“What happened?”
“She ended it.”
“Why?”
“She wanted someone less argumentative.”
Clara smiled.
“Sensible woman.”
“Very.”
He continued.
“I did not see you again until last autumn.”
“Then Father died.”
“I inherited the accounts.”
“I found your name.”
Clara looked away.
“So financial curiosity returned romantic curiosity.”
“No.”
Julian answered immediately.
“Financial horror complicated romantic curiosity.”
She laughed despite herself.
Then became serious.
“Do you understand why I cannot know that?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I still intend to ask someday.”
Clara stopped.
“Julian.”
First name.
Both heard it.
He smiled slightly.
She glared.
“Do not enjoy that.”
“Impossible.”
She continued.
“If you ask before I am ready, I will refuse.”
“I know.”
“If society says I pursued you for repayment—”
“I will correct it.”
“You cannot correct society.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“But I can refuse to reward it.”
Clara looked at him.
That was not nothing.
They continued walking.
He did not propose.
Good.
Augusta saw Clara again in July.
Accidentally.
Bond Street.
Rain.
Of course.
London weather had a sense of theater.
Augusta’s carriage had broken an axle near a bookseller.
She stood beneath an awning with Amelia while a footman searched for a hired coach.
Clara emerged from the shop carrying three books.
All three women froze.
Amelia smiled.
“Miss Bellamy.”
Clara curtsied.
“Lady Amelia.”
Then:
“Lady Harcourt.”
Augusta nodded.
“Miss Bellamy.”
Rain filled the silence.
Amelia looked between them.
“I see a friend.”
There was no friend.
She disappeared anyway.
Traitor.
Augusta and Clara remained beneath the awning.
For several seconds they watched water run along the street.
Then Augusta said:
“I owe you an apology.”
Clara’s face changed.
“You already apologized through Mr. Gray.”
“No.”
That had been a formal letter.
Correct language.
Regret for public disturbance.
Recognition of settlement.
Not an apology.
Augusta looked toward the rain.
“I tore your mask off because I wanted the room to see you as someone who did not belong.”
Clara stared.
Specific.
Good.
Augusta continued.
“I told myself I was protecting my son and my family.”
“I was also punishing you for knowing something I feared.”
Clara’s grip tightened on the books.
Augusta swallowed.
“I am sorry.”
Clara looked toward the street.
“Thank you.”
Nothing else.
Augusta felt strangely relieved.
Then Clara spoke.
“I do not forgive you yet.”
Augusta almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because honesty arrived so cleanly.
“Fair.”
Clara looked toward her.
“I may.”
“Someday.”
“Perhaps.”
Augusta nodded.
“Also fair.”
They waited.