It was, perhaps, only in captivity that people minded ruined dresses.
“And so I have!” Olive exclaimed. “I don’t know how you bear it, Clemmie. Wet feet are the absolute worst. Come, let’s change before we dine. Happily, I overpacked for my botched elopement, so I’ve plenty of dresses where this came from.”
It occurred to Archie that he’d noted—several times—the blue day dress that Clem had been wearing. When the light was right, you could see the outline of her legs beneath it. She’d worn it nearly every day except for twice when a pink dress trimmed with ribbons had taken its place—almost certainly a loaner from Olive. Yet he could not recall one thing about Olive’s appearance since they arrived, until now when he’d noticed her Clemlike muddy hem.
Olive took her sister’s arm, and chattered at her as they departed. Clem looked over her shoulder at Archie, just briefly as they mounted the stairs to the terrace. He could not read her expression.
* * *
As Archie sat alone in the drawing room waiting for Simon and Effie, he thought about what a wonderful day it had been, in the end. The worst part had been the bacon. Which made no sense, because what about the Clem-abjectly-weeping part? While he never wanted to cause Clementine pain, her distress had led to a forthright conversation he was very glad they’d had. And then she’d made her ridiculous proposition. He would, of course, be nipping that in the bud, but nothing had ever—ever—flattered him more. So, on balance: a wonderful day.
But the bacon. Having to swallow it guiltily while he made eye contact with her. Something about it was still bothering him. He reminded himself of Clementine’s own words on the matter. She had no jurisdiction over what Archie did or did not eat today.
Still, that bacon weighed heavily, almost as if it remained undigested in his gullet.
All at once and fully formed, a memory surfaced. Mother used to have a bedtime ritual she would perform with Archie when he was small. She had called it “Rose, Thorn, Bud.” She would lie next to him in his bed, and they would look back over the day and name their roses and their thorns, the rose being the best part of the day and the thorn being the worst. Then, the bud: a hope for the next day.
So, thorn: the bacon. Rose . . . He could hardly choose. The moment after he’d swallowed the bacon and caught sight of Clem and suddenly understood her in a way he hadn’t been able to articulate previously? No, not quite. Perhaps watching her stare so intently at the family of snakes? No, not that either.
It was, in fact, the moment he’d fallen out of the tree, as nonsensical as that seemed. Clem’s offering herself to him. It wasn’t a matter of lust, though. No, that moment wasn’t his rose because ofwhatshe’d offered; it was thefactof the offer. To be trusted with such a delicate thing. To be recognized as a person Clem could confide in, as a person who tried to help where he could.
To be known.
By God, she had known all along that he hadn’t eaten that ham all those years ago? And more to the point, she’d knownwhy. Then she’d looked into his eyes and described them so perfectly he’d felt almost as if she were describing more than his eyes. He rather thought he had never been so thoroughlyseenbefore.
Except perhaps by Mother. A great while ago.
Yet that had felt different from this, somehow. With Mother, it had been a . . . calmer sort of seeing. Clementine saw him in a way that both comforted him and agitated him.
He let his mind wander forward to tomorrow, searching for the bud that might bloom. Of course, Archie was not a saint. He was honored by Clem’s trust in him, and he was inordinately flattered by her proposition. And he had to admit—to himself—that he was attracted to her. A man’s prick did not lie, and on several occasions recently while in proximity to Clem, Archie’s had . . . not lied.
Such attraction was logical, he told himself. Clementine Morgan was a very pretty woman. She was kind and clever, too.
It was also irrelevant.
Time to put Clementine and her extraordinary proposal out of his mind, an endeavor that was made easier when the boys clattered in, professing hunger and pouring drinks and asking him what he’d shot today.
“A pheasant,” he said with a mildness he hoped wasn’t too studied. “I gave it to Mrs. MacPuddle for her own dinner.” After he’d gone to retrieve it, he couldn’t bear the thought of eating it, probably because he associated it with Clementine’s anguish. He could see the boys gearing up to ask him more about the day. “Shall we go into dinner? Mrs. MacPuddle came while you two were changing and said we may eat anytime. I, for one, am famished and would happily forgo an aperitif.”
Archie’s hunger pangs turned to another kind of pang entirely when they entered the dining room. Cook had outdone herself. At the center of the table sat a suckling pig roasted to perfection, its skin crispy and deep brown, and . . . its mouth opened unnaturally wide to hold an apple and its empty eye sockets appearing almost demonic.
He thought yet again of that encounter with Mr. Smith, the farmer, all those years ago. Too bad Olive didn’t have any of her dogs with her here.
Seating himself at the rear of the unfortunate creature where at least he did not have a prospect on that uncanny, eyeless face, Archie surveyed the rest of the table. Having enjoyed the informality of their inaugural dinner at the castle, the men had asked for their subsequent meals to be served all at once, rather than in a series of removes. They’d been enjoying helping themselves willy-nilly to whatever they liked, their conversation undisturbed by the presence of servants, who were too thin on the ground at Quintrell Castle anyway to serve a proper meal.
That their dining tradition had been established thusly was a boon to Archie this evening. It meant Effie and Simon did not notice he didn’t take any of the pig. He filled up instead on potatoes, stewed apples, and some kind of wilted green he didn’t care for but shoveled into his mouth all the same. He followed it all with an enormous helping of sticky toffee pudding. Tomorrow was his meatless day with Clementine, but after that, he would find himself some meat that didn’t bring to mind Mr. Smith berating his wife or Clementine screaming as he shot a bird. Perhaps some mutton.
“I’ve been thinking.” Archie angled his chair to face Simon as they pushed their plates away and Effie went to the sideboard to fetch the brandy decanter. He had done so to better see Simon, who was seated next to him, but the adjustment had the happy consequence of putting the ravaged pig outside his field of vision. “Perhaps I ought to take my responsibilities in Lords more seriously. Turn up for more than just the most essential votes.”
“I beg your pardon?” Simon asked, even as Effie exclaimed, “Why in God’s name would you do that?”
He should not have said anything. It was merely a half-formed idea. Not even that. It was an absurd notion that had suddenly popped into his head and just as rapidly out of his mouth. “I’ve been thinking about how I don’t really . . . do anything.”
“You do plenty,” Effie said, inserting himself between Archie and Simon to fill their glasses. “You’re the most accomplished hunter I know, for all that we harangue you about it. You’re a master of so many pursuits: boxing, archery, riding. You, Archie, are a true Corinthian.”
“Yes, but those areidlepursuits. They don’t do anyone any good.”
“But do you really want to become a parliamentarian?” Simon asked, squinting at Archie as if he didn’t quite recognize him.
