“Mother,” said Artemis, with renewed determination, “ten years ago.”
She flicked an indifferent wrist. “The past is such a bore, my dear.”
It was just at such a juncture—this slender bit of resistance—that Artemis would usually leave off and let Mother have her way.
Not today.
Today, she needed answers.
Today, she needed the truth.
“Why did the Earl of Stoke think I would be receptive to his proposal of marriage?”
“Why do young men think anything?” countered Mother. “They all believe themselves God’s gift to the world.”
Artemis saw she would get nowhere with this line of questioning. She needed to be more direct. “The twenty thousand pounds,” she began. “Bran didn’t demand it, and he didn’t take it.”
Her words were met with silence.
“But you offered it.”
Mother gave one of her long-suffering sighs. “What does it matter, Artemis?” she asked, as if she were speaking to a particularly trying child. “It’s all so long ago.”
“Did you offer it?” Artemis needed direct answers to direct questions.
Mother lifted empty hands. “I did.”
“And did he accept it?”
“Oh, Artemis.”
Again,usuallyArtemis would leave off here.
Not today.
Today, a fire had seized her—and a compulsion propelled her to walk directly into it.
“Did he?”
“As a matter of fact, he did not.”
Artemis pushed forward in her seat, her cheeks burning with conviction. “So, to be clear, he didn’t demand twenty thousand pounds to keep quiet about us.” A heavy beat of silence crept past. “You offered it.”
“What difference does it make?” Mother looked as if she believed her own question. And that it could have but one answer—none at all.
Except a different answer whirled through Artemis’s mind.
All the difference.
But she didn’t speak it, for she had something more vital to say, and she must before her nerve failed her. “So, if you offered the money and he didn’t demand it, then?—”
“Artemis, you’re being willful to no good end.”
“Then he didn’t know.”
The air between them went stone silent.
They both knew what Bran didn’t know.
