“No. But people rarely wait upon rights when malice serves them better.”
There was the sharpness he admired. Yet it did not disguise the weariness beneath.
“It was afterward that Mr. Johnson refused Clara?”
“Yes.”
Aurelia’s voice altered then, losing its edge. She spoke of Clara’s tears with a steadiness that cost her something. She spoke of Harrow’s arrival and of how he had led Clara out again before everyone. At that, Owen felt a fierce rush of pride in his friend.
“Thomas did well,” he murmured.
“He did more than well. He gave her back her dignity when I could not.”
The pain in the admission struck him.
“You comforted her.”
“I held her while she cried. That is not the same thing.”
“It is not nothing.”
Aurelia looked toward Clara. “It did not stop the whispers.”
“No. But neither did Harrow’s dance … not entirely.”
“No,” she agreed. “It may have made them worse.”
“He would think it worth the cost.”
“I know. That is part of what troubles me.”
Owen glanced at her. She kept her gaze ahead.
“He is good. Better than society deserves, perhaps. And Clara is so young. She believes kindness ought to be enough to silence cruelty.”
“It ought to be.”
“But it is not.”
“No,” Owen told her. “It is not.”
They walked on in silence for several steps. A carriage rattled past at the end of the street. Clara skipped around a puddle, then glanced back with an anxious little smile. Aurelia returned it at once, though Owen saw the effort in it.
He had come prepared to speak of strategy, alternatives, and discretion. Instead, all those words seemed bloodless beside the sight of Aurelia trying to protect Clara from a world that had already taught her too much.
“When I received your letter,” he revealed, “I feared you might wish to end everything.”
She looked at him quickly.
“The investigation,” he added, though not soon enough to disguise the breadth of what he had meant.
Her expression shifted, only slightly.
“I did suggest it.”
“You suggested we consider it. That is not the same thing.”
“It may become the same.”
