She thought about it. “There was the chance I would, I suppose. I rather think not.”
Althea set down her spoon. “If you believe he would not deceive you, why do you doubt his motivations in pursuing you? You are contradicting yourself, darling.”
She shoveled a large spoonful of ice into her mouth. Too much. It hurt.
“How can I marry a man who carries such hatred for the father who loved and protected me? And he must hate him, if he learned my father encouraged the accusations against his own. For an instant, when he looked at me that day, I think he hated me too, or at least hated the ghost he saw standing behind me.”
Althea raised her hand holding the spoon. “Stop, please. Let us go back to your first sentence. Did you saymarry?”
“Did I?”
“I am sure you did. Have you been considering it?”
“I suppose so, a little.”
“Did he propose, even a little?”
“Oh, he proposed the second time we talked to each other. It was a sly form of revenge. He has all but admitted as much.”
“Did he ever propose again?”
She poked her spoon repeatedly into the remaining ice. “I suppose so.”
Althea reached over and patted her arm. “You suppose a lot of so. Is heartbreak making you a little dim-witted?”
“I suppose so,” she muttered.
“Clara, your mention of marriage makes me change my opinion of him and makes me better understand your current sorrow. If you considered marriage at all, you must care deeply for him. I believe you should learn if there is a possibility for happiness with him. You should be very sure before throwing away a chance for that.”
“He said much the same thing,” she said when they finished. “Or rather, he wrote it.”
“Then perhaps you should see him one more time and speak honestly with each other.”
That night, after much debate, Clara picked up her pen.I will call on Wednesday afternoon. You must tell me everything. There will be no kissing.
* * *
It was not cowardice that made her delay that meeting with Adam, she told herself. She did not dread what might be the final, unalterable break with him. Not at all. She did not spend most nights fighting against impossible hope that wanted to take hold in her heart. She could not see him right away because she had things to do, that was all.
The next day she set out early to pay her contributors. She called on Mrs. Dalton first. Mrs. Dalton presided over a household near the river. Her husband and she let the modest home only for the Season, after which they would return to their property in Kent.
Mr. Dalton did not know his wife was Boudica’s Daughter, so Clara arrived at one o’clock, ostensibly to pay a call. While she and Mrs. Dalton chatted about society gossip, the little sack moved from Clara’s reticule to Mrs. Dalton’s ample bodice.
No such sleight of hand proved necessary with Mrs. Clark. She greeted Clara at her shop and took her to a tiny office, where they transacted business.
“If you have the payment for the others, I will see they get it as before,” Mrs. Clark said.
“I would like to bring it myself, if you would supply their directions.”
“That is good of you, but it may be better if I do it. Their streets are not fitting for a lady like you.”
“I have a coachman with me. I think I will be safe enough. If you brave those streets, I can too.”
Mrs. Clark did not like it. All the same, she wrote down the directions. “You watch yourself now, Lady Clara. There’s pickpockets and worse about. Don’t let your man leave the carriage, whatever he does, and tell him to have his whip at the ready.”
“I promise to be alert and cautious, Mrs. Clark.” Before she left she admired some of the bonnets in the shop. When she embarked on an orgy of sartorial excess, she would have to order some here.
Mrs. Clark’s warnings proved less charming and more sensible when Clara’s carriage rolled into the neighborhood where one of her delivery women lived. Mr. Brady did not want her to step out of the carriage when they found the sad house of Mrs. Watkins. Clara insisted, however, and knocked on the door.
