“Aurelia, the carriage is ready. If we are late, Lady Ashcombe will pretend not to mind, which is always much worse than being scolded.”
Aurelia folded the letter too quickly. Clara saw it.
Her whole face brightened. “Oh! Is that from Lord Westbridge?”
“It is a letter.”
“From Lord Westbridge.”
“Clara.”
“Well, I am glad of it. Come, the two of them should be there already, waiting for us.”
Aurelia slipped the letter into the drawer of her writing desk, hesitated for the briefest moment, then closed it. Clara did not miss the hesitation. She was too happy to interpret it accurately, however, and only smiled as though Aurelia had confirmed everything she most wished to believe.
The carriage took them westward beneath a sky of mild blue, veiled here and there by thin cloud. By the time they reached Lady Ashcombe’s house, the garden had already filled with color and motion.
It was not so grand as some of the great assemblies, but perhaps more dangerous for appearing harmless. In a ballroom, one expected scrutiny. In a garden, beneath striped awnings and flowering trees, with lemonade offered and hoops set upon the lawn, malice looked less formal and therefore moved more easily.
Lady Ashcombe had arranged the afternoon with excellent taste. There were chairs beneath canvas shades, small tables for refreshments, a lawn set aside for battledore and shuttlecock, and, farther along the gravel walk, a space where musicians had gathered in anticipation of there being dancing once the afternoon cooled.
The roses were just beginning to open, their scent mingling with cut grass, warm leaves, and the faint sweetness of sugared cakes.
Clara stepped from the carriage looking as though she had been invented for such a day. Aurelia followed with more caution.
Captain Harrow appeared within minutes, smiling so broadly upon seeing Clara that any pretense of accidental meeting became impossible.
“Miss Blackmore,” he grinned, bowing. “Miss Finch.”
Clara curtsied, her cheeks already bright. “Captain Harrow.”
Aurelia glanced beyond him. He noticed. The fact that he noticed made her wish she had not done it.
“Lord Westbridge is not with you?” she asked, keeping her tone as neutral as possible.
“No,” he replied. “He sends his apologies. He had business with his solicitor.”
Aurelia’s mind moved at once to Carter. Owen had mentioned nothing definite in his letter that morning, but he had written of inquiries, of leads, of the necessity of discretion.
It was unreasonable, then, to feel disappointed. She felt disappointed, nevertheless.
“I see,” she said.
Captain Harrow’s expression softened, as though he understood too much and would be kind enough not to say so. “I believe he regretted missing the afternoon.”
Clara looked between them with eager interest. “Then we must all tell him how much he missed.”
The afternoon began pleasantly enough. Clara was soon drawn into a party for shuttlecock, where Captain Harrow contrived, with remarkable incompetence, to lose every exchange that might allow her to laugh.
Lady Ashcombe moved among her guests in lavender silk, dispensing greetings, compliments, and gentle commands with equal ease. The musicians played a light air in the distance, and every now and then a breeze passed through the garden, lifting ribbons and stirring the leaves overhead.
Aurelia remained where she was accustomed to remaining, just beyond the center of things. But then, a movement near the refreshment table drew her attention.
Charlotte stood with two young ladies Aurelia knew only slightly, her parasol angled becomingly over one shoulder. She wore pale green, a color that ought to have softened her.It did not. She had the air of a blade wrapped in silk. As Aurelia watched, Charlotte leaned toward one of the ladies and murmured something behind her hand. The lady’s gaze flicked toward Aurelia, then away.
Aurelia looked back to Clara at once. There was no reason to assume the remark concerned her. Charlotte might have been speaking of anything: a gown, a betrothal, a failure of manners at the last assembly. Society offered endless subjects for quiet cruelty.
But a few minutes later, when Aurelia approached a group of ladies she had conversed with only the week before, their conversation faltered. One smiled too quickly. Another discovered a sudden need for lemonade. A third murmured “Miss Finch” in a tone that managed to acknowledge and dismiss her in the same breath. Aurelia paused only long enough to preserve dignity, then moved on.
