But she did find herself mollified enough to approach the table, drawn chiefly by the lure of the warm fire and vindication, alongside, not inconsiderably, the temptation of buttered prawns.
In silence he watched her settle on a stool, uncork the jar, and begin eating. An uneasy quiet reigned until Kippers reappeared, settling with an expectant air at her feet.
Finally Jonathan cleared his throat. “Where to begin?”
She tossed Kippers a prawn, making no reply. She would not help Jonathan. Nor would she betray any hint of curiosity. Sangfroid was to be her byword.
Jonathan fiddled with the napkin. “It seems all too inadequate to say ‘you were right’ and ‘I’m very sorry’ but…well, there it is.”
She paused with the fork halfway to her lips.
I was right about what? she wanted to demand. Or perhaps seize Jonathan by the shoulders and shake the answer out of him. But her sangfroid held. She placed the prawn in her mouth, chewed thoroughly, and swallowed before coolly responding: “I’m afraid I don’t understand. You’ll have to be more specific.”
He grimaced. “I beg your pardon; no matter how many times I imagined this conversation, it was never quite—but that’s of no consequence.” He cleared his throat again, his evident discomfort eclipsed only by his painful earnestness. “To specify: You were right about my mother’s deception, and I’m very sorry I didn’t believe you. I learned the truth when we arrived in Neuf-Marché, to find my grandmother not on her death bed and gasping her last.”
“I knew it!” Claire cried out, then choked on a mouthful of bread. She coughed and sputtered until Jonathan offered her a cup of something, which she gulped gratefully. When it burned a path down her throat, she realized it was brandy.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she returned the cup, her face hot with embarrassment. “I’m—er—pleased to learn the marquise is not ill.”
“Oh, she is ill,” he said matter-of-factly. “Consumption. But it’s not often quickly fatal, and she’s always had a strong constitution. She’s likely to remain with us a few more years to come.”
“I see.” While Kippers rubbed against her legs until she gave him another prawn, Claire’s mind was busy reordering the facts. “Then…when the messenger came to Greystone last Christmas Day, he did bring news of the marquise’s illness? But your mother mistook the urgency of the case?”
Jonathan pulled a face. “No and no. I’ve no idea what news the messenger brought—and perhaps there was no news at all, its invention being part of maman’s ruse. Because she’d already learned of the diagnosis several weeks before. And, I assume, understood the lack of immediate danger, or she would have sailed to France much earlier.”
“She knew for weeks and kept it from you?” Claire watched as, apparently satiated, Kippers curled up near the stove and promptly fell asleep. “Why would your mother do that?” she asked. “Just so she could use it to stop our wedding?”
“Probably.” Jonathan shrugged. “But that’s just a guess. I know no details. After seeing grand-mère upright and catching wind of maman’s lies, I left. Hired the first chaise I could find and got as far away from her as I could. We haven’t spoken since.”
Claire felt surprise, and perhaps just a touch of triumph, at this turn of events. She wished she could have seen Jonathan’s defiance and his mother’s reaction. If the woman had sabotaged her son’s marriage and broken two hearts in the process with the aim of keeping him all to herself, she must have been bitterly disappointed. Claire could not help reveling a little in her enemy’s just deserts.
And she felt glad for Jonathan. Defying his mother was a great step forward.
For him, that was. So far as Claire was concerned…
Well, she wasn’t. The matter did not concern her at all. It was far too late for that.
Had he rushed immediately from Neuf-Marché to her side, perhaps things might have been different…
“Where did you go afterward?” she heard herself ask, abandoning all pretense of incuriosity.
“Paris,” he said ruefully, “to embark on the Grand Tour I never had. I followed my father’s route: from Paris to Lyon, Marseille, then on to Genoa, Florence, Venice, and Rome.”
Most young men of their generation had eschewed the coming-of-age tradition of touring the Continent (unless sent there to endure the horrors of French warfare). But a hopeful peace had endured four years now, and Claire could envision how happily Jonathan must have flitted about Europe. Traveling in the greatest luxury, enjoying vivid landscapes, palatial cities, ancient treasures (with a buxom Italian lady on his arm). The picture made her jaw clench. “How splendid,” she said through gritted teeth.
Then he fixed her with a penetrating gaze, and his deep, expressive blue eyes made her fear the imminence of an ill-considered disclosure.
Hoping to head it off, she continued hastily: “Which city was your favorite? Rome, I’ll wager, unless you visited Pompeii? Ah, so you did! That must have been splendid. No doubt you were in heaven among so many antiquities.” The ones they used to talk about seeing together someday, for Claire had found herself sharing Jonathan’s interest in ancient history. “All those temples and amphitheaters and—er—columns,” she heard herself babbling on. “How perfectly splendid.”
La, how many times had she said splendid? Why couldn’t she recall any other adjectives? And how could Jonathan still be looking at her with such ardor after that performance?
She held her breath, bracing herself for a declaration.
But instead of professing his love, he said: “In point of fact, it wasn’t particularly splendid. It was sad. Since the war…” He looked away. “The devastation on the Continent is beyond imagining. It was difficult to enjoy the sights when all around one saw so much suffering. People are destitute. Their homes and livelihoods were ripped from them. They still face poor harvests and crippling war-debt on top of all the death and damage caused by the fighting.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks burned. “Of course. I was not thinking. I suppose we English are like to forget, now the threat of invasion has passed, that the Continent was not as lucky. How such scenes must have afflicted you.”
She told herself she was imagining things. Jonathan wasn’t still in love with her. He’d been gone twice as long as they’d been together, after all. Besides which, he’d told Noah in no uncertain terms that he would not renew his suit.
