Chapter 24 #2
General Langley sat at Owen’s table with the ease of a man accustomed to occupying any room he entered.
He had not taken the head, of course. Even he would not violate propriety so crudely.
But he had placed himself near enough to command the conversation, while Charlotte seemed to be placed next to his mother’s seat.
Both looked up as Owen entered.
“My lord,” Charlotte said, rising just enough to make the gesture graceful rather than necessary. “How very good to see you.”
General Langley smiled. It was a hard, polished expression.
“Lord Westbridge. We began to fear affairs of state had detained you.”
“Nothing so important,” Owen replied.
His mother gave him a warning glance. He bowed first to Charlotte, then to her father, and took the seat arranged for him with a resignation that tasted very much like anger.
Dinner proceeded with all the elegance of an ambush.
Charlotte was sweetness itself. She asked after his health, after his adjustment to London, after whether he found society improved or diminished since his absence. Her eyes remained attentively upon him whenever he answered, as though each syllable were of private interest to her.
General Langley, meanwhile, was affable in the manner of a commander granting temporary favor.
He praised the wine, complimented the table, and spoke warmly of old acquaintances.
He offered small reminiscences of Owen’s boyhood as though they had been family friends rather than men connected chiefly through rank, army, and convenience.
“How many years ago was it,” his mother asked, smiling at Charlotte, “that you and Owen ran wild through the gardens at Westbridge House? You cannot have been more than seven.”
“I remember it perfectly,” Charlotte answered. “Lord Westbridge was terribly solemn even then.”
“Was I?” Owen asked without any interest.
“Oh, dreadfully. I thought it very grand.”
“You were easily impressed.”
Charlotte laughed as though he had paid her a compliment. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I had excellent judgement early.”
His mother looked delighted. “I always said you made a charming pair. Even as children. Did I not, General?”
“You did,” Langley replied. “And I believe I agreed with you.”
Owen set down his knife with care.
“It is fortunate,” he said, “that children are not bound by the expectations adults place upon them.”
Already, his patience had thinned to a thread.
“I think I shall take a little air,” he told them, rising. “The room is warm.”
“Of course,” his mother agreed, though her eyes suggested she knew warmth had nothing to do with it.
General Langley rose, too. “I will join you, if I may. A cigar after dinner is one of the few habits age has not persuaded me to abandon.”
Owen inclined his head. He could hardly refuse.
The terrace was damp from the evening mist, the stone dark beneath the lamplight spilling from the windows. The air was colder, carrying the smell of wet leaves, coal smoke, and the faint bitterness of Langley’s cigar as he struck a light.
The general exhaled a stream of smoke into the darkness.
“You have involved yourself in curious company of late, Lord Westbridge.”
Owen looked out toward the garden. “London offers little else.”
Langley gave a low chuckle. “Very good. But you know my meaning.”
“I prefer men to say what they mean.”
“Do you? That is a young man’s preference.”
“I had thought it a soldier’s.”
“A soldier, above all men, must understand the value of discretion.”
Owen turned his head. Langley was watching him now, with all trace of dinner table geniality gone.
“There are matters,” Langley urged, “particularly from the war, which do not improve by being handled years later by those with incomplete knowledge.”
“Truth is not altered by age.”
“No. But reputations are. A careless inquiry may disturb more than the man who begins it intends.”
Owen’s pulse slowed, as it always did when danger became plain.
“Is that a warning?”
The man shrugged. “Advice.”
“I have noticed that advice from powerful men often resembles a warning when examined closely.”
Langley smiled without warmth. “Then examine this closely. Miss Finch is not a suitable companion for you. Her family has already suffered from a regrettable inability to distinguish principle from agitation. It would be unfortunate if others were drawn into the same error.”
Owen’s hand closed around the cold stone balustrade.
“You speak of Miss Finch with remarkable confidence.”
“Both of you would be wise to consider how much damage old stories can do when repeated by the wrong mouths. There have been men before you who believed themselves brave enough to dig in ground better left untouched. Some lost commissions. Some lost friends. Some discovered that society’s patience is not inexhaustible when honorable families are made uncomfortable. ”
“And some,” Owen said, “perhaps lost only their fear.”
Langley gave a small, hard smile. “Fear is often what keeps a man alive.”
“Not always honorably.”
“No one thanks a dead man for honor.”
“No,” Owen replied. “But they may remember him for it.”
The general studied him, then flicked ash from the end of his cigar.
“You have your father’s pride.”
“I hope I have my own judgement.”
“For your mother’s sake, I hope so, too.”
There it was. Not a threat, not quite. Owen felt it settle between them like frost. Langley stepped back toward the doors.
“Come. We must not keep the ladies waiting.”
Owen remained where he was for a moment longer, breathing the cold, damp air until he trusted himself to follow. Behind the glass, Charlotte laughed at something his mother had said, all sweetness and candlelight.
Inside, everything was warm, elegant, and false.
Chapter 24
Two days later, Aurelia was ready for Lady Ashcombe’s garden party much earlier than the hour required.
This was not eagerness. It was merely the result of good habits, a practical gown, and the fact that Clara had taken possession of the looking glass for so long that Aurelia, having no wish to compete with ribbons, curls, and youthful indecision, had completed her own toilette with unusual efficiency.
Yet she did not go downstairs. Instead, she stood by the window of her chamber, and held Owen’s letter in both hands. He was not Lord Westbridge any longer. He was Owen.
The distinction was absurd. He had signed his full name still, had not abandoned propriety entirely, but beneath it, for the first time, had come that simpler, more dangerous word.
Aurelia looked down at it again, though she knew every line of the letter already. He wrote:
If I have made your time in London less formidable, I can only say that your confidence has done something similar for me. I had not expected, on returning to England, to find any person to whom I might write so freely. That I have found one is a happiness I do not take lightly.
Aurelia pressed her lips together.
A happiness.
After that, the letter had darkened. He had told her of the dinner at his mother’s house, of finding General Langley and Charlotte seated at his own table as though the arrangement were the most natural thing in the world. Then came the terrace.
I cannot yet prove what he has done, he had written, but I am daily more certain that he fears proof may be found. I will not be persuaded into silence merely because silence would better please him.
Aurelia’s fingers tightened around the paper.
There was more. He wrote of Captain Harrow with a fondness so dry and affectionate that it made her smile despite the gravity of the rest.
He believed Harrow to be more deeply attached to Clara than even Harrow understood, though, Owen added, Miss Blackmore seemed likely to make sense of the matter far sooner than any gentleman involved.
He thought them well suited in temperament, if Clara’s sweetness might be protected and Harrow’s natural levity trained toward steadier purposes.
Aurelia had laughed softly at that line.
It was the kind of remark she longed to repeat to Clara, except that Clara would draw from it ten meanings, nine hopes, and at least one imagined wedding breakfast before the hour was out.
Then came the end.
I remain, yours faithfully,
Owen.
Aurelia knew very well that a signature was a small thing, just ink at the bottom of a sheet. Men of sense could not be tried for tenderness on the evidence of one name. And yet she had read it six times.
A knock sounded, and before Aurelia could answer, Clara came in with all the authority of youth, beauty, and impatience.
“Aurelia, the carriage is ready. If we are late, Lady Ashcombe will pretend not to mind, which is always much worse than being scolded.”
Aurelia folded the letter too quickly. Clara saw it.
Her whole face brightened. “Oh! Is that from Lord Westbridge?”
“It is a letter.”
“From Lord Westbridge.”
“Clara.”
“Well, I am glad of it. Come, the two of them should be there already, waiting for us.”
Aurelia slipped the letter into the drawer of her writing desk, hesitated for the briefest moment, then closed it. Clara did not miss the hesitation. She was too happy to interpret it accurately, however, and only smiled as though Aurelia had confirmed everything she most wished to believe.
The carriage took them westward beneath a sky of mild blue, veiled here and there by thin cloud. By the time they reached Lady Ashcombe’s house, the garden had already filled with color and motion.
It was not so grand as some of the great assemblies, but perhaps more dangerous for appearing harmless.
In a ballroom, one expected scrutiny. In a garden, beneath striped awnings and flowering trees, with lemonade offered and hoops set upon the lawn, malice looked less formal and therefore moved more easily.