Chapter 24 #3
Lady Ashcombe had arranged the afternoon with excellent taste.
There were chairs beneath canvas shades, small tables for refreshments, a lawn set aside for battledore and shuttlecock, and, farther along the gravel walk, a space where musicians had gathered in anticipation of there being dancing once the afternoon cooled.
The roses were just beginning to open, their scent mingling with cut grass, warm leaves, and the faint sweetness of sugared cakes.
Clara stepped from the carriage looking as though she had been invented for such a day. Aurelia followed with more caution.
Captain Harrow appeared within minutes, smiling so broadly upon seeing Clara that any pretense of accidental meeting became impossible.
“Miss Blackmore,” he grinned, bowing. “Miss Finch.”
Clara curtsied, her cheeks already bright. “Captain Harrow.”
Aurelia glanced beyond him. He noticed. The fact that he noticed made her wish she had not done it.
“Lord Westbridge is not with you?” she asked, keeping her tone as neutral as possible.
“No,” he replied. “He sends his apologies. He had business with his solicitor.”
Aurelia’s mind moved at once to Carter. Owen had mentioned nothing definite in his letter that morning, but he had written of inquiries, of leads, of the necessity of discretion.
It was unreasonable, then, to feel disappointed. She felt disappointed, nevertheless.
“I see,” she said.
Captain Harrow’s expression softened, as though he understood too much and would be kind enough not to say so. “I believe he regretted missing the afternoon.”
Clara looked between them with eager interest. “Then we must all tell him how much he missed.”
The afternoon began pleasantly enough. Clara was soon drawn into a party for shuttlecock, where Captain Harrow contrived, with remarkable incompetence, to lose every exchange that might allow her to laugh.
Lady Ashcombe moved among her guests in lavender silk, dispensing greetings, compliments, and gentle commands with equal ease. The musicians played a light air in the distance, and every now and then a breeze passed through the garden, lifting ribbons and stirring the leaves overhead.
Aurelia remained where she was accustomed to remaining, just beyond the center of things. But then, a movement near the refreshment table drew her attention.
Charlotte stood with two young ladies Aurelia knew only slightly, her parasol angled becomingly over one shoulder.
She wore pale green, a color that ought to have softened her.
It did not. She had the air of a blade wrapped in silk.
As Aurelia watched, Charlotte leaned toward one of the ladies and murmured something behind her hand.
The lady’s gaze flicked toward Aurelia, then away.
Aurelia looked back to Clara at once. There was no reason to assume the remark concerned her. Charlotte might have been speaking of anything: a gown, a betrothal, a failure of manners at the last assembly. Society offered endless subjects for quiet cruelty.
But a few minutes later, when Aurelia approached a group of ladies she had conversed with only the week before, their conversation faltered.
One smiled too quickly. Another discovered a sudden need for lemonade.
A third murmured “Miss Finch” in a tone that managed to acknowledge and dismiss her in the same breath.
Aurelia paused only long enough to preserve dignity, then moved on.
It had begun again … or perhaps it had never stopped. Perhaps all that had changed was that she had allowed herself, for a few foolish days, to believe kindness could silence memory.
As the dancing began upon the lawn, Clara stood up with Captain Harrow.
There could be no hiding the pleasure in either face.
He bent his head to say something, and Clara laughed so brightly that even those disposed to disapproval could not help but glance over.
They looked beautiful together, and painfully young.
Aurelia’s heart ached. She had to protect that happiness, even from herself.
When the dance ended, Clara was claimed by another partner, and Harrow was drawn into conversation with two officers who had appeared near the refreshment table.
Aurelia took the opportunity to move toward a quieter walk bordered by clipped shrubs and early roses.
She had only gone a little way when Charlotte appeared beside her.
“Miss Finch,” Charlotte said, as though the meeting were accidental. “How solitary you are.”
Aurelia turned. “I had thought myself merely walking.”
“One may do both.”
“So it seems.”
Charlotte smiled. “How very sharp. I had forgotten that about you.”
“I was not aware you remembered anything about me.”
“Oh, more than you might suppose. London remembers families, even when they go away.”
The remark was made lightly. Its intention was not.
Aurelia looked toward the lawn, where several guests moved in cheerful clusters, close enough to see them together but too far to hear. Charlotte had chosen her ground well.
“I hope London may find more interesting occupations,” Aurelia said.
“It rarely does.” Charlotte adjusted one gloved finger with delicate care. “Your return has caused a little curiosity. One cannot blame people. After so long abroad, and with your mother still absent, questions are natural.”
“My mother’s health does not permit travel.”
“So I have heard.” Charlotte’s eyes lifted. “How sad. I remember my father speaking of Lady Finch once or twice. A woman of very strong feelings, I believe.”
“A woman of very strong principles.”
“Principles.” Charlotte gave the word a pretty, doubtful shape. “Yes, I suppose it depends on who tells the story.”
“It often does.”
“And your father? Did he leave many stories behind him?”
Aurelia’s hand tightened around the handle of her parasol.
“My father left memories enough to satisfy those who loved him.”
“How prettily said. Though I meant papers, perhaps. Letters. Such things do survive in families sometimes, even when families themselves do not prosper.”
There it was again, that probing disguised as conversation.
Aurelia met her gaze. “If you are interested in old papers, Miss Langley, I recommend a library. They are full of them.”
Charlotte laughed softly. “How defensive you are. I wonder why.”
“I wonder why you ask questions to which you pretend not to know the purpose.”
For the first time, Charlotte’s smile sharpened.
“Perhaps I am trying to understand you. After all, we are likely to see a great deal of one another if your attachment to Lord Westbridge continues.”
Aurelia felt the smallest, most humiliating flicker of heat in her face.
“My acquaintance with Lord Westbridge is no concern of yours.”
“Is it not? I have known him since childhood. We were once very close.”
Aurelia looked away before her expression could betray her.
Very close.
The words were nothing. Charlotte had likely polished them for that very purpose, trusting suggestion to do what fact could not.
Yet the image came uninvited: Owen younger, unguarded perhaps, walking beside Charlotte in some country garden, their families pleased, futures quietly arranged before either had understood enough to resist.
It should not have hurt. It did.
“I am glad Lord Westbridge had friends in his youth,” Aurelia said. “All children should.”
Charlotte’s eyes flashed, but she recovered quickly. “Friends, yes. Though some friendships are expected to grow into something more suitable.”
“Expectations are not promises.”
“No. But they are often more durable.”
Aurelia wished suddenly, fiercely, that Owen were there, not to defend her. She did not need defending from Charlotte Langley. But because his presence would have steadied the ground beneath her feet, and she wanted, foolishly and unreasonably, to see how he looked at Charlotte now.
“I’m afraid that you’ll have to speak to Lord Westbridge about his expectations,” Aurelia pointed out. “It is not my place to say.”
Charlotte’s smile widened. “How disappointing. I had hoped to understand what he sees in you.”
“Then I fear you must remain disappointed,” she retorted.
Charlotte studied her for a moment, and the false sweetness dropped from her face just enough for Aurelia to see the contempt beneath. She smiled again, then turned and walked back toward the others.
Aurelia remained where she was.
Only when Charlotte had rejoined her circle did Aurelia release the breath she had been holding. The scent of roses seemed suddenly too sweet, the music too merry, the sunshine too bright upon the lawn. Her hands were steady, at least. She was grateful for that.
But at that exact moment, she saw a crying Clara rush toward her.