thinking-what he was trying to say-and at the same time not to say? He loved her. It was there in words in his mind at last.
It would be unforgivable to embarrass her. At all costs, he must behave properly. He pulled his shoulders back and sat up straighter. “It sounds a most excellent work that you and Emily are engaged in.” He prayed that his voice sounded normal, not too suddenly remote, too pompous.
“Yes.” She kept her back to him and stared out the window at the garden. “Lady Cumming-Gould is also concerned, and Mr. Somerset Carlisle, the Member of Parliament. I think we have already accomplished something.” She turned at last and smiled at him. “I’m so glad you approve. Now that you have said so, I can confess I should have been hurt had you not.”
He felt the heat burn his cheeks again, with a mixture of pleasure and pain. He stood, then picked up the soldier’s letters from the desk. He could not bear for her to go, and yet it was equally intolerable now that she should stay. He must not betray himself. The emotion he felt was so profound and so very unreliable inside him that he must excuse her and be alone.
“Please take these, and read them again if you wish.”
She understood the convention well. She accepted them and thanked him. “I will take the greatest care of them,” she said quietly. “I feel he is a friend of both of us. I do thank you for a unique afternoon. Good day, General Balantyne.”
He took a deep breath. “Good day, Charlotte.” He reached for the bell. When the footman came, he watched her go, her back straight, head high. He stood exactly where he had been when she left, trying to keep her presence with him, to wrap himself in a golden cocoon before the warmth died and he was left alone again.
Balantyne did not sleep well that night. He chose to be out when Augusta returned, and when he came back to the house he was already late for dinner.
“I cannot imagine why you wish to walk at this hour,” she remarked with a little shake of her head. “It is totally dark, and the coldest night of the year.”
“It is quite fine,” he answered. “I imagine presently there will be a moon.” It was irrelevant. He had walked to put off the time of meeting her and having to step out of his dream and back into the pattern of life. To try to explain that would be cruel and incomprehensible to her. Instead he broached another unpleasant subject.
“Augusta, I think it would be advisable for you to take some counsel with Christina, give her a little advice.”
Augusta raised her eyebrows and sat motionless, her soupspoon halfway to her mouth. “Indeed? Upon what subject?”
“Her behavior toward Alan.”
“Do you consider that she is failing in her duty?”
“It is nothing so simple.” He shook his head. “But duty does not beget love. She is contrary, too unkind with her tongue. I have seen no softness in her. She is quite unlike Jemima, for example.”
“Naturally.” She carried the spoon to her mouth and ate elegantly. “Jemima was brought up as a governess. One would expect to find her manner a good deal more obedient and grateful. Christina is a lady.”
It was not necessary to remind him that Augusta’s father had been an earl, and his own possessed of no distinction but a military one. “I was thinking of her happiness,” he said steadily. “One may be a princess and yet not necessarily inspire love. She would serve herself better if she were to charm Alan a little more, and take him for granted a good deal less. He is not a man to be dazzled by appearances, or to have his affections heightened by the awareness that other men find her pleasing.”
Augusta went suddenly quite white, her arm frozen, fingers rigid around the spoon.
“Are you ill?” he said in confusion. “Augusta!”
She blinked. “No … no, I am perfectly well. I swallowed my soup a little carelessly, that is all. What did you mean about Christina? She has always been something of a flirt. It is natural for a pretty woman. Alan can hardly take exception to that.”
“You are talking about social customs!” Why did she seem unable to understand? “I am talking about love, gentleness, sharing things.”
Her eyes widened and there was a shred of bitter humor in them he found confusing. “You are being romantic, Brandon,” she said. “I had not expected anything so-so very young of you!”
“You mean naive? On the contrary, it is you and Christina who are naive-in imagining that a relationship can survive without honest emotion and the occasional sacrifice to unreason in the name of kindness. You can argue people into a business arrangement, but not into affection.”
Augusta sat still for several minutes, considering what he had said and what she should reply to him. “I think we should be interfering where it is no longer our concern,” she said at last. “Christina is a married woman now. Her private life is Alan’s responsibility, and you would be trespassing upon his rights if you were to offer her advice, especially about such personal matters.”
He was surprised. That was the last answer he had expected from her. “You mean you would stand by and watch her destroy her marriage because you consider it interfering to offer her advice? She did not cease to be our daughter just because she became Alan’s wife, nor did our affection stop!”
“Of course our affection did not stop,” she said impatiently. “But if you regard the law, as well as the practices of daily life, you will find that Alan is responsible for her now. For a woman to marry is a far bigger change in all her circumstances than you seem to appreciate. What passes between them is private, and we would be deeply mistaken to interfere.” She smiled faintly. “Would you have appreciated it, Brandon, had my father offered you advice upon your conduct toward me?” “I was speaking of advising Christina-not Alan!” “Would you have accepted it from your own father?” The thought was an entirely new one to him. It had never occurred to him that anyone else might have concerned himself in the more private aspects of his life. It was appalling-offensive! … But this was a totally different matter. Christina was his daughter, and he was seeking for Augusta, as her mother, to counsel her so that she might amend her behavior and forestall a great deal of unhappiness for herself.
He opened his mouth to point out all this, then saw from his wife’s expression that to her it was precisely the same. He smiled in dry appreciation and looked back at her.
“I would not have minded had your mother counseled you toward affection rather than duty, if she had considered it necessary. Indeed, I have no idea whether she did or not!”
“She did not!” Augusta said a trifle sharply. “And nor shall I offer advice to Christina unless she asks it of me. To do so would be to assume that I know what passes between them, and would require an explanation from her as to things which are extremely personal. I shall not place her in that position, nor do I wish her to believe me inquisitive.”
He could think of nothing more to say. They were arguing in words; they were not really even speaking of the same emotions. He let the silence close the subject, and he did not raise it again. He could not speak to Christina himself; he did not know how to begin, how to avoid her either laughing at him or becoming offended. But he could speak to Alan Ross.
Feeling he could not afford to wait for an opportunity to present itself, Balantyne went the following day to visit Alan Ross, at a time when he believed it likely Christina would be out. Even if, by misfortune, she was at home, it would not be awkward to excuse himself from her presence and talk alone with Ross.
It was not an interview he looked forward to, for he had abandoned any idea of trying to be oblique. Since his own emotions had been stripped of their usual protections of ritual and words, he found it surprisingly easier now to contemplate speaking honestly.
Christina was not at home. Alan Ross welcomed him and showed him into his study where he had been writing letters. It was a pleasant room, entirely masculine, but obviously a place where someone spent a great deal of time and kept personal possessions that were both treasured and frequently used.
They exchanged trivialities for a few minutes. Normally it would have been a comfortable introduction into any of a dozen subjects of mutual interest, but today Balantyne was too conscious of the reasons for his visit to descend to mere companionship. As soon as the footman had left the tray with sherry and glasses, he turned to Ross.
“Did you know Bertie Astley well?” he asked.
Alan Ross seemed to pale. “Not very,” he said quietly.
Balantyne waited, unsure how to continue. Was there pain underneath that polite reply, the memory of Christina laughing, flirting, being entertained? Somehow he imagined both the Astleys as fashionable and witty,
