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Since Simon had already, in Olive’s eyes, anyway, shattered all polite norms, he took Diantha’s arm to interrupt her progress, leaned over, and spoke in her ear. “This isn’t over. I will see you tonight.”
He was somewhat surprised that she appeared that evening. It would have been easy for her not to. She could have gone to bed, and tomorrow, there would be a flurry of activity as the household made ready to leave, the ladies first, in the coach, and the gentlemen later, on horseback. She could have slipped from his grasp.
He was waiting for her in the usual spot, but he hadn’t lit a fire, so he felt her approach more than saw it.
And then there she was, standing directly before him, the outline of her distinguishable from the blackness of the night more by memory than by sight.
The last time. The last night. The last comet-hunting outing.
But there was no comet, and there were truths to uncover, so he stood and said, “Come with me.”
She made no protest as he took her to the gentlemen’s cave. He had left the fire going, and he led her to sit by it, depositing her on one end of the settee that faced it and sitting himself at the other. He would have wished for separate armchairs, for he needed to be as free from distraction as possible in order to have this conversation, but the space was small and its furnishings limited.
They spoke in unison. He said, “Tell me what you meant before,” and she said, “I cannot tell you any more.”
They did it again, him saying, “Tell me,” and her saying, “No.”
He wanted to shout. If someone was blackmailing her, it needed to stop.
“You said you would keep my confidence,” she said.
“I have. I am. I will. But—”
She held up a hand. “You said trustworthiness was the most important quality in a friend.”
“I didn’t say that; you did.”
“Well, either I can trust you, or I can’t. Which is it?”
He was taken aback. She’d spoken with a tone that fell somewhere between exasperation and anger. Angering Diantha was not something he had ever wanted to do, and faced with a choice such as that—either I can trust you, or I can’t—there was no question. He turned so he was facing her, one leg on the ground, the other tucked up on the settee. It was an awkward position, but he wanted her to see him head-on when he said, “You can trust me.”
“And either you can trust me, or you can’t. You don’t. Which is it?”
Again, she had his back against a wall. He gave the only answer there was: “I trust you.”
“Then know that I have the situation in hand.”
Simon, the parliamentarian, was defeated.
“What are you going to do when you get home?” she asked, and he recognized the question for what it was: an unsubtle attempt to change the subject.
He answered it, though he understood that in so doing he was allowing his goals to recede further. “I am going to have a very unpleasant conversation with my mother.” He laughed, and he heard the bitterness in it. “We can’t all have mothers as lovely as Lady Harcourt.”
“Did Lord Harcourt and his mother always have a good relationship? Back to when he was young?”
He did not speak initially. He wasn’t sure how she had turned him so neatly from his mission. He didn’t like to be the kind of man who was so easily swayed.
He took some consolation in the idea that perhaps he wasn’t the kind of man who was easily swayed, generally speaking. Perhaps he was only easily swayed by her. It was a strangely mollifying notion.
“Yes,” he said, surrendering. “It was evident that she loved him very much. They were quite close.”
“They still are. I don’t mean to issue a rebuke, but I don’t think you ought to have used the past tense there.”
“You are, of course, correct. I stand chastened.”
“I know how much it hurts Lord Harcourt when she doesn’t know him. And I know she so rarely does. But when she is calm, he sits with her, and she holds his hand. She doesn’t hold my hand, or that of the younger Lady Harcourt. Lord Harcourt calms his mother, even when she doesn’t know who he is.”
“Perhaps she does know who he is, in some way that is beyond conventional knowing,” Simon speculated.
