Chapter 21
Owen had begun to understand that there were few trials in life so persistent, or so little altered by reason, as a mother determined to see her son properly married.
The tea had been brought into the smaller drawing room, where the afternoon light fell in pale bars across the carpet and caught upon the polished arms of the chairs.
“I cannot think,” his mother said, “that you have given the matter sufficient consideration.”
Owen looked into the fire, though there was little in it worth studying.
“On the contrary, I think I have considered little else since you first discovered Miss Finch’s existence.”
“Then you must forgive me for saying that consideration has not improved your judgement.”
Thomas coughed into his tea, while his mother set down her cup with great delicacy.
“I do not speak from prejudice, Owen.”
“No, never that.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. “A marquess cannot attach himself to a woman who brings with her nothing but uncertainty, whispers, and an old scandal which the best people have had the good sense to leave undisturbed.”
“The best people are not always the best judges of character,” he countered.
Thomas, perhaps sensing the danger, leaned forward with an air of helpful foolishness. “I must say, Lady Westbridge, Miss Finch has always appeared to me remarkably civil.”
“That is hardly the point, Captain Harrow.”
“No, I daresay not. Civility seldom is, when birth and scandal are in competition.”
Owen looked at him again, this time with reluctant gratitude. His mother did not.
“Captain Harrow,” she said, “you are a good friend to my son, but you are not a mother.”
“I have often thanked Providence for it.”
Owen almost smiled, while his mother ignored him.
“Were you in my position, you might better understand my concern. Owen has been home too short a time to comprehend the full delicacy of his situation. He returns from war, inherits unexpectedly, and before the season has properly begun, he attaches himself to a young woman whose family name is still spoken about with hesitation in certain rooms.”
“Then perhaps,” Owen pointed out, “those rooms require better conversation.”
His mother’s color rose faintly. “You cannot repair a woman’s reputation merely because you admire her.”
The words struck more sharply than Owen wished to admit.
Admire.
It was a harmless enough word. One could admire a woman’s courage, sense and self-possession, without being accused of anything more dangerous.
Yet in his mother’s mouth, it took on implication.
It suggested that what he felt was visible, if not to all, then at least to one person determined to discover it.
“What matters here is that Miss Finch has been treated unjustly.”
“By whom?” The question came quickly.
“By many,” he retorted.
“A vague accusation is a convenient one.”
“So is a vague scandal.”
His mother looked away, displeased. “You speak as though Miss Finch were the only person to be considered. What of your family? What of your father’s name?”
“My father’s name will not be injured by my behaving honorably.”
“Honorably,” she repeated, with a sadness that was only half-feigned. “How often young men use that word when they mean stubbornly.”
He crossed the room and took the chair opposite her.
“Mother,” he said, more gently, “I am not a boy to be ruined by a whisper.”
“No,” she replied. “You are a man to be ruined by thinking himself above them.”
The observation was so near truth that he did not answer at once. Before he could decide whether to be offended or instructed, the door opened. Harcourt entered with his usual noiseless precision, bearing a small silver tray. Upon it lay a letter.
“Forgive the interruption, my lord, but a letter has arrived. The messenger said it was to be delivered into your hands without delay. It is marked urgent.”
The word altered the room. Thomas set down his cup.
His mother’s eyes sharpened at once. “Urgent? From whom?”
Owen rose and took the letter. The hand was not Aurelia’s. He knew that before he had fully looked at it, and the recognition brought an unexpected mixture of relief and disappointment. He disliked himself for both.
“It is a private matter,” he told her.
His mother extended one gloved hand slightly. “Surely, if it has come to the house in such a manner—”
“It is private,” Owen repeated, turning to Thomas. “Harrow, do join me in my study.”
Thomas was on his feet at once.
“This is insupportable,” his mother cried. “Captain Harrow, I hope you will not encourage him in this secrecy.”
“I should never encourage secrecy, my lady,” Thomas bowed. “I merely follow it when invited.”
Owen was already at the door when his mother called out his name. He looked back.
“If this concerns that woman—”
“It concerns me,” he interrupted her. “That is sufficient.”
He left before she could reply. The passage outside the drawing room leading to his study seemed colder than the room itself. Once in the study, Owen took up the letter and broke the seal. Then, he unfolded the page fully and began to read.
Lord Westbridge,
In answer to your recent enquiry regarding Sergeant William Carter, formerly attached to the campaign in question, I regret that I cannot provide a precise direction.
I can, however, state with some confidence that the man is believed to be alive.
Information has reached me suggesting that he has been seen within reach of London.
Greenwich has been named, though I cannot vouch for a particular street or lodging.
Carter was once considered a soldier of uncommon steadiness and promise.
His conduct in the field was well regarded, and there were many who believed he might have advanced considerably had he remained in service.
His sudden departure from the army after the affair has therefore always appeared irregular.
Men of such prospects do not commonly abandon them without inducement, pressure, or fear.
It is my duty to add that further inquiry into this matter may prove unwise.
The events surrounding that operation have long been guarded by men of considerable influence, and I have known reputations damaged, careers obstructed, and private households made to suffer when old questions were too persistently revived.
Those in power are rarely forgiving when their own honor is threatened.
If your lordship’s interest is merely historical, I would advise you to let the subject rest. If, however, you intend to pursue it further, you should do so with the utmost discretion.
Carter, if indeed he is near Greenwich, may possess knowledge dangerous not only to himself, but to any person seeking him.
I remain your obedient servant,
Colonel Edward Ellison
“Well?” Thomas asked at last.
Owen passed it to him. Thomas took it, his face changing as he read. His brows rose, then drew together. Owen leaned back in his chair and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Thomas lowered the page.
“That is as near a confirmation as we have had that Carter knows something worth hiding.”
“Yes.”
Greenwich.
If Carter lived there, he had chosen either folly or genius.
A military town, full of sailors, pensioners, officers, hospitals, uniforms, and old stories.
A man who had wished to disappear among civilians might have gone north or west, to some village where no one remembered the shape of a campaign medal.
But among soldiers and seamen, among men altered by service, one more silent veteran might pass unremarked.
“This also means that we are in greater danger,” Thomas pointed out.
Owen met his gaze. “Yes.”
There was no use denying it. They had always known, in theory, that powerful men would not welcome resurrection of old misconduct.
But theory was a clean thing: it had no smell, no sound, no consequence.
Ellison’s letter brought consequence with it.
It named methods, if not men. It showed the shape of the trap.
Thomas moved toward the desk and set the letter down.
“Is this where a sensible man advises caution?”
“You may, if you wish to disappoint me,” Owen replied.
“I am fond of disappointing you. It is one of the few pleasures society has left me.” Thomas hesitated. “But I ask seriously, Westbridge. Is it time to consider whether this should go further?”
Owen’s answer came at once. “No.”
Thomas studied him. “You have not considered it.”
“I have considered little else.”
“Then consider Miss Finch.”
Owen’s temper, already strained, tightened.
“I am considering Miss Finch.”
“Are you?”
The quietness of the question was worse than argument.
Owen turned away, then back. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that there are several ways of considering a woman. One may consider her cause and forget her safety. One may consider her courage and forget that courage does not make her invulnerable. One may consider how much one admires her and fail to see how exposed she is becoming.”
Owen said nothing.
Thomas went on, more gently. “Charlotte Langley has watched her at every gathering where I have been present. Not with idle curiosity, but with purpose. She asks questions in corners. She whispers to women who then look toward Miss Finch as though a stain has just been pointed out upon the carpet. I saw it at Lady Fenton’s.
I saw it before then. You have seen it, too. ”
Yes. He had.
He had also seen Aurelia behind the palms, pale with effort, refusing him with the smallest shake of her head because the ballroom was full of eyes.
He had received her letter that night, though he had not shown it to Thomas.
He had read of Langley in the conservatory, of the warning, of the way Clara’s name had been brought near threat.
He had sat over her words long after midnight, anger moving through him with a coldness more dangerous than heat.