The Duke Who Loved Me by Jane Ashford

Six

But James found that he could scarcely get near Cecelia, and certainly not for any satisfying length of time. He was plagued by interruptions from a host of annoying other people. In past years, when it had been necessary to communicate about the trust, he’d often seen her in private. Too often, it had sometimes seemed, when they disagreed or her father was being particularly lethargic. After the trust was wound up, he’d thought he would be glad not to see her. And yet he’d always been drawn to conversing or dancing with her when they were at the same gathering, he realized now. She’d been a bright spot in otherwise tedious events, a constant in his life. Now suddenly she was too busy to see him, with her talkative new friends and the appearance of this thrice-damned prince. He began to miss her. He had not expected that.

It was the most frustrating situation imaginable. Prince Karl’s attentions had caused other members of the ton to take more notice of Cecelia. She’d never been unpopular. She’d had an established place in society. But now she was, seemingly, inundated with invitations and attentions. If James saw her at a ball, she was besieged by eager partners. He could scarcely snag one dance. He was very nearly jostled to the floor during a rush to secure her hand for a waltz. And he’d lost out in that contest. How he’d wanted to flatten the wretched fellow who carried her off to dance!

If he sought her at a rout party, she was surrounded by annoying chatterers. His newly elevated status made no difference. They did not yield to him. Some seemed to make a point of cutting him out, in fact.

In the park, when Cecelia walked or rode, saunterers continually paused to have a word. One couldn’t speak two sentences without interruption. James invited her for a drive, thinking to have her to himself in a phaeton at least, and was told she had not a minute to spare for the next week.

Maddeningly, everywhere he went to find her, there was the prince. Pushing himself forward, insinuating himself into conversations where he wasn’t wanted. Prince Karl seemed to have an uncanny instinct for buttonholing Cecelia. James began to wonder if the German had spies roaming society drawing rooms, gathering intelligence about her movements. He certainly reveled in circumventing James. He turned Cecelia aside, stepped between them, diverted her attention. James was heartily sick of the man’s gloating smile.

As he was disgusted with the host of young gentlemen intrigued by their rivalry. James had heard the idiots talking. What two great matrimonial prizes wanted must be worth winning—such a feather in one’s cap! Dolts!

And if it wasn’t the men, it was the women. They flocked to be seen with Cecelia and partake in the luster of her success. Along with her four new friends, who were always hanging about, she had acquired a constant entourage. The thought occurred to James that it was worthy of an actual princess. The idea was worrying.

Worst of all, Cecelia seemed to be enjoying her new status. He hadn’t thought it of her. She flirted. She laughed. She glittered. She was newly entrancing. In a flash of time, she’d gone from being a fixture in his life, a steady, available presence to be counted upon, to a dazzling star in society’s firmament. How unfair that this should happen just when he’d decided to marry her. And how unsettling to admit that the more others chased her, the more fiercely he wanted her.

James racked his brain for an occasion that would throw them together, allow them to be alone. He wanted to arrange a special outing, something she would particularly like. He ought to know what that would be. She must have mentioned things over the years. But he pondered alternatives without success. Surely she had expressed preferences. She must have. Had he somehow failed to notice? He had an uneasy feeling that this was not a good omen.

But he pushed this worry aside. He was engaged in an all-out battle. Look at the words people used about courtship. One laid siege to a celebrated beauty. One fended off rivals, cutting them out by whatever means necessary. Actual duels were even fought—or had been in less civilized times. He dismissed an attractive, fleeting vision of shooting Prince Karl. Out of the question, obviously.

One persisted in a romantic campaign until victory was declared by the announcement of an engagement. And he would prevail! He was accustomed to winning. He would get what he wanted.

He needed tactics, strategy. He couldn’t remember the difference between these two things, but thought he probably required them both. In whatever order was appropriate.

James returned to the idea of allies. Wellington had assembled allies to defeat Napoleon. He still thought that the four young ladies who trailed everywhere after Cecelia would be useful recruits to his cause. The question was: how to enlist them? They hadn’t shown any signs of taking his side so far. On the contrary, Miss Deeping and Miss Finch seemed inclined to mild mockery.

Remembering a quote he’d heard attributed to Wellington, “Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted,” James invited Henry Deeping to dinner at their club.

“I have decided to marry Cecelia Vainsmede,” he said when they were settled with their meal.

“She has accepted you? Congratulations, James.” Henry raised his glass for a toast. “I wish you very happy.”

Leaving his glass where it stood, James said, “She hasn’t yet.” He surveyed his friend’s expression. “You don’t seem surprised by my news.”

“Well, it’s been rather obvious you were after her.”

“It has?”

Henry raised his dark eyebrows. “After the way you and Prince Karl square up like gamecocks in front of her? Yes, James, it has.”

“That fellow has shown up at just the wrong moment.”

“To reach for what you thought was your own?” asked Henry.

“What?”

His old friend surveyed him with a wry smile. “You’ve been closely acquainted with Miss Vainsmede for years and never mentioned marriage. Not to me, at any rate. But now there’s a rival on the scene. Suddenly you want her.”

This was unfair. “I had decided to offer for Cec…Miss Vainsmede before this blasted prince arrived.” James almost told Henry that he had proposed. But then he would have to admit he’d been refused. He decided to keep this defeat to himself.

“Indeed?” Henry sipped his wine. “I would have thought… You know how ferociously you respond to competition.”

“Why do people say such things about me?” asked James, remembering Cecelia’s similar remark.

“Because they’re true?”

“Nonsense! I’m no more competitive than the next man.”

“That would be the fellow you leave lying prostrate at your feet in the boxing ring?” suggested Henry.

“Will you stop joking?”

Henry held up his hands, signifying surrender.

James accepted it with a nod. “I have been developing my strategy. That is the overall plan of a campaign, you know. Tactics are the means used to carry it out.” He’d looked this up and was rather pleased with his new knowledge.

“Campaign?”

“To win Miss Vainsmede.”

“Ah.” Henry’s tone was still dry.

James ignored it. “I have concluded I need allies,” he said. “Your support I take for granted, of course.”

“Of course you do,” replied Henry.

“Why do you use that phrase so slyly? Cec…Miss Vainsmede does the same.”

“As if it was a truth universally acknowledged?” Henry’s dark eyes laughed at him.

James began to feel insulted. If they meant to imply that he was some silly, transparent creature, they were wrong.

“I beg your pardon,” said Henry. “Pay no attention. You were speaking of allies.”

“I was.” He was half-minded to drop the subject. But it was important to his cause. “I wish to enlist your sister and her friends on my side. By subtle means.”

Henry burst out laughing. “You are never subtle, James.”

“I am perfectly capable of—”

“Beating a point into submission,” interrupted Henry through his laughter. “Flattening with a sneer.”

“Happy to be such a source of such amusement,” said James, feeling wounded by Henry’s mockery. “I had thought you might wish to help me, as a friend.”

“Are you asking me for advice?”

“I…suppose I am.”

“You’ve never done that before. Not in seventeen years.”

“Of course I have.” James tried to think of an example.

“No, James, you haven’t.”

He actually couldn’t remember having done so. Which seemed a bit odd. He’d given advice often enough.

“I suppose the first thing would be to make friends with Charlotte and her cohort.” Henry smiled wryly. “My sister will be rather a challenge.”

“I have no friends who are young ladies,” James replied. Except Cecelia, who was both more and less than that. “Can one really be friends with them?”

“Them?” repeated Henry.

James frowned at him.

“You say the word as if young ladies were an alien species,” Henry added.

“Nonsense.”

Henry gazed at him briefly, then shrugged. “I’ve found that the best way to become better acquainted is to ask people about themselves.”

“Ah. That would also make it easier to tell them apart.”

“Yes, James, it should do that as well.” Henry picked up his wineglass and sipped. Fleetingly, James thought he had the air of an audience member at a play. Then he turned back to his own concerns.

***

Cecelia entered Mrs. Landry’s evening party with a heightened sense of anticipation. This London season was unfolding so differently from the ones that had preceded it. She felt as if anything might happen. She’d never had a group of friends as close as the four young ladies whose company she now enjoyed. She’d never been the object of rivalrous attention by two sought-after beaus, along with a string of other young men who followed their lead. And most of all, she’d never received such marked attentions from James. Many nights found him eyeing her from some little distance, his stance positively Byronic, his mouth set, his gaze hot. She knew that the unfolding contest with the prince goaded him more than her surely familiar charms, but it was still a delicious thrill. The intensity of his look filled her with a heat that made her glow. She felt it elevate her to heights of animation she’d never attained before.

The excitement had led her to expand her wardrobe. The new gown she wore tonight was the height of fashion—a scooped neck and puffed sleeves on an underdress of aquamarine satin with an overlay of floating pearly gauze. Her mirror had told her it became her very well. She had a spray of creamy blossoms in her hair, and she could almost feel the sparkle in her eyes.

And there was James across the room, looking at her. In the past he’d come late to parties. Those he bothered to attend. She couldn’t recall one where she’d arrived after him. Now the tables were turned.

He was gazing at her, single-minded, demanding. And so very handsome in his austere evening clothes—his broad shoulders filling out the dark coat, his face a classical perfection, his dark hair an artfully tousled Brutus. Things had changed so quickly between them. She didn’t truly believe in it. She continually expected everything to fall back like Cinderella’s coach reverting to a pumpkin. And yet the reversal was delectable. She nearly laughed aloud with delight.

He began moving toward her—a slow process in the crowded room. He was stopped repeatedly to speak with acquaintances. She wouldn’t stand here like a mooncalf watching him. Cecelia turned away and joined her friends’ conversation. But she felt it when James came to her side a bit later, even before he said, “Miss Vainsmede.” The thread of connection that had long been established between them had shifted to a higher vibration recently.

His bow included them all. “Ladies.”

A chorus of murmured greetings answered him.

“We were talking of tonight’s tableaux,” said Charlotte.

“Tableaux?” He frowned over the word.

“Mrs. Landry’s daughters will be recreating famous scenes from ancient history,” said Sarah.

Briefly, James looked appalled. Cecelia saw it. She wasn’t certain whether the others did. She bit back her smile.

“You can see why they might choose to,” said Harriet. “Clio, Euterpe, Melpomene, and Calliope.” She ticked the names off on her fingers as she spoke.

Cecelia had rarely seen James at a loss. Even when much younger he’d been good at hiding ignorance. Now, he’d gone blank. She took pity on him. “Mrs. Landry’s daughters have classical Greek names,” she said.

“From the Muses,” said Sarah. “Some of them.”

“She took care to avoid the racier ones, like Erato,” added Charlotte.

“And I would have chosen Thalia over Melpomene,” said Sarah. Seeming to notice James’s confusion, she added, “Comedy over tragedy, you know.”

“It is also far easier to pronounce,” said Harriet dryly.

“No doubt you studied all nine muses at Eton,” Cecelia couldn’t help but add.

“Studied?” replied James. His tone implied that she’d mentioned some alien activity. “I don’t recall doing anything like that.”

“How very aristocratic of you,” said Harriet with dry disapproval.

She’d nonplussed him. James was not accustomed to being criticized. Cecelia nearly pitied him. But not quite. It should be a salutary process.

He turned to Sarah. “What part of England do you come from?” he asked her.

Cecelia blinked, surprised. This was not James’s sort of question. Nor was he prone to such sudden, awkward shifts of subject.

“I grew up in Cornwall,” replied Sarah. “Padstow. It’s very near Tintagel.”

“Tin…?”

“Where King Arthur’s mother lived and Uther Pendragon visited her disguised as her husband.”

Once again, James was clearly bewildered. He’d never been much of a reader. This was nearly as good as a play, Cecelia thought. What would he say? She had no intention of helping him.

“Disguised?” was the response he chose.

“Well, magically altered,” said Sarah. “By Merlin. So Igraine would think it was Gorlois. And, er…ah, welcome him. Uther, that is. Because their union was fated and…”

Ada cleared her throat audibly.

Sarah grimaced in response. “Once I begin on King Arthur, I talk too much,” she said.

James glanced at Cecelia. She gave him a sweet smile that said, no, she wouldn’t rescue him. Why should she? It was too amusing to watch him extricate himself. Or not. She rather hoped he would not.

“Are you enjoying the season, Miss Moran?” he asked.

He was going to fall back on platitudes. Probably wise. But Cecelia gave him full marks for recalling Sarah’s name. That was quite unlike him as well.

“Oh yes!” replied Sarah. “And as it is to be my only one, I intend to savor it to the full.”

“It happens every year,” James said.

“My family cannot afford another,” replied Sarah.

It seemed James was not accustomed to such frankness. He said nothing.

“I will invite you to visit whenever we come,” said Ada.

“You’ll be restoring your castle for years. You won’t be back in town.”

“Have you a castle, Miss Grandison?” James asked. He seemed to be trying to avoid looking at Ada’s eyebrows.

Cecelia was overtaken by a sense of unreality. James seldom bothered about other people, particularly unknown young ladies. He didn’t care about their lives. That is, he never had. Was this a real change? Doubt intruded. More likely it was a ploy in the game he was playing.

“My future husband does,” answered Ada.

“We told you about him,” Cecelia said. This would be a test. The old James would never have remembered her fiancé’s name or their situation.

“Ah, yes.” James waited. No one elaborated. “I dined with your brother recently,” he said to Charlotte.

An acceptable save, Cecelia decided. He had forgotten. But he’d recovered and lobbed the conversation ball in another direction. People didn’t expect gentlemen to be interested in engagements and weddings in any case. Aside from their own. And sometimes not even then.

“I suppose he has to eat,” said Charlotte. Sarah gasped at her rudeness.

James looked amused. Indeed, this seemed to be the first remark he’d enjoyed in the entire conversation. “As do we all, Miss Deeping.”

A low exclamation escaped Harriet. It sounded involuntary and distressed.

“What is it?” Ada asked her. “Oh, your grandfather is here.”

They all looked. James followed their collective gaze to the fat, choleric-looking man standing in the entry. “You mean Winstead?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Cecelia, conscious of Harriet’s unease.

“Winstead the nabob?”

Harriet scowled at James. “Yes. He became very rich and now he has decided to leave his money to me, so we must never mention the fact that he allowed us to scrimp and scrape all my life and said some despicable things about my father when he died. Before that, too. And I must not mind his ‘abrupt’ manners or ever lose my temper in his presence. He is to be catered to like a veritable monarch.” She put her hands to her flaming cheeks. “Oh, I–I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. Please don’t repeat…” The others moved to shield her from curious eyes, a ruffled phalanx. Harriet took a deep breath.

Cecelia threw James a speaking look. She knew he was no gossip, but he might inadvertently expose Harriet if he described this scene. Should she just say so? She tried to convey the idea with her expression first.

James held her gaze. For a moment, it seemed as if they were alone in a silent, intimate conversation. They had come to understand each other over the years. When it really mattered. He turned to Harriet and said, “My father was just such a petty tyrant. It is terribly burdensome, is it not?”

Harriet gaped at him, mouth and eyes wide. Then she recovered, blinked, and nodded.

Cecelia was equally stunned. Indeed, the whole group seemed to be. James was not known for sensitive confidences.

“But at some point they no longer have power over you,” he added.

“When they’re dead?” asked Harriet, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “What is wrong with me?”

“Mostly,” James agreed, as if she’d said nothing unusual. “I don’t suppose his health was weakened by incessant working?”

Harriet choked on a scandalized laugh. Charlotte looked at James with the first sign of approval she’d shown him. Sarah and Ada exchanged astonished glances.

James met Cecelia’s eyes again. He raised one brow as if to ask how he’d done. She bowed her head in grateful acknowledgment.

“Oh, there’s Prince Karl,” said Sarah.

Cecelia watched James’s expression turn sour. She didn’t enjoy it quite as much as she might have earlier.

“His country is small and mostly mountainous,” Sarah added, with the air of one who felt obliged to change the subject, whatever awkwardness that required.

“Not overly prosperous,” Ada chimed in.

“His father is a grand duke, not a king,” said Sarah. “Even though he is a prince. Which I don’t precisely understand.”

“How do you know all that?” asked Cecelia.

“We’ve been investigating.” Charlotte was eyeing the prince. “Perhaps I’ll ask him about the titles.”

“Please don’t,” muttered Harriet, her voice still strained.

“Investigating?” asked James. He seemed torn between curiosity and puzzlement, with an underlying hint of admiration.

“My aunt Julia knows Countess Esterhazy,” said Ada. “A little. And the countess knows all the Germans.”

The wife of the ambassador from Austria-Hungary would be well informed about that part of the world, Cecelia thought. She hadn’t realized that her friends had been making inquiries.

The prince had seen them and was striding over, the crowd parting at his martial stride.

“Good evening,” he said, bowing and clicking his heels. He wore a blue coat with frogged closings and epaulettes tonight, more florid than the English style. “Such a garland of lovely ladies,” he continued. “Like a bouquet of flowers—Miss Moran a daisy, Miss Deeping a slender pale lily, Miss Grandison a primrose, Miss Finch a ruddy tulip, and Miss Vainsmede of course a rose.”

This sounded like a prepared speech, and Cecelia didn’t think the blooms really matched their individual personalities. Prince Karl offered James a bare nod. It was returned in kind. They might have been two tomcats meeting in a narrow alley ready to contest the territory.

“What are these tableaux they speak of?” the prince asked Cecelia. “I have not seen such things before.”

“It’s all beer and sausages where you come from then?” said James.

“More likely a fine Riesling and intelligent conversation.” The bluff blond prince stood in contrast to James’s dark hair and blue eyes.

“You speak English so well, Prince Karl,” said Sarah.

If there was smoothing over to be done, Sarah always stepped forward. Cecelia liked her for it, though she doubted it would do much good in this case.

“I am well educated. It is thought important where I come from.” The prince’s deep voice held just a brush of menace.

“Tableaux,” said Cecelia, feeling this had gone far enough. “The daughters of the household will be re-creating scenes from ancient history this evening.”

“Like a play?” asked the prince.

“No, it is a static presentation. A curtain is drawn back and we all…appreciate the picture.”

“I see. How authentic are they to be, I wonder? The ancients wore some scanty draperies.” His gaze drifted over the crowd in speculation.

“You are offensive,” said James.

“Ja? Perhaps my English is not so perfect after all.” Prince Karl bowed to Cecelia. “I beg pardon if I said something wrong.”

His hazel eyes gleamed with something. Cecelia didn’t think it was remorse. Was he teasing them? She hadn’t expected that.

The prince turned to James. “We had spoken of fencing. But we have made no arrangements. Perhaps you are reluctant?”

“I will meet you at Angelo’s whenever you like,” James snapped.

“That is the famous fencing school, isn’t it?” asked Sarah. “I wish I might see inside. I’ve always wanted to observe real swordplay. It is so historical.”

“Females aren’t admitted,” said James.

“I know.” Sarah sighed.

“Because we can have no interests beyond embroidery and tea cakes,” said Charlotte sourly.

“Perhaps we should hold a public bout,” suggested Prince Karl. “So that the ladies might be…edified.”

“A vulgar display, you mean?” asked James, his tone a drawling setdown.

“A demonstration of skill.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose it would be humiliating to lose in front of everyone.” Prince Karl gave Cecelia a sidelong look and a smug smile.

James clearly saw it. “I am not concerned about losing,” he answered.

“Yet you have found so many excuses for avoiding me.” The prince shook his head. “It seems like…timidity, shall we say.” He cocked his head at Cecelia. “This is an English word, yes? Timidity? Like a Maus?”

“I will meet you where and when you like,” said James through clenched teeth.

“Ah, good. Let us set a day and time.”

Cecelia thought of speaking, but it was obvious that nothing anyone said would stop the two men now. She could at least signal her dislike of the plan, however. Gathering her friends with a glance, she left the gentlemen to their wrangling over details.

The tableaux began soon after this. The household had gone to a great deal of effort to show off the beauties of the four Landry daughters, creating elaborate scenes with pillars, vases, antique weapons, and draperies. The costumes the girls wore were not scanty, but they did show them to best advantage, and they looked terribly proud of their achievement. Which made it really too bad, Cecelia thought, that the effect was lessened by word of the proposed fencing match, which threatened to overwhelm their presentation. She caught murmurs about the contest running through the crowd, bouncing from one side of the room to the other. Inevitable since the two men would discuss it in public. Eyeing them, she decided that Prince Karl was very pleased with himself. James exhibited a mild glower. In other circumstances she would have put it down to boredom with the party. And perhaps it was, for he left before the tableaux were finished.

The evening lost some of its sparkle with his departure. Cecelia did her part in congratulating the performers. She talked with her friends and accepted the attentions of Prince Karl and gentlemen who were following the current fashion of admiring her. It was still novel to be a fashion and a little amusing to watch fellows try to top each other’s empty flattery. But she was ready when the festivities ended and her group headed for their carriage.

Back home, passing the drawing room doorway on her way to bed, Cecelia was surprised to hear a voice calling her name. She stepped inside. “Aunt Valeria, you are awake.”

“I am,” said her aunt, who sat in her accustomed chair still dressed for the day.

“Why?” Aunt Valeria never waited up for her.

“Because of an irritating visit from Mrs. Mikkelson,” she replied. “Who wished to be sure I was aware of the excessive attentions you are receiving this season. As I ‘do not go out.’”

“Mrs. Mikkelson is a notorious gossip and generally gets her stories wrong,” Cecelia pointed out.

“Undoubtedly.” Cecelia’s aunt snorted. “She had written out her whole case, in deference to my deafness.” She held up some handwritten pages. “I was never more glad of that ruse as she soon tired of shouting at me and took herself off.”

“I don’t know what she could mean by excessive,” Cecelia said, still absorbing this unexpected annoyance.

“More than you deserve, apparently. Though how such a thing is to be calibrated I do not know.”

“Nor do I, Aunt.”

“She particularly mentions that you attended a ball by yourself.” Aunt Valeria shook the pages she held.

Cecelia sighed. “That was some time ago, before all this… And it is a mistake that I have not repeated.”

“I know. But she suggested that this loose behavior had led to the increased male attention.”

“Loose! The evil cat!”

Aunt Valeria sighed. “She is. And her type is one reason I don’t care to take part in the doings of the ton. That and the crushing tedium. But I cannot entirely ignore my duties as your chaperone.” She looked at Cecelia, waiting.

“The ‘excessive’ attention has been stirred up by the…interest shown by Prince Karl von Osterberg, who is visiting London. And by James. Tereford.” Cecelia felt a degree of awkwardness. She and her aunt never discussed such things.

“Tereford. Ha. I often wondered if you and he would make a match.”

“Us?” replied Cecelia inelegantly. Had her aunt guessed at the feelings she’d thought so thoroughly hidden?

Aunt Valeria nodded. “You are better acquainted than many young people ever get the chance to become and have been through much together.”

“Much disagreement and contention,” said Cecelia.

“Disputes are a sign of emotion, are they not? They do not occur where there is no…” She gestured as if searching for a phrase. “Buzzing,” she finished.

“We are not bees, Aunt.” Yet Cecelia was struck by her aunt’s suggestion. Was there emotion behind James’s prickly manner? What sort precisely? What if he loved her as she did him? No, that was impossible.

“If only you were,” replied the older woman. “We would have none of this fussing. You would take flight, and the drones—in this case a prince and duke, ha!—would race after you, vying for the right to be your mate. The queen flies as high and far as she can to test her suitors, you know. Only the strongest can be allowed to catch her.”

“Human females don’t have that power,” said Cecelia. “They must sit and wait to be asked.”

“That is the convention,” said Aunt Valeria. “But not how it works oftentimes. Look at your mother.”

“My… What do you mean?”

“She decided she wanted Nigel. Lord knows why, but she liked him. Loved him, I suppose. Hard to imagine, but there it is.”

Cecelia pressed her lips together to keep from speaking. It was exceedingly difficult to stay silent. But she didn’t want to interrupt, and perhaps cut off, this unprecedented flow of information. She’d never heard even this much about her family before.

“Of course Nigel has always been the most indolent creature on earth. Getting him ‘up to scratch’ as they say was not likely. So Eloisa took matters into her own hands.”

“Do you mean that Mama proposed to Papa?” Cecelia couldn’t stop the question from popping out.

Her aunt waved a hand. “I was not privy to the details. I didn’t know Eloisa at the time. And I never pay attention to such stuff. But from remarks that Nigel has let drop, it seems that she presented a list of the advantages of marriage, and he conceded.”

“Conceded,” said Cecelia. It didn’t sound tender or passionate.

Her aunt, unusually, seemed to notice her concern. “It is rather a significant thing, for Nigel to concede.”

Cecelia considered. It was true, in the world of ideas her father was a different creature—tenacious, immovable. If he’d agreed with her mother, he must have wanted her as well.

Aunt Valeria stood. “This is all very tiring. I must get to bed. You will take care with your flying, Cecelia, and not go too high?”

Though not certain what that might mean, she agreed. They walked upstairs together, Cecelia’s mind full of new thoughts and wild speculations.