She thrust the card toward Aurelia as though it were evidence in a court of law.
“I went to find him when the set was forming, and he … he looked at me as if I had done something shameful. I thought perhaps he was unwell, or had forgotten, and so I reminded him.” Her breath caught. “And he said, so loudly that everyone nearby could hear, that he found himself unable to associate with anyone so closely connected to the Finch family.”
Aurelia went very still.
The music behind them seemed suddenly too cheerful, the laughter too shrill, and the golden afternoon light too cruelly bright upon the lawn.
“I am so sorry,” Aurelia spoke softly.
It was all she could say, and it was useless.
Clara wiped at her cheeks, mortified by her own tears. “It is not your fault.”
That was the kindness of youth, and because it was kindness, it hurt worse.
“It is,” Aurelia nodded.
“No.”
“Yes. Not by intention, perhaps, but by consequence. You should never have been made to suffer for my name.”
“I do not suffer from your name,” Clara replied fiercely, though her voice shook. “I suffer from people being cruel.”
Aurelia put an arm around her and drew her close. Clara came willingly, like a child, her bonnet pressing awkwardly against Aurelia’s shoulder.
“What if Captain Harrow hears of it?” Clara whispered.
“Then he will think Mr. Johnson ill-bred.”
Clara’s eyes were still full of tears. “What if he believes it? What if he decides I am not worth the trouble?”
Aurelia closed her eyes. There it was: the true wound. It was not Mr. Johnson’s insult, though that was bad enough, but the fear that one cruel man had spoken aloud what kinder men might be thinking in silence. Aurelia knew that fear. She knew the long echo of it, the way it followed one from room to room until even friendship seemed provisional.
“Captain Harrow is not Mr. Johnson,” she assured her.
“But he is a gentleman. Gentlemen listen to one another.”
“Some do. Some have minds of their own.”
Clara drew back enough to look at her, pleading for certainty Aurelia did not possess. Before Aurelia could say more, rapid footsteps sounded on the gravel.
“Miss Blackmore?”
Captain Harrow came around the bend with such haste that he barely seemed to remember propriety until he was upon them. He checked himself then, bowing, but his face had lost all its usual easy amusement.
“I beg your pardon. I heard … someone said you were distressed.” His eyes moved from Clara’s tear-stained face to Aurelia’s, and his expression hardened. “What happened?”
Clara looked away, ashamed. Aurelia answered for her.
“Mr. Johnson refused to dance with Clara, though he was engaged to her for it. He did so publicly, and with a remark concerning her connection to my family.”
For a moment, he said nothing. It was the first time Aurelia had seen his cheerfulness vanish completely. Even his anger was not loud. It moved over his face like a shadow over water, changing all the brightness beneath.
“I see,” he spoke.
Clara gave a small, miserable sound. “Please do not be angry.”
“My dear Miss Blackmore,” he addressed her so gently that Aurelia’s throat tightened, “I am very angry indeed, but not with you.”
