The tea had long since gone cold in her cup. This did not go unnoticed by Lady Marjorie Taylor, who leaned forward and refilled it. Steam rose from the cup, and Clara took it in both hands and stirred it though she had added no sugar.
Marjorie glanced at her over a pair of spectacles she had not worn at finishing school and tipped her head to one side. “Truly, I am glad you came to enquire after my health. I suppose my note was rather vague. I did not mean to alarm you. But what a good friend you are to come all this way, even after all these years.”
The truth was that Clara had invented a reason for this visit. Marjorie’s note declining the ball’s invitation had said only that she was indisposed. Clara had pretended to interpret this as something more serious than it was, worrying in her reply about dear Marjorie’s welfare and insisting on calling.
In fact, Marjorie was in perfect health. More than perfect. She had the particular glow that came with impending motherhood which Clara hadn’t known about. It must have all happened while she was in Scotland, but she could certainly turn it to her advantage now.
“Of course, I had to come,” Clara said. “I was so sorry to miss your wedding. What a great surprise it was to hear that you were married.”
“Yes, indeed,” Marjorie said, settling back with a small, pleased smile. “Who would have thought it? I was always the wallflower of our set. You need not try to pay me Spanish coin by saying otherwise. We both know the truth of it.”
Clara had not sought to contradict her because it was in fact the truth.
“And you,” Marjorie continued, leaning forward with the bright eyes of someone who had been longing to say this for some time. “I cannot believe you are married and a duchess. And you kept it all secret, how perfectly genius. I told Charles we ought to have done the same. I have been absolutely run off my feet with people wanting to call before my confinement. All the fuss about the wedding breakfast and the cake and what flowers and what music. I said to Charles, we should have done exactly what you and Julian did. Obtained a special license and been done with it.”
“Well,” Clara said, “it has not been entirely without its complications. We will have a good many questions to answer in time. Hopefully, the ball will help with that.”
“Oh, your ball. How I wish I could attend. It would be such a joy to see everyone again.” Marjorie sighed then brightened. “All our old friends. Pray, how is Arabella?”
Clara’s heart sank. The entire purpose of this meeting had been to discover whether Marjorie knew anything of Arabella’s whereabouts. The fact that she was asking meant she did not.
“I have not had a chance to see her since I returned from Scotland,” Clara said. “To tell the truth, we had something of a falling out.”
“Oh, what a shame. The two of you were always so close.” Marjorie tilted her head sympathetically. “Well, I am sure she will come round. She was always so good-natured at heart.” She paused. “I imagine she has been very occupied in any case, what with her Frenchman.”
Clara sat very still. Marjorie did know something after all. “Her Frenchman?”
“Yes.” Marjorie looked mildly surprised. “The gentleman she has been keeping such a delicious secret about. Very dashing from what I heard.”
“I… forgive me,” Clara said, choosing her words with care. “I had the impression he was Italian.”
Marjorie shook her head. “Italian? No, I am quite certain he is French. Or at least his people are. His name is certainly French. Bastien, I believe. I cannot recall all the particulars, but I remember thinking what a very romantic name it was.”
Clara set her cup down slowly.
Bastien. Not Bash.
French, not Italian. Or French by origin, perhaps, but with connections to Italy. Or perhaps neither. They had already figured out that Bash had connection to Italy since that is where they went. And Arabella had returned from there with an Italian servant posing as her husband.
“Did she ever say anything more about him?” Clara asked. “Where he was from, precisely? What his family was?”
Marjorie considered. “Only that he was very well traveled. Very cultured. The sort of man who made one feel rather provincial by comparison, she said.” She laughed lightly.
“I do hope the two of you make up,” Marjorie said.
“As do I,” Clara replied. “I hope so very much. Last I heard she had gone to Italy with this gentleman.”
“Yes, that is what I heard as well. I am almost certain she will return happily married, just as you are, and the two of you can make your peace and bond once more over your shared happy fate.”
Clara sat with her hands folded in her lap and said nothing for a moment. Their shared happy fate. If Marjorie only knew that in reality Arabella ran from a self-inflicted wound, just as Clara did. She had chosen this. She knew it. She could have said no when Julian asked if she trusted him. She could have said no when hesuggested marriage. But she hadn’t. And still, as she sat there now, she wondered whether in agreeing to marry him she had made just as large a mistake as Arabella had when she trusted that mysterious stranger.
“I should hope so,” Clara said at last.
The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. Marjorie told her all about her wedding, her plans for when the baby arrived, and all manner of other things besides. Clara listened and nodded and smiled at the right moments, and when she had stayed long enough that leaving would not seem rude, she made her excuses and returned home.
These last few weeks, as she approached Julian’s house, her home now too, she reminded herself, she had felt a certain lift. A sense of something to return to. She had looked forward to stepping through those doors, to seeing Julian, to seeing David, to stepping back into the illusion of what might be.
Today, she felt none of that. There was an emptiness in her chest that hadn’t been there in a long time, a hollowness she recognized and hated the particular feeling of having built something in her head that turned out not to be there.
