Chapter 31
Aurelia read Owen’s letter the following morning beside the window, where the pale light fell across the page and made the ink seem almost newly written. She read it once with breath held, then again more slowly.
Carter was alive. Carter had admitted the report was false.
The words ought to have filled her with triumph, yet they left behind a strange ache instead, for truth, once found, had still proved unwilling to stand upright in the world.
A frightened man in a cottage had spoken what her mother had suffered years to preserve, and even then, he would not say it where it mattered.
Still, it was something. Hopefully, more than something.
Aurelia pressed the letter lightly against her lap and closed her eyes.
Owen had not retreated from her. He had not regretted the openness of his earlier letters, nor the dangerous kindness that had passed between them in words.
If he had seemed formal at the theater, then perhaps they had both been guilty of the same fear: each mistaking the other’s restraint for withdrawal.
She drew a deep breath. There was no use sitting in uncertainty until it consumed her.
Carter might refuse. London might whisper.
General Langley might threaten. But Clara still had a season to survive, and that afternoon they were expected at tea with several ladies whose approval, or at least whose tolerance, might yet soften the cruelty beginning to gather around them.
Aurelia folded the letter carefully and placed it with the others.
They would go and attend the tea party.
So, by two o’clock, Clara’s room had become a battlefield of ribbons, gloves, muslin, and indecision.
“I look dreadful in lavender,” Clara declared, staring at herself in the glass with tragic solemnity.
“You do not.”
“I look bruised.”
“You look charming.”
“That is what people say when one looks bruised, but respectably.”
Aurelia laughed and came to stand behind her, adjusting the fall of the sash at Clara’s waist. “Then wear the blue.”
“The blue makes me look hopeful.”
“That is usually considered a virtue.”
“Not when one is trying to appear above disappointment.”
Aurelia met Clara’s eyes in the glass and saw, beneath the attempt at humor, the shadow that had settled there in recent days.
Clara still smiled. She still spoke brightly when she remembered to do so.
But the effortless light in her had dimmed, as if some careless hand had lowered the flame. It made Aurelia’s heart tighten.
“Then we shall make the blue look defiant,” she told her.
Clara turned a little. “Can blue be defiant?”
“On you, certainly.”
That won a small laugh, and because it was real, Aurelia felt absurdly grateful for it.
They dressed together as they had begun to do since arriving in London, helping one another with hooks and pins, passing gloves, debating bonnets with the seriousness of generals arranging a campaign.
Aurelia chose a gown of soft gray, plain enough not to invite notice, though Clara wrinkled her nose at it.
“You always dress as if you are hoping no one will remember you were there.”
“That is because I am very sensible.”
“That is because you are impossible.” Clara studied her with sudden mischief. “Captain Harrow would never let me wear gray to vanish.”
“Captain Harrow hasn’t yet been given authority over your wardrobe.”
“No,” Clara mused, and her color rose prettily. “But perhaps one day.”
Aurelia smiled at her reflection. “Perhaps.”
Clara turned, suddenly eager and uncertain at once. “Do you truly think so?”
“I think Captain Harrow admires you very much.”
“That is not the same as love.”
“No,” Aurelia agreed gently. “It is not. But admiration is a very good beginning.”
Clara looked down at the gloves in her hands. “I know you think me foolish.”
“I think you young.”
“That is worse.”
“It is only more temporary.”
Clara laughed again, though it softened quickly into something more vulnerable. “Do you think he could really care for me? Not merely be kind because he is kind to everyone, but truly?”
Aurelia hesitated. She thought of Captain Harrow’s face at the theater, the quick concern in him whenever Clara grew quiet and the way his cheer altered around her into something more careful and more sincere.
“Yes,” she decided to be utterly honest. “I think he could.”
Clara’s whole expression changed, with hope returning so swiftly that Aurelia almost regretted giving it room to breathe.
“And Lord Westbridge?” Clara asked, far too innocently.
Aurelia turned back to the dressing table. “What of him?”
“Oh, nothing. Only that you received a letter this morning and have looked less like a person awaiting execution ever since.”
“Clara.”
“I merely observe. You taught me to observe.”
“I fear I have created a monster.”
“A romantic monster,” Clara corrected. “The finest kind.”
Aurelia tried to smile, but something in her faltered.
Perhaps it was the letter still warm in her thoughts.
Perhaps it was the tenderness of Clara’s hope.
Perhaps it was the blue gown, the afternoon light, the fragile illusion that they were only two women dressing for tea, not standing in the path of old ruin.
“In another life,” she said quietly, almost before she knew she meant to speak, “perhaps I might have imagined something with Lord Westbridge.”
Clara stilled.
Aurelia reached for her gloves. “But not in this one.”
“Why not?”
“Because at the end of the season, you will be settled, I hope, or at least safely established, and I shall return to France.”
Clara stared at her. “You cannot mean that.”
“I do.”
“But Lord Westbridge—”
“Will remain in England,” Aurelia ended the sentence for her. “As he should. And if I am fortunate, England will forget me completely.”
Clara’s face crumpled with protest. “But I do not want England to forget you.”
Aurelia softened and crossed to her, taking both her hands. “My dear, England remembering me has never been of any use to anyone.”
Before Clara could answer, there came a knock at the door.
The maid entered with a small folded note upon a tray. “This has just come, miss.”
Aurelia took it, expecting some last change of hour, some ordinary social inconvenience. There was no seal and no name, only the direction written in a hand she did not know.
She unfolded it.
Clara leaned closer. “What is it?”
Aurelia read the first line and felt the blood leave her face.
“Miss Finch and Miss Blackmore would show greater wisdom in remaining at home this afternoon. Their presence is neither desired nor appropriate among respectable company. If either lady possessed any pride, she would not be in London at all.”
Clara had gone very still beside her. Aurelia lowered the note slowly.
“That is the same hand,” Clara whispered.
Aurelia did not need to ask which note she meant.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The room, so lively only minutes before, seemed suddenly airless. The blue gown, the ribbons, the gloves laid out in neat pairs, all of it looked painfully foolish now, as if they had been dressing for a welcome that had never existed.
Clara’s eyes filled. “They do not want us there.”
“We do not know that.”
“It says so.”
“It says someone wishes us to believe it.”
Clara’s mouth trembled. “What if it is true?”
“If Lady Davenant did not wish to receive us, she would send a proper note. She would not hide behind malice and poor manners.”
Clara pressed a hand to her mouth. “I cannot go. Aurelia, I cannot walk into that room knowing this.”
Aurelia looked down at the paper again. Anger moved through her, clean and bright beneath the fear.
“We must go.”
Clara recoiled slightly. “How can you say that?”
“Because if we stay away, whoever wrote this succeeds.”
“But why is this happening?” Clara cried, her tears spilling over now. “What have I done?”
Aurelia’s resolve broke in a different place.
She could no longer keep Clara innocent through ignorance, not when ignorance had become another cruelty.
“Clara,” she said softly, “there is something I must tell you.” She paused for a moment. “Lord Westbridge has been helping me in my quest for the truth. And it is just as I feared. The truth is a threat to several people occupying positions of power in the military.”
Clara listened with increasing horror.
“So, it is because of that,” she spoke. “Because of the investigation.”
“Yes,” Aurelia nodded. “It isn’t because of you.”
“But I am the one they are punishing.” Her voice cracked. “I knew it. I knew everyone had begun to look differently at me. I thought perhaps if I smiled enough, if I behaved well enough, it would pass.”
Aurelia reached for her, but Clara stepped away.
“I am sorry,” Aurelia whispered, and the words were useless even as she spoke them.
Clara wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand. It was a childish gesture, and it nearly undid Aurelia entirely.
“Do we have to go?” Clara whispered.
“No,” Aurelia told her gently. “Not if you truly cannot. But I think we should. I think we must show them that we cannot be frightened out of every room by an unsigned note.”
Clara looked toward the mirror. Her eyes were red, and her lovely blue gown suddenly seemed too bright for grief. Then, she nodded once.
“Very well,” she acquiesced. “We shall go.”
Aurelia didn’t know whether to be frightened or relieved by the decision.
***
Lady Davenant’s tea was every bit as dreadful as Aurelia had feared. The footman admitted them, but not without the slightest hesitation. That hesitation was their first welcome. The second was the silence that fell when they entered the drawing room.
It did not last long. Society was too well trained for that. Conversation resumed within a breath, but it resumed differently, with quick glances and lowered tones and smiles that arrived too late.
Lady Davenant rose with a politeness so strained it might have snapped under rough handling.
“Miss Finch, Miss Blackmore. How … pleased we are that you could come.”