It had begun again … or perhaps it had never stopped. Perhaps all that had changed was that she had allowed herself, for a few foolish days, to believe kindness could silence memory.
As the dancing began upon the lawn, Clara stood up with Captain Harrow. There could be no hiding the pleasure in either face. He bent his head to say something, and Clara laughed so brightly that even those disposed to disapproval could not help but glance over. They looked beautiful together, and painfully young.
Aurelia’s heart ached. She had to protect that happiness, even from herself.
When the dance ended, Clara was claimed by another partner, and Harrow was drawn into conversation with two officers who had appeared near the refreshment table. Aurelia took the opportunity to move toward a quieter walk bordered by clipped shrubs and early roses. She had only gone a little way when Charlotte appeared beside her.
“Miss Finch,” Charlotte said, as though the meeting were accidental. “How solitary you are.”
Aurelia turned. “I had thought myself merely walking.”
“One may do both.”
“So it seems.”
Charlotte smiled. “How very sharp. I had forgotten that about you.”
“I was not aware you remembered anything about me.”
“Oh, more than you might suppose. London remembers families, even when they go away.”
The remark was made lightly. Its intention was not.
Aurelia looked toward the lawn, where several guests moved in cheerful clusters, close enough to see them together but too far to hear. Charlotte had chosen her ground well.
“I hope London may find more interesting occupations,” Aurelia said.
“It rarely does.” Charlotte adjusted one gloved finger with delicate care. “Your return has caused a little curiosity. One cannot blame people. After so long abroad, and with your mother still absent, questions are natural.”
“My mother’s health does not permit travel.”
“So I have heard.” Charlotte’s eyes lifted. “How sad. I remember my father speaking of Lady Finch once or twice. A woman of very strong feelings, I believe.”
“A woman of very strong principles.”
“Principles.” Charlotte gave the word a pretty, doubtful shape. “Yes, I suppose it depends on who tells the story.”
“It often does.”
“And your father? Did he leave many stories behind him?”
Aurelia’s hand tightened around the handle of her parasol.
“My father left memories enough to satisfy those who loved him.”
“How prettily said. Though I meant papers, perhaps. Letters. Such things do survive in families sometimes, even when families themselves do not prosper.”
There it was again, that probing disguised as conversation.
Aurelia met her gaze. “If you are interested in old papers, Miss Langley, I recommend a library. They are full of them.”
Charlotte laughed softly. “How defensive you are. I wonder why.”
“I wonder why you ask questions to which you pretend not to know the purpose.”
For the first time, Charlotte’s smile sharpened.
“Perhaps I am trying to understand you. After all, we are likely to see a great deal of one another if your attachment to Lord Westbridge continues.”
