at times."

He nodded as if he understood, then stepped in her direction. Celestina steeled herself for him to brush past her again, but he stopped short of her.

"All the more reason to accept help, my dear. Recovering from such grief is never easy, but I can assist you. It will be far harder if you are homeless."

"Again," she said as softly as she could, "I really appreciate it, but I cannot accept your offer."

His smile turned into a frown, and his brows almost met. "Then where will you live?"

"Well …" She looked around, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to think of an answer. "I haven't quite worked that out yet, but—"

"And you are looking a gift horse in the mouth? To do such a thing would make you as stubborn and stupid as your husband. If he had not refused my aid, perhaps you wouldn't be in this situation currently."

Celestina pushed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, urging herself to keep quiet. She had no interest in arguing with Edward Willoughby. She only wanted him out of her house—and her life.

"I must say," he said, stepping closer to her, "that I am somewhat offended by your refusal. Is there something wrong with my help?"

"Not at all," she said, feeling somewhat desperate. He was far too close to her, so close that she could smell the stale sweat that clung to his woollen suit. She turned her head away.

"You see, Celestina," he said with a sneer. "You are quite without options now."

Something inside her snapped, and she swung her head back to face him. "But I am not," she said, the words coming out in a rush. "In fact, quite the opposite. Why, I had a visit from an old friend only this week, and Richard has offered his help." She had no intention of taking Richard up on his offer either, of course, but she needed to say something to get Edward out of her house.

"Richard?" he asked.

She nodded fiercely. "I have known him since we were children, and so—"

"And so you turn your nose up at me," Edward snarled, taking yet another step closer. "Is that the case?"

"No, it's not like that. I …"

"Good afternoon," a voice came from behind her. "I do hope I'm not disturbing anything."