Then, before he quite intended to, Owen found himself writing of his growing uncertainty regarding the official report itself. He wrote that he had long accepted the report because it was easier to do so than to imagine the alternative, that it was easier to believe in confusion than manipulation, in the necessities of war than in the vanity of men protecting themselves.
Yet the more he considered what Aurelia had shown him, and the more he thought of Langley, the less certain he became that what had been published bore any honest resemblance to what had occurred.
He paused over that sentence after writing it.
He had never said as much to anyone. Not to Thomas, and not to any of the men who would sooner speak of campaigns in terms of glory than of consequence.
And yet here, with Aurelia, it felt almost natural.
That was the strangest part. He found it easier to put his mind on paper for her than to voice it in any room, no matter how private.Something about her seriousness invited honesty. Something in her own restraint made him want to set down what was true and trust that she would read it as it was meant.
He wrote, too, of Langley, though carefully. He admitted that he was beginning to mistrust the general in ways that would once have seemed impossible to him. He wrote that respect, once given, was not lightly withdrawn, and that perhaps this was why he had resisted his own suspicions for so long.
When he had finished, he sat back and looked over what he had written. It was too open by half, and yet he did not cross any of it out. Instead, he folded the letter slowly, sealed it, and sat for a while longer with it in his hand.
It occurred to him then that he was pleased to have Aurelia to write to. He was pleased not merely because the investigation required it, though that would have been reason enough. He was pleased because the act of telling her things seemed to lessen their weight.
That was a dangerous sort of comfort.
Still, when at last he rang for a servant and instructed that the note be sent first thing in the morning, he did so without hesitation.
Chapter 16
Several days later, Aurelia and Clara attended a luncheon given by Lady Penworth, one of those polished social gatherings at which everything was intended to appear easy, graceful, and entirely harmless.
Aurelia knew better.
By the time their carriage drew up outside the house, she had already steeled herself for the ordinary exertions of such an afternoon, which included polite conversation and careful smiles, along with the endless weighing of every glance and answer. She had grown used to that much. London society had always demanded performance, even from those it had not yet decided to punish.
Still, she was unprepared for the silence that met them when they entered the drawing room. It was not complete silence, for no room full of ladies could ever achieve such a thing. But it was close enough that Aurelia felt it at once. It was the quick turning of heads and the pause in movement that said quite plainly they had been the subject of discussion before the footman had even announced them.
Her spine straightened on instinct. Beside her, Clara faltered for a fraction of a second before recovering with admirable courage,though Aurelia felt the hesitation in her as keenly as if it had been her own.
Then the room stirred again. Conversation resumed, though not with its former ease. Cups were lifted. Fans moved. Smiles were arranged.
Aurelia’s eyes traveled once across the room and found Charlotte seated near the window in a pale gown, composed and elegant, and wearing an expression of such amused innocence that Aurelia disliked her at once more than ever.
Charlotte met her gaze and smiled. Strangely enough, there was no mockery in that smile. It was simply the air of a woman who knew something and enjoyed knowing that others knew she knew it.
Aurelia looked away first.
So, it is to begin.
They moved further into the room, making their courtesies. Some ladies received them as they always had, if not warmly, then at least with decent civility. Others were cooler. One or two, women who had formerly spoken to Clara with easy interest, now seemed uncertain whether to continue doing so in Aurelia’s company. Their politeness remained intact, but it had acquired edges.
While Aurelia was delayed a moment by Lady Penworth, who had begun some final speech of civility that contained more politeness than warmth, she noticed that Charlotte found Clara near the door.
“My dear Miss Blackmore,” Aurelia managed to hear, “you must not remember that London is forever whispering one week and forgetting the next.” Her gaze moved, briefly and deliberately, toward Captain Harrow across the room. “Only take care. Gentlemen are often most attentive where they mean least.”
Clara’s smile faltered. “I am sure Captain Harrow is not—”
“Oh, I am sure he is everything agreeable,” Charlotte replied, touching her arm lightly. “That is precisely why one must be careful.”
Then she smiled as if she had offered kindness, and left Clara standing there with the first shadow of doubt upon her face.
Aurelia could have borne all of that that easily enough for herself.
She had long since grown accustomed to being measured against an old scandal that had never properly belonged to her and yet clung to her all the same. But Clara … that was harder.
