“Mrs. Abernathy can chaperone,” Olive said, and to Archie she explained, “Mrs. Abernathy lives two houses down and was a dear friend of Mother’s. She often accompanies us to events when Father is indisposed.”
It was amusing—sadly amusing—to think that after all that had passed these recent weeks, the Morgan sisters needed a chaperone to be seen in public with Archie and his friends. This was the world that so chafed Clementine, and he couldn’t blame her.
“Of course you may not go, Olive,” Sir Albert said matter-of-factly.
“But, Father!” Clementine laid a hand on Olive’s arm and sent her a quelling look.
“They’re not to go outside at all,” Sir Albert said.
“I beg your pardon?” Archie asked.
“After the near-misses of the past fortnight, my daughters will remain at home unless they are going somewhere with me, somewhere I deem worthy of our time.”
Archie couldn’t have heard that right. “What about the park?” The park was not the forest, but it was better than nothing.
“The park is not worthy of our time.” Sir Albert paused with a bite of roast beef halfway to his mouth, and appearing to reconsider, added, “Unless, of course, one of the girls is invited to promenade by an eligible gentleman.” He smiled, as if pleased by the notion he’d conjured. The beef resumed its journey, and as Sir Albert chomped down on it with more gusto than necessary, Archie didn’t miss Clementine’s wince.
“Sir Albert.” Archie paused, gathering his thoughts. He needed to proceed delicately. “With all due respect, I must object. That is no way for . . .”
Clementine to live.
“. . . anyone to live. What you are describing sounds akin to incarceration.”
“It isn’t akin to incarceration,” Sir Albert said mildly. “Itisincarceration.”
Well. Archie cleared his throat, buying time, trying to think how to proceed. “Surely we can chalk up recent events to a surfeit of youthful indiscretion. Mr. Bull is no longer on English soil; everyone’s reputations remain unblemished.”
“My boy, what exactly are you arguing for here?”
“I . . .” He wasn’t sure. He didn’t have the right to argue at all, did he?
“The last thing I would wish is for you to think me ungrateful. You and your friends”—Sir Albert gestured toward Simon and Effie—“have gone to extraordinary lengths to help my family. But it’s my family, and I must do as I see fit. I have grown too permissive, and—”
“No.” Archie surprised himself by pushing back his chair and standing. The act shocked Sir Albert into silence, a silence that Archie filled. “Perhaps I haven’t any jurisdiction here, at least not of the legal sort, but I believe I do have a sort of moral jurisdiction. Miss Morgan is my friend. You can’t lock her up as if she were a common criminal with no allowance made for her wishes!” His voice had taken on a wild tone, and he paused to clear his throat. “And Miss Olive, too,” he added, regretting his initial omission of Olive.
He didn’t know what to say next. Debating wasn’t fraught for him in the same way reading was, but it was still far from his natural milieu. He had probably gone too far, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He blundered on.
“Clementine needs access to . . .” He’d been going to sayClementine needs access to the wilds. She needs to be free.But he would be better off reframing his argument. And of course he had erred by using her Christian name. “Miss Morgan needs access to fresh air. As does Miss Olive. All young ladies do. Fresh air is beneficial to the constitution.”
His delivery was as weak as his argument. It was difficult to explain in a way that would not expose him as having too much knowledge of Clementine.
What Sir Albert failed to understand, what seemingly everyone failed to understand, was that Clementine’s aversion to marriage was just that—an aversion. It was not a mere disinclination that would wear off with time and persistence. It was—
“My daughters will thank me later,” Sir Albert said, looking up at the still-standing Archie. A hint of pique had come into the older man’s tone, a contrast from all the smooth gratitude he had previously expressed. “When they are mothers, when they have their own children, they will understand.”
When they are mothers.
Clem wasn’t going to be a mother. Archie seemed to be the only person in the world who understood that. His fanciful image of Clementine setting out on a ramble with her children, was just that: a fancy. His mind had invented a pretty picture of her hopping over a stile and turning around to help a child, a child lucky enough to be hers, make the descent. It was hard to let go of that vision, though he wasn’t sure why, because he had heard Clem’s thoughts on the matter, and he respected them. He was—
He gasped, as it hit him. “Oh, dear God.”
Why hadn’t he seen this before? It was one thing to be less than clever, but he wasn’t completely daft. Or so he liked to think.
“Is everything all right, Lord Harcourt?”
That was from Olive, who was regarding him with concern. Everyone was regarding him with concern, suddenly.
There had been a man in these imaginings, a vague outline of a husband, a father. The man lifting Clementine’s child over the stile, handing him to her. The man listening to Clementine tell the story of the hunter made of stars who never caught up with the bear. The man carrying sleepy, dirt-mussed children upstairs to the nursery and smiling as their sticky fingers patted his face.
