“Do you fellows object to my marrying Adele or marrying at all. Did we have some kind of pact not to marry before I got hit on the head?”
“It’s really a matter of priorities,” said Beresford. “How much does this sort of thing matter to you?”
“Associating himself with Canbury will harm Hugh’s reputation,” Lark said, “which until now, as you full well know, has been sterling. There’s a reason women are falling over each other to get his attention and that he has until now been so successful in business. All of that changes if he marries this girl.”
“All right. How much does that matter to you, Swynford?”
Hugh wasn’t entirely sure. How much had it mattered before he lost his memories? He didn’t want to disappoint his mother, but he thought the prospect of grandchildren would win her over. And Adele was still an earl’s daughter, not a commoner, which should have placated her and the rest of society. The fact that her friends kept talking about Canbury as if Adele were the daughter of a leper was confusing and alarming to Hugh now.
Did society’s approval matter? Would it affect his business? Hugh couldn’t see how; based on the conversations he’d hadwith his secretary, Hugh made money from tenants on his various estates and a little bit of real estate speculation. There was a new real estate deal in the offing, but he couldn’t see how the seller would care about who Hugh’s wife was. He suspected that his wealth and title would trump whatever reputation loss he suffered from marrying Adele anyway.
Did his mother’s approval matter? That was a more complicated question.
Did he love Adele? He didn’t know. Maybe not. But he liked her more than any woman he’d met before. He dreamed about that night they’d spent together sometimes. He cherished the memories of sitting with her and talking, of walking around that little garden behind the Sweeney house, of the affectionate look on her face as she took care of him, of the feel of her in his arms as they danced. He couldn’t shake thoughts of her most days. Was that love?
“None of you have ever been in love,” Hugh said.
“So you’re an expert?” Lark asked with a sardonic expression on his face.
“No. I don’t know if I know what love feels like, and none of you do either, so maybe you should not judge me.”
“I was in love once,” said Beresford.
Lark’s eyebrows shot up.
Beresford sighed. “I was young. The details are not important. And it hardly signifies, since the object of my affection is no longer among the living.”
“How did you know it was love?” Hugh asked, genuinely curious, although conscious of the series of emotions playing out over Lark’s face. This reinforced Hugh’s suspicion that Lark and Beresford were lovers.
Beresford shrugged and said, “I just knew.”
“That is not even a little helpful,” said Hugh.
“There was a moment, I suppose. I was nineteen years old, hardly more than a boy, and the two of us were up at Oxford taking a stroll together near the river, and I looked at my love’s face andI love youjust popped into my head. But I knew, deep in my soul I knew, that I loved this person. I don’t know if it’s like that for everyone, but that is how it was for me.”
Hugh considered that. He had not experienced a moment like that with Adele, but maybe it was only a matter of time. “That sounds lovely,” Hugh said.
“It was rather. Except, you know, for the death part.”
“I apologize. I did not intend to bring up bad memories.”
“It is all right. I volunteered. But… I think love is not something to be trifled with. And I think also, if you care for this woman? Society be damned. Marry her if you like.”
“That’s not how things work,” said Lark.
“No, Beresford is right, much as it pains me to say so,” said Fletcher. “Is not our main reservation to Hugh’s marrying this woman just that we worry about what society will think? Well, arewenot society? Welcome to the nineteenth century, lads. Hugh deserves to marry for love.”
Hugh found that encouraging. “It seems to me that the only obstacle between a powerful man and the woman he wants is whether or not she agrees, no?”
“You’re determined to do this, aren’t you?” asked Owen.
“Yes. I will marry her.”
“Godspeed,” said Lark.
*
Lark lay hissweaty forehead against Anthony’s chest.
