Chapter 27
Julian pushed a line of three peas across his plate until they collided with a mountain of mashed potatoes.
Then he smashed them down, mixing them with the potato and letting the gravy soak the lot.
He piled his creation on top of a piece of mutton which he then put into his mouth.
There should have been an explosion of flavor.
There was not. It tasted empty. Like nothing at all.
He leaned back.
Across the table sat the empty chair where Clara ought to be.
She was home; he knew that. He had been told she returned several hours ago.
He had even briefly heard her voice as she sang a lullaby to David, walking up and down the stairs while the baby fussed.
He had thought about joining her, helping her. He had not.
There was something between them now. A barrier. One he had built. He had only to remember the way she had sounded before she left that morning to know whose work it was.
Her footsteps drew him out of his thoughts, and he looked back.
She was still in the same gown she had worn out.
She had made a habit these past few days of changing before dinner.
He had noticed it, and if he was honest with himself, he had appreciated it because part of him knew she did it for him, the same way he always made certain his hair was brushed and his coat presentable when he knew she was nearby.
“Julian,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes as she moved to her chair. He was halfway up, poised awkwardly between sitting and standing, one hand braced on the back of his chair as he attempted to rise and pull hers out for her.
She was already seated. She spread her napkin across her lap and indicated to the footman.
“Just the vegetables and the potatoes, thank you.”
Once the plate sat before her she picked up her fork and began to eat.
Julian sat back down, having achieved nothing by his half-standing but a faintly ridiculous interval.
“I trust your day was tolerable,” he said.
“I would not call it tolerable,” she said, “but I would call it productive.” She swallowed a forkful of mashed potato and then touched the corner of her mouth with her napkin.
“I spoke to Marjorie. It appears the gentleman Arabella went off with is not Italian at all. And Bash is not his name or not his real one.”
He looked up. “Oh?”
“Bastien, she believes. And she thinks he is French—or at least of French family. She could not tell me much else. She does not know his surname or anything further. But we are another step closer.”
“So the man is a tall, charming ginger haired man named Bastien, who goes by Bash. French in origine but from Italy. And with a large enough fortune to have servants.”
“Servants whose loyalty he does not have because otherwise Giacomo Vitello would not have helped Arabella escape. He may even be a frightful employer, given Giacomo chose to come to England with Arabella rather than stay. Useful information from Marjorie; that is certain.”
“Indeed. How did you come by it?”
She gave a small shrug and did not look up from her plate. “I spoke to her. That is generally the most effective way to extract information.”
“Of course,” he said. “You are quite right. I am glad you were so successful. Do you suppose the two of us ought to speak to her again together? I wonder if her husband might know…”
She raised her head, her eyes settling on his face directly for the first time since she sat down.
“Why do you imagine me incapable of extracting everything there is to find? Must you go after me and check? Can you never just take the word of a woman? You did the same in Dover.”
“And in Dover, you thought it useful,” he said, both hands raised. “That is not what I meant. I meant only that there may be more to discover and that her husband…”
“I do not think there is more to be had there. I do beg your pardon if my efforts fell short.”
“They did not fall short.” He set down his fork. “Your efforts have been considerable, and they are appreciated. We have a name now that we did not have this morning. That is worth a very great deal.”
“I am glad you approve,” she said and returned to her plate.
He paused. This was dreadful. The air between them pressed down on him, heavy and close, full of everything neither of them said.
This was not what he had wanted. He had wanted distance, yes—had told himself distance was necessary, was sensible, was the only course that would not end in ruin.
But he had not imagined this. He had not imagined that the distance would feel like this.
He thought of something his father had said to him once. Be careful what you wish for, Julian. You may find you have it.
He had it now. And he did not like it.
He had nobody to blame but himself.
No. This would not do.
“Clara,” he said, “when I said that I thought perhaps this marriage had become something we did not intend, I did not mean to cause harm. I have been under considerable strain since we first found ourselves in this situation. The journey to Southampton, returning empty-handed, the business with Marianne… It has been a great deal. I am not ashamed to…”
“It has been difficult for us both,” she said. “Although one might argue it has been most difficult for David. Young as he is, he must know his mother is absent.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “What I am trying to say is that perhaps I was…”
“Hasty?” She set her fork down. “No. You were not hasty in the least. In fact, you spoke plainly, and I am grateful for it.” She folded her hands on the table.
“We had allowed ourselves to become rather more than companionable. That was not what this arrangement was. We agreed to this to keep David from an uncertain fate and to find Arabella. Not to become entangled with one another.”
He pressed his lips together. “Perhaps an entanglement was difficult to avoid.”
“That is something we ought to have considered at the outset.” She picked up her fork again.
“In any case, I am grateful that you made your position clear. It has reminded me of what is truly important. And it is not… that is to say, David and Arabella must be our sole focus. Once she is recovered and well, we shall speak on what is to become of our marriage.” She paused.
“I have given it some thought. For the sake of appearances, I believe we ought to remain married. But I should like to take rooms of my own in time. Many couples in our society live separately, and it seems the most sensible course.”
“Of course,” he said.
The words cost him more than he showed, but this was his doing. He had nobody to blame but himself.
“Very well.” She straightened slightly. “The preparations for the ball are progressing well. I have engaged an orchestra. Do you wish them to come and play so that you might approve them?”
“No,” he said. “Your judgment is sufficient for me.”
“Good,” she repliedl and drove her fork into her peas.
For the remainder of the meal, he sat across from her and watched her make a steady and determined effort never once to raise her eyes to his.