She turned her mother’s cool, pearl-pale eyes on him. “You are quite welcome,” she said, in the refined accents of the carefully coached. She had a pale, narrow face, sharp and intent, and wishbone-yellow hair that had straggled lankly free from whatever bindings had once held it. There was a brief silence. Then her composure wavered. “Is Mama dead?”
“No,” returned Thomas, quickly. “Oh no. She has merely fainted. She will come round directly and be quite well.”
She swallowed. “Good. I should not like it were Mama to die.”
Thomas gazed helplessly at Mrs. Clark and, because he had once seen Esther do it when Ada had taken too much sun, took up one of her hands and rubbed it vigorously. She was very cold, the skin as delicate aspaper, despite the calluses that speckled her palms and fingers. The child watched him gravely, as though he performed some obscure miracle.
One that, against all reason, seemed to have some effect. After a moment or two, Mrs. Clark’s eyes fluttered open, and she took in a startled breath.
“Mrs. Clark,” said Thomas. “Please don’t be alarmed. You’re amongst friends. All is well.”
The girl almost knocked him out of the way in her rush to get closer to the sofa. “Mama.” She flung her arms around her mother’s neck. The two embraced and Thomas glanced away, oddly confused by the ease of their familial affection. It was not something he had ever experienced, and it filled him with a strange wistfulness.
He had never before thought of children. But now he imagined himself with his own son or daughter, perhaps reading them stories as Edward had once read to him and George. Lifting this imaginary person, this girl, this boy, onto their first horse, never mind that Thomas was no horseman himself. Helping with Latin homework. But try as he might, he could not make it anything more than a moment of fancy. It was too impossible even for dreaming. He could not picture a wife. Only Micha, burnished in the firelight.
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Clark broke gently into his thoughts. He met her eyes, and the faintest suggestion of a smile tugged wearily at her lips. “How wretched. I suppose it serves me right for boasting to you that I never faint.”
Thomas, conscious that he was looming over her, lowered himself to his knees at the far end of the sofa. “Extraordinary circumstances. So we will not count it.”
Footsteps sounded from the hall and Micha came in, just as they were laughing. “What a pretty tableau,” he drawled. “I brought brandy, but I couldn’t find any smelling salts.”
Mrs. Clark looked towards him, surprise flashing on her face. Their glances locked like blades for a moment, and then broke apart.
“You remember Michael Dashwood?” asked Thomas, in some confusion.
He had grown so used to having Micha with him that he had forgotten the unlikely circumstances that had first brought them together. A few months ago, he would have thought nothing strange in two close male friends sharing an abode, but now he wondered if the truth was plain to see. The possibility filled him with dread, not because he was ashamed, but because he could not bear the idea that the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him could become the subject of a stranger’s scrutiny. That the world would see only sin and sordid things.
“Oh yes,” whispered Mrs. Clark. “I remember Michael Dashwood.”
Micha came forward and slammed the brandy decanter down so hard on a glass-topped table that a spiderweb of cracks skittered across the surface. The girl’s pale eyes went wide as moons.
And when Thomas stood and crossed the room towards him, Micha shied away like an unbroken colt. Perhaps he, too, had just recognised the precariousness of their situation. Thomas wished he could comfort him somehow. He tried to catch Micha’s eye, but the other man was resolutely looking away.
“For what is a man profited,” Thomas thought,“if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul.” Micha, oh Micha, you are my soul.
But Micha still would not look at him.
Instead, Thomas lifted the decanter and poured an inch or two of liquid into a tumbler. “Take this.” He offered it to Mrs. Clark. “It will strengthen you.”
She gave him one of the faint, wry smiles he remembered so well from his time in London. “It will likely just make me roaring drunk.”
“How foolish of me. I was told you had not eaten today.”
Mrs. Clark dropped her gaze to the hands that were folded neatly in her lap. A few tendrils of hair sagged wetly forward to hide her face, but he thought she blushed. She reminded him, just a little, of Micha. The same terrible pride, worn like a knight’s tarnished mail. “I’ve made the most dreadful imposition of myself.”
“No, not at all. But I must see if I can find you some food. I’m sorry, my Mrs. Allen goes home for the evening, and I’m a little bit helpless without her.” He risked a smile of his own. “I think I know where to find the pantry. If not, you will have to send out a search party.”
“We could eat each other,” offered the child. “As explorers are sometimes obliged to do.”
Thomas gave a startled laugh, which he tried ineffectively to conceal behind a hand. The girl gave him a look of mingled censure and astonishment. He could almost see the thought as it formed:So this is the position of the Anglican Church on cannibalism. Alarm rolled through him. She was going to carry this with her into adulthood, the strange priest who thought eating people was funny.
“I’m sorry.” That was Mrs. Clark, clearly attempting to repair the damage. “I don’t believe I introduced my daughter to you.” She paused, her lips twitching with a trace of irresistible, private mischief. “This is Hope.”
Hope nodded earnestly.
“This is Mr. Mandeville,” her mother added. “And his friend, Mr. Dashwood.”
Thomas, not really knowing what else to do, offered his hand. And, after a moment, the child shook it. It was, he thought slightly hysterically, more nerve-racking than meeting the bishop. From the other side of the room, Micha regarded this little ceremony with obvious derision.
