Again and again through the meal afterward, Aurelia glanced toward her cousin. Clara smiled when spoken to, answered sweetly, and even laughed once or twice. Yet the brightness in her had dimmed, especially now after the short conversation with Charlotte.
With every such glance, guilt pressed more heavily upon Aurelia.
What had her aunt been thinking, bringing her here? Bringing her to London at all?
She had told herself she came for Clara’s sake and for Aunt Louisa’s sake, because someone had to guide the girl through her season, and Aurelia, having already learned the harsher lessons of society, might at least shield her from some of its worst cruelties.
But what if she had done the opposite?
What if Clara would have flourished under any other companion? Any other name? What if Aurelia had not come to protect her but to taint her by proximity?
The thought lodged like a shard of broken glass.
By the time the second course had been removed and the ladies settled into smaller conversational groups, Aurelia was no longer hearing half of what was said to her. She answered by instinct, smiled when required, and kept one part of herself fixed stubbornly on Clara.
At last, when they found themselves momentarily apart from the others near a side table laden with sweetmeats and glasses of ratafia, Aurelia leaned slightly toward her cousin and whispered under her breath. “I am sorry.”
Clara turned at once. “For what?”
“For this.” Aurelia forced herself to hold her gaze. “For bringing you where my presence can do you harm.”
Clara blinked, then frowned with unexpected firmness.
“Do not be absurd.”
Aurelia tried to smile, but it would not properly come. “I am not being absurd. I can see what this is doing to you.”
Clara shook her head. “You can see gossips being vulgar. That is not the same thing.”
“It is still my fault.”
“No.” Clara’s voice, though quiet, had become entirely resolute. “It is not your fault if other people have bad hearts and empty heads.”
Aurelia stared at her. Clara lifted her chin in a way that reminded Aurelia so strongly of her mother in younger days that it almost hurt to see it.
“I would not want to be here with anyone but you,” Clara said with a smile. “Not if all the women in London turned their backs at once. Let them tar me with the same brush if they like. It only proves the brush is a foolish one.”
Despite the ache in her chest, Aurelia laughed softly.
“You ought not to be the one comforting me.”
“Then do not force me into it so often.”
There was such spirit in the answer that Aurelia felt some small part of the day become bearable again. She reached briefly for Clara’s hand and squeezed it once.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Clara smiled. “You may thank me by ceasing to apologize every time someone else behaves badly.”
Aurelia promised nothing, but she loved her cousin very much in that moment.
The luncheon wore on a little longer, though to Aurelia it began to feel endless. She knew they could not leave too early without making their discomfort obvious, and so she endured. At last, however, the proper hour came. Ladies began to rise, servants fetched shawls and reticules, and the room dissolved into that pleasant confusion which always accompanied departures.
Aurelia was gathering Clara’s gloves when Charlotte appeared before them.
“Miss Finch,” she said, all sweetness. “Miss Blackmore. You cannot be leaving already.”
Aurelia looked up. Charlotte’s expression was charming. Her tone was warm. No one observing from a distance would have seen anything but civility. And yet Aurelia felt at once the same instinctive wariness she had felt in the park.
