Chapter 4 - A Certain Little Thief

                                    

                                          
Or so it first had seemed. True, the house fairly rang with silence for days after, and domestic routines were slow to re-establish themselves. But six weeks later Celia had entered her chambers and come upon a flock of lady's maids once again turning out and airing all her finest gowns, and Rafe in turn had discovered a squadron of trunks and a small battalion of manservants in his quarters, the latter scrambling to load the former under the steely eye of his father's valet. The flurry of preparations could mean only one thing: their sins were to be forgotten, even if not expressly forgiven, and their plans would proceed after all.
                          
Rafe had moved through the ensuing weeks in stunned disbelief at the seeming miracle. Anticipation of the tour warred with dismay at the coming separation from Celia, and a ghastly wave of sickness washed over him whenever Lavinia entered his thoughts. And he had seen, too, what had gone unremarked by the rest of the household: that although she took great pains to conceal it, his sister's state was every bit as wretched as his own. His own disquiet manifested itself as an ever-present heaviness, but Celia had taken on a sort of hysterical gayety. Her laughter rang throughout the house at all hours of the day, falling on Rafe's ear alone as the joyless and patently false sound that it was. Her color was high, and her eyes had a glitter to them that he did not like at all. 
                          
He too was distressed, but her desperation seemed out of proportion until, quite by chance, he discovered the reason behind it. It was evening and she was seated at her piano, fingers moving listlessly over the keys. She had played for pleasure once, but no longer – the music was flat and mechanical, her actions little more than performance in service of the household routine. She reached for a page in the manuscript to turn it, and a hair ribbon that had been used to mark the place fluttered out. It was of scarlet satin, and Rafe knew it instantly for one of Lavinia's.
                          
Celia's fingers had faltered on the keys for a moment, then left off entirely. As Rafe watched, she reached hesitantly for the small, pathetic object. She stroked it with a fingertip, then tenderly gathered it up and tucked it into the bosom of her gown. She began to play again but soon broke off, rising abruptly, almost angrily, from the bench and crossing the room to stand in front of the fireplace. Under her brother's eye, she snatched the ribbon from under her fichu and flung it into the flames, destroying it in an instant. Her face, ever too pale and carefully composed as of late, at first showed no emotion, but the warmth of the fire seemed to thaw something inside her and her blank expression had suddenly crumpled into one of profound misery. I am to blame for her loss, the look said, plainly as speech, and I deserve no remembrance of her.
                          
Rafe's own guilt, all-consuming as it was, had never admitted the possibility that Celia might bear her own measure of it. What joy he had allowed himself in anticipation of the Tour and freedom had evaporated as he watched his sister while the ribbon burned, her sweet face twisted in grief and, even in the fire's ruddy light, far too pale.
                          
*
                          
It had been the harp – or rather, the lack of it – that had finally forced his hand. The day before Celia's rescheduled departure had dawned with suitable gloom, bringing with it a sullen, icy rain that washed the sky of light, leaving all the same tired gray. Celia, he had noticed, took very little breakfast, then flitted about like an unquiet spirit, pale still but uncharacteristically silent. Rafe, just as restless, had at last taken refuge in the music room. He had held off starting a particularly promising book, keeping it in reserve to read on the crossing to Le Havre (the packet boats, it was said, made the journey in a handful of hours, but should the winds fail or prove otherwise inadequate it might take the better part of a day), but it was the best distraction at hand. 
                          
The book proved distracting indeed, so much so that he set it aside only when his stomach reminded him that the hour of noon was at hand and he'd taken a less than hearty breakfast himself. He rose and stretched, noting for the first time that the room was quite chilly. He meant to pass the afternoon reading as well, and he was approaching the hearth to assess the supply of firewood at hand when something caught his eye. Through the gloom, he was just able to make out a shadowy figure in the far corner.