Chapter 25
Her cousin came across the lawn with her head bowed, with one gloved hand pressed hard against her mouth, the other clutching her dance card so tightly that the little ivory pages bent beneath her fingers.
For a moment, Aurelia thought she had been taken ill. Clara’s complexion, so bright all afternoon, had gone white, and her eyes shone with tears she was trying with all her strength not to shed before half of Lady Ashcombe’s guests.
Aurelia stepped forward at once. “Clara?”
At the sound of her name, Clara broke. She looked up, and the misery in her face was so evident that Aurelia felt the blow of it as sharply as if it had been dealt to herself.
“Oh, Aurelia,” Clara whispered.
Aurelia took her arm and guided her away from the edge of the dancing, toward a narrow walk partly screened by lilacs and a stone urn overflowing with geraniums. It was not private, for nothing in such company could ever be private, but it was at least removed enough that Clara might cry without being made an exhibition.
“What happened?” Aurelia asked, keeping her voice low. “Are you hurt?”
Clara shook her head, though the tears spilled over at last. “Not hurt. Not … oh, I do not know what I am.”
“Tell me.”
“It was Mr. Johnson,” Clara explained, with the name emerging in a broken rush. “He was engaged to me for the next dance. His name is on my card. See? I did not mistake it.”
She thrust the card toward Aurelia as though it were evidence in a court of law.
“I went to find him when the set was forming, and he … he looked at me as if I had done something shameful. I thought perhaps he was unwell, or had forgotten, and so I reminded him.” Her breath caught.
“And he said, so loudly that everyone nearby could hear, that he found himself unable to associate with anyone so closely connected to the Finch family.”
Aurelia went very still.
The music behind them seemed suddenly too cheerful, the laughter too shrill, and the golden afternoon light too cruelly bright upon the lawn.
“I am so sorry,” Aurelia spoke softly.
It was all she could say, and it was useless.
Clara wiped at her cheeks, mortified by her own tears. “It is not your fault.”
That was the kindness of youth, and because it was kindness, it hurt worse.
“It is,” Aurelia nodded.
“No.”
“Yes. Not by intention, perhaps, but by consequence. You should never have been made to suffer for my name.”
“I do not suffer from your name,” Clara replied fiercely, though her voice shook. “I suffer from people being cruel.”
Aurelia put an arm around her and drew her close. Clara came willingly, like a child, her bonnet pressing awkwardly against Aurelia’s shoulder.
“What if Captain Harrow hears of it?” Clara whispered.
“Then he will think Mr. Johnson ill-bred.”
Clara’s eyes were still full of tears. “What if he believes it? What if he decides I am not worth the trouble?”
Aurelia closed her eyes. There it was: the true wound.
It was not Mr. Johnson’s insult, though that was bad enough, but the fear that one cruel man had spoken aloud what kinder men might be thinking in silence.
Aurelia knew that fear. She knew the long echo of it, the way it followed one from room to room until even friendship seemed provisional.
“Captain Harrow is not Mr. Johnson,” she assured her.
“But he is a gentleman. Gentlemen listen to one another.”
“Some do. Some have minds of their own.”
Clara drew back enough to look at her, pleading for certainty Aurelia did not possess. Before Aurelia could say more, rapid footsteps sounded on the gravel.
“Miss Blackmore?”
Captain Harrow came around the bend with such haste that he barely seemed to remember propriety until he was upon them. He checked himself then, bowing, but his face had lost all its usual easy amusement.
“I beg your pardon. I heard … someone said you were distressed.” His eyes moved from Clara’s tear-stained face to Aurelia’s, and his expression hardened. “What happened?”
Clara looked away, ashamed. Aurelia answered for her.
“Mr. Johnson refused to dance with Clara, though he was engaged to her for it. He did so publicly, and with a remark concerning her connection to my family.”
For a moment, he said nothing. It was the first time Aurelia had seen his cheerfulness vanish completely. Even his anger was not loud. It moved over his face like a shadow over water, changing all the brightness beneath.
“I see,” he spoke.
Clara gave a small, miserable sound. “Please do not be angry.”
“My dear Miss Blackmore,” he addressed her so gently that Aurelia’s throat tightened, “I am very angry indeed, but not with you.”
“He said—”
“I do not care what he said.”
“But if others think—”
“I do not care what others think.”
Aurelia almost smiled despite herself. There was something of Owen in the firmness of that reply, though the captain’s manner was warmer and less guarded, as if his heart reached the conclusion before his pride had time to restrain it.
Clara stared at him, hardly daring to believe him. “You do not?”
“No.” His voice softened further. “I care that you have been made unhappy. I care that a man who calls himself a gentleman has behaved like a coward. I care that you should not spend one more minute thinking yourself diminished because someone else is small.”
Clara’s tears trembled again. He glanced toward Aurelia, seeking permission as much as assistance. Aurelia understood at once what he meant to do.
Her first instinct was to refuse, not because it was wrong, but because it was perilous.
He had already danced with Clara once. Another dance would be remarked upon.
To lead her out now, immediately after a public slight, would be to declare more than ordinary civility.
It would answer insult with allegiance before everyone present, and society, being what it was, would not fail to make use of it.
But Clara looked at him as though he had returned the sun to the sky. Aurelia could not deny her that warmth. She gave the smallest nod. He turned back to Clara and offered his hand.
“Miss Blackmore, I believe this dance is not yet half over. If you would do me the honor, I should be very grateful to stand up with the only lady here whose company I desire.”
Clara looked from his hand to his face.
“But we have already danced.”
“Then we shall be guilty of excellent taste twice in one afternoon.”
A trembling laugh escaped her. Aurelia felt it like mercy. Clara placed her hand in his, and he led her back toward the lawn.
The effect was immediate. Conversation thinned as they approached the dancers. Heads turned. Fans paused mid-flutter. Mr. Johnson, standing with two other gentlemen near the refreshments, went scarlet as Captain Harrow passed him without so much as a glance.
That dismissal, Aurelia thought, was more complete than any challenge could have been. Captain Harrow did not give him the dignity of anger. He simply placed Clara where she had been denied a place and stood beside her as though no other course could possibly have occurred to him.
The music continued. Around them, the watching crowd resumed its noise too slowly.
That was how Aurelia knew the damage had been done.
The story had already begun reshaping itself in the minds of those who had witnessed it.
Some would praise Captain Harrow’s generosity.
Others would call it recklessness. Some would pity Clara.
Others would wonder whether she had encouraged more attachment than was wise.
Aurelia stood beneath the lilacs and felt the old sickness of reputation close around her again.
This was how it happened. Sometimes ruin came by way of a refused dance, a pause in conversation, a mother drawing her daughter aside, a name spoken too softly to defend against. It moved like damp through stone, unseen at first, then everywhere.
And now Clara was in its path.
***
That evening, after Clara had gone upstairs with a headache she insisted was nothing, Aurelia sat at her writing desk and placed a fresh sheet of paper before her.
For several minutes, she did not write. On her writing table lay Owen’s letter, folded carefully beside her father’s old notebook. His name at the end of it seemed to look up at her.
Owen.
She touched the paper once, then withdrew her hand, ashamed of the comfort she took from so small a thing.
She had to tell him. Not telling him had become unthinkable. Their letters had made honesty a habit, and now silence felt almost like deceit.
At last, she dipped her pen.
My Lord,
I write tonight with less composure than I would wish, for something occurred at Lady Ashcombe’s garden party which I cannot keep from you.
Clara was publicly slighted by a gentleman who had engaged her for a dance and then refused to stand up with her, declaring loudly enough to be heard that he could not associate himself with anyone so closely connected to the Finch family.
She stopped, feeling her throat tightening. To write it was to see it again: Clara’s white face, the crumpled dance card, Harrow’s sudden anger, the hush that had spread across the lawn like a stain.
I had feared that renewed interest in my family’s history might touch her, but fear is not the same as proof. Today, I had proof. She was mortified, and for one dreadful moment believed Captain Harrow must despise her also. I do not think I shall soon forget her face when she said it.
Captain Harrow behaved with great honor and greater kindness. When he learned what had happened, he led her at once back to the dancers and stood up with her himself, though they had already danced earlier in the afternoon.
It comforted Clara. I believe it meant more to her than anything I could have said. But I cannot pretend it went unnoticed. The whole lawn seemed to look on, and even as I admired him for his goodness, I feared the gossip had merely changed shape and found new people to wound.
Aurelia’s hand faltered. Then she wrote the sentence she had been avoiding since they left Lady Ashcombe’s garden.
I begin to wonder whether we have been selfish.
The words looked severe upon the page. She nearly crossed them out. She did not.
You and I may be prepared to risk our own reputations in pursuit of truth.
My mother’s life has already been altered by falsehood, and yours, I think, by war and by the burden of knowing too much too late.
But Clara did not choose this inquiry. Captain Harrow did not begin his affection for her as part of any scheme.
If our search brings injury to them, what right have I to call it justice?
I do not know what I ask of you. Perhaps only that you understand why my courage falters tonight. I have told myself that I would never abandon the truth for the sake of comfort. But what if the comfort is not mine? What if silence would spare those I love?
She paused for a long while over the final lines.
If you think it wisest, perhaps we ought to consider whether to continue at all. It is no longer only our own peace we are endangering.
Yours sincerely,
Aurelia Finch
When she had sealed it, Aurelia rested her fingertips upon the cooling wax.
The letter felt heavier than paper ought to feel.
She sent it before she could lose her nerve.
She did not expect an answer before morning.
Indeed, she had already changed for bed, though she had not undressed her mind of its anxieties, when a soft knock came at her chamber door.
A maid entered with a note upon a small tray.
“For you, miss. The messenger said there was no need for a reply tonight.”
Aurelia took it at once. Her name was written in Owen’s hand. She broke the seal with fingers that were not quite steady.
Miss Finch,
I have received your letter and cannot allow you to pass the night believing that you must decide such a matter alone.
I am deeply sorry for what Miss Blackmore suffered today. No young woman should be made answerable for cruelty done without her involvement, and I honor Captain Harrow more than I can say for the manner in which he answered it. You must not think his regard so fragile that gossip can unmake it.
As for the rest, I beg you not to determine anything tonight, while distress is fresh and fear has the advantage. The question is too serious for ink alone, and I would rather speak with you than leave you to torment yourself with possibilities.
I will call tomorrow morning. If you are willing, we might walk and discuss what is best to be done. You need not write back at this hour. I shall come in the hope that you will see me.
Until then, believe me,
Yours faithfully,
Owen
Aurelia read the note twice.
It did not solve anything. It did not protect Clara, silence Charlotte, or undo the ugly pause that had followed Mr. Johnson’s refusal. Yet something in her eased all the same. She folded the note carefully and held it against her heart, just for a moment.
In the morning, then. In the morning she would have to decide whether truth was worth the harm it might bring, but for tonight, at least, Owen had not allowed fear to be the last voice she heard.