There was something in the ease of it, and in the company, that felt more real than many occasions of far greater ceremony. Harrow, I think, believes himself a very dignified man even while paddling in a lake like a schoolboy, and Miss Blackmore’s laughter did little to preserve his gravity. I suspect the whole scene would have shocked half the matrons of London into silence, which only increases its value in retrospect.
You will perhaps think me foolish for adding this, but after returning home I found myself unwilling to let the day end without writing to you. It seems I have grown accustomed already to wishing to share my thoughts with you, whether they are of use to our investigation or not. That is, I suspect, a habit I ought to examine with more caution than I am presently inclined to do.
Yours faithfully,
Owen Honeyfield, the Marquess of Westbridge
By the time he finished, the investigation had become almost incidental in the letter, as though it were the excuse under which some more personal correspondence had smuggled itself in. He had not meant to write like this. He had certainly not meant to reveal so much of his own interior life in a single evening.
Yet looking over the sheet, he could not quite bring himself to regret it. What had begun as an arrangement of convenience had become real friendship, not merely the appearance of accord maintained for the sake of society. It had happened quietly, in half-spoken moments and letters sent across London under the shelter of fiction. But it had happened.
And he was glad of it. More glad than was prudent, perhaps. The whole matter had a time limit upon it whether either of them acknowledged that fact or not. The season would end. The investigation would either bear fruit or fail. Their false courtship could not last forever.
Still, even if what lay between them was brief, it was real enough to matter.
Chapter 19
Aurelia received Owen’s letter before breakfast, at an hour when London had not yet fully given itself over to the noise and business of the day. The house was quiet, save for the faint tread of a maid upon the stairs and the far-off clatter of wheels in the street below, softened by the closed windows and the early dampness of the morning.
She had scarcely reached the little sitting room before the seal was broken. At first, she stood by the window to read, the paper trembling very slightly between her fingers, though whether from the chill of the morning or some less easily excused cause, she did not inquire too closely. Then, as his words unfolded, she sank into the nearest chair without being aware of having done so.
He had written of the investigation, and he had taken seriously what she had told him of Carter’s disappearance. But he had written of other things too, of the afternoon, of the strange comfort of ease, of finding himself unwilling to let the day end without writing to her.
Then, with a movement she would have mocked in Clara had she witnessed it, she pressed the letter lightly to her breast and smiled. He had opened something of himself to her. It was not much, perhaps.
A man such as Lord Westbridge would not pour out feeling merely because ink and paper permitted it. Yet what he had given her was more precious for its restraint. She could see, between the orderly lines, a loneliness he would never name and a desire, hesitant yet sincere, to be understood without being made ridiculous.
She folded the letter carefully and slipped it into the little writing desk beside her father’s notebook. She had not intended to place Owen’s words so near her father’s remnants, but having done it, she could not quite persuade herself to move them elsewhere.
A pretend courtship, she reminded herself. That is all.
She moved briskly and crossed to the breakfast table, where the tea had already begun to cool. Clara entered a moment later in a frock of muslin and good spirits, bringing with her all the animation that Aurelia had been attempting to subdue. Her cheeks were already pink, though the day had hardly begun, and she carried three ribbons over one arm as though she had been engaged in a matter of national importance.
“Aurelia, you must advise me,” she cried, without so much as a greeting. “Blue, rose, or the pale yellow? Do not say they are all very pretty, for that is what Mrs. Perry said, and it is no help at all.”
“For what occasion am I adjudicating?” Aurelia asked, glad to have her countenance turned toward the teapot.
“For this afternoon’s promenade, of course. Captain Harrow may be there.”
“Captain Harrow may be in many places, Clara. I do not think ribbon has yet acquired the power of summoning him.”
“No, but it may assist his happiness when he is summoned by ordinary means.”
Aurelia laughed despite herself, and Clara, encouraged by it, came to sit opposite her with an air of affectionate conspiracy.
“And did Lord Westbridge write again?”
The spoon struck faintly against the side of Aurelia’s cup.
“Lord Westbridge wrote upon a matter of business.”
“Business,” Clara repeated, in a tone that made the word an accusation. “How very convenient that business should require so many letters.”
“Many arrangements require letters.”
“Yes, but most arrangements do not make one smile at the fire before breakfast.”
Aurelia looked up then, intending to offer a reproof, but Clara’s face was so open, so hopeful and so entirely untouched by suspicion, that the words failed her. Poor Clara believed in love because nothing in life had yet taught her to disbelieve it. She saw correspondence and courtship, walks and looks, and built from them a whole future as easily as she arranged ribbons upon a gown.
