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“The baby elephants. In Trafalgar Square. With the guillotine…? Oh, you mean they haven’t realized that was me? Good, good. Never mind. Carry on.”
His cousin exhaled. “Christian. Do be serious. I am.”
“Continue,” Christian said. “You were saying that something truly awful has happened.”
Lillian sniffed. His mother handed her a handkerchief, which she used to dab at her eyes.
“My dear Lord Ashford,” Lillian said, “you know you’re the dearest of my cousins. I care for you as if you were my own brother. Despite your terrible sense of—well, never mind that. I can’t bear to see you suffer so. I would do anything to have you as happy as I am.”
“How am I suffering?”
She dabbed at her eyes and looked at him. “Lady Cailing said that you should be struck from the list of eligible bachelors.”
Christian took a bite of his sandwich. The bread was dry; the cucumber was limp. Clearly, he needed to discuss sandwiches with his cook. In fact…
No, no distracting himself with that now. His mother and cousin watched him expectantly, as if they’d disclosed all they had to say.
“That’s it?” he finally asked.
“Christian, Lady Cailing is respected in the highest levels of society!”
He supposed she was. He sighed and tried to take the complaint seriously. “Why am I to be so censured? Am I accused of murder?”
Lillian dropped her handkerchief. “Is there any danger of that?”
“He’s joking,” his mother said with a shake of her head. “You know how he is—always joking about murdering people.” She gave him a reproachful look.
“Not always,” Christian put in unhelpfully. “Sometimes I joke about murdering baby elephants.”
Three very proper people stared at him in utter horror.
“Although in my defense,” Christian continued, “this time, they weren’t really baby elephants, not by months. They were toddler elephants at the worst. I’m sure that makes you all feel better.”
“Christian.” Lillian put her face in her hands, and her husband patted her shoulder consolingly.
Christian sighed. “I never remember when it’s appropriate to joke about baby elephants. Not over tea, apparently. Tell me—elephant death is more of a breakfast subject, isn’t it?”
Lillian looked over at his mother. “Yes. I see what you mean. It’s getting worse. Much worse.”
Christian inhaled slowly. It was one thing to tweak his cousin and mother. With their long faces and dire pronouncements, he’d expected something that had actual consequences. But they cared about him, and he cared about them. “Very well. I’ll do my best to behave. Why have I been subject to such blistering, terrifying censure? And why is Lady Cailing saying such terrible things to your face? Someone should speak to her about her dreadful manners.”
“Of course she didn’t tell me directly! How horrible that would be.” Lillian sniffed. “She told Lady Whitford, who told Lady Dunworth, who told your aunt Madge, who told me.”
Christian smiled. “Oh, that’s good. You made it sound as if I were a total pariah. Instead, I’m the talk of the town.”
“Christian.” His mother glared at him across the table. “How can you jest so at a time like this? After all the work we did to make sure your image was so perfectly sustained, and now…” She shuddered. “I will admit that your somewhat peculiar sense of humor has not harmed your chances the way I thought it would. People seem to actually enjoy it.”
“Everyone loves you,” Lillian said. “But the gossip now is that you are too single-minded. You think of nothing but trade deals, smuggling, importation, exportation. You don’t go to balls. You don’t attend the opera. You don’t visit gentlemen’s clubs except to talk of Parliament.”
“And to make jokes about baby elephants,” his mother muttered.
Lillian continued on as if she had not been interrupted. “Next they’ll be talking mental instability.”
Next to her, her husband was nodding. “It could become dire.”
Christian shrugged. “Well, that sounds surprisingly accurate for ton gossip. The long chain of whispers has managed to discover truth for once. This seems cause for celebration.”
His mother set down her cup and saucer. “Christian. You are my only child. You are my life’s work. I…” Her voice caught for a moment and she looked at Lillian and her husband as if for support. “I gave up everything to make sure that no rumors circulated of your condition. You know how gossip is. Go to a few parties. Dance with a few young ladies.” She shrugged. “Marry one of them, and nobody will ever speak ill of you again.”
Christian couldn’t help himself. He burst into laughter. Well, at least he’d tried to be serious. “Go to a few parties. Dance a few dances. Commit yourself in a public, binding ceremony to another person for the rest of your life. One of these things is rather different in scope than the others, don’t you think?”
“Christian,” she said repressively.
“Since you’ve been so solicitous, here is some advice on soothing your sensibilities: Buy a few ballgowns. Walk in the park with a friend. Renounce your British citizenship and move to the Maldives.”
She glared at him.
“Ah, see, no one likes the rapid escalation game, do they? I commend baby elephants to you as superior amusement in every way.”
“Christian, I am trying to be serious.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I tried, too. It lasted about a minute before I decided it wouldn’t help one bit. I am who I am. I don’t care if people think I’m off, or if they wonder if I’m ever going to get married. I don’t mind if they strike me from whatever list they’ve put me on. I am never going to stop being the person that I am, and I don’t see why I should apologize for it.”
She leaned toward him. “We made sure that nobody knew of your night terrors. We never spoke of the list-making or the counting or any of the other oddities about you. People think you’re witty and charming and the little peculiarities, well… Nobody has minded until now. We must make sure that this continues. We must make plans.”
“Oh,” said Christian. “I have an idea. I could speak on behalf of a bill in Parliament. I could write an editorial for the newspaper. Or—how about this for a difference in scope—I could tell everyone my father wanted to put me in a madhouse when I was a child.”
“Christian!”
“Mmm.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “I see you still don’t like the game you invented.”
His mother looked around, as if to make sure that none of the footmen were present. “It was not a madhouse,” she finally said primly. “That makes people think of Bedlam. And you never went; I made sure of that.”
“Yes,” Christian said. “I recall.”
“But it’s those very facts that we must be vigilant about. It’s embarrassing—no, damaging—for everyone to think you’re obsessed with the details of the opium trade in the Orient. An interest is allowed; an obsession borders on the radical. Can you not just set it aside for the next decade or so? What is wrong with championing another cause? There are orphans here in England already. Orphans make an excellent cause.”
“Mmm.” Christian shook his head. “Given my track record with young elephants, I cannot think that trusting me with orphans would be a wise choice.”
Lillian set her fingers to her temples. “Lord Ashford. Christian. We love you. We want you to be happy. Just come with me to tea a few times. I can have Lady Ennish invite you tomorrow. You can make your jokes, and people will laugh. Behave yourself. Fit in. That’s all anyone wants to see—that you’re still a part of us.”
> That was precisely the problem. He was afraid that he wasn’t any longer.
“I know,” Christian said. “I understand. I’m sorry.” He patted her hand. “I love you all, too, and I’m only telling jokes because I can’t make this right. You see…” He’d stopped being one of them. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but it had. “I don’t drink tea any longer.”
“Pretend,” Lillian begged. “You used to at least pretend before.”
He had pretended. He’d pretended very well for years. He’d told himself when his friend’s ship had sailed that Anthony would be back in seven years, having learned his lesson. Everything would come right again. Anthony would confess his error. Christian had pretended for years, even after he heard that Anthony had been…misplaced. He’d pretended those reports were in error even while he sent his own men to investigate. His pretenses had all started to break down, month by month, as the men he had sent returned, armed with interviews and notes, all of which amounted to one thing: Anthony was no longer in this world.
There would be no apology. There would be no promises. There would never be a reconciliation. What Christian had done was irrevocable, and all the doubts he’d pretended out of existence had welled up in his dreams with the fury of phantasms that would no longer be suppressed.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I can’t pretend. Not anymore.”
It was three days after Judith had last seen Christian.
Daisy had come over and was perched on a rickety chair. Theresa and Benedict sat on the sofa next to her.
“I want to talk to you about tomorrow.”
Theresa raised a hand. “Pardon me, but we can’t start. We have to wait for all the cats to arrive.”
Judith grimaced at her sister. Squid sat proudly on the sofa next to Theresa, his paws stretched in front of him in the regal pose that had earned him his full name: Lord Squid, Baron of Kittensley. Caramel was curled on Benedict’s lap. Her brother rubbed her ears idly. Parson sat on the side table.
“The cats are mostly here,” Judith said. “Besides, I’ve seen little evidence that they attend to English in the first place.”
