“Good afternoon, Mr. Drummond,” she began, then blushed at the clumsy formality of it. Surely neither of them needed to pretend quite so much? A little social grace to hide behind was good, but too much and it ceased to be a shield and became a mask.
“How kind of you to call,” she said in a rush. “Please come in. It’s turning a little cold, don’t you think? Is it too late to offer you tea?”
“No—thank you,” he accepted, and followed her in. “I mean, no, it is not too late. I should very much like a cup of tea.” The small room was exactly as he had remembered it, cramped, narrow windowed, shabby carpets worn in the center, mismatched furniture, only made special by her few small possessions kept from the house in Belgravia: a painting of the western isles, a small bronze figure of a horse, a few embroidered cushions.
She rang the bell and when her one maid appeared requested tea with a courtesy few women used towards servants. He could not remember whether it was her usual manner or something new since her wildly reduced circumstances. Either way, its graciousness warmed him ridiculously, and its necessity touched him to new sadness.
Eleanor stood by the mantel shelf, looking down at the fire, unlit. It was too early in the season to burn a fire all day, for one who had to be careful of the coal.
“I hope you are not concerned for me?” she said quietly. “It is not necessary, I assure you. My means are sufficient. And I really have no desire now to mix in society.” She looked at him suddenly, her eyes very serious.
“I did not come out of any anxiety for you,” he replied, meeting her gaze.
She blushed, the color rising up her cheeks in a dark tide.
Again he felt exposed. He knew his emotions were in his face, and he had no idea how to hide them.
“How is your case progressing?” she asked quickly. “Are you doing any better?”
She had changed the subject that was unspoken between them, and yet as obvious as if everything had been heard in words. He resented it, and yet he was also grateful.
“No, I think we really know no more than last time I was here,” he replied ruefully. “Pitt is determined it is not the wife or her lover, but I think he is wrong. There really is no evidence either way.”
“Why do you think it is them?” she asked, sitting down at last, and permitting him to do so as well.
“Tragic as it is, it is still the most likely,” he answered. “The only other alternative seems to be to do with the Farriers’ Lane case. And that was closed five years ago. Eleanor …”
She looked up, waiting, her breath indrawn as if she too were about to speak.
“Eleanor, I really don’t care about the case—or any other case especially. It has become less and less important to me lately …”
“I’m sorry—but I expect you will get over it. We all experience a touch of ennui occasionally. Familiar things become tedious for a while. Maybe you need a break from London? Have you thought of going away for a few days? Even a week or two, perhaps?”
All sorts of answers came to his mind. He could not leave Bow Street until this case was resolved. The murder of a judge was too important. It would look as if he did not care, even though there was nothing he could do that Pitt would not do better. He did not wish to inflict his restlessness on his daughters, who would expect him to join their family life. A fortnight with either of his sons-in-law would be far from restful, and he hated being in someone’s house when he had neither a true guest’s status nor a resident’s independence. He would be bored and lonely staying in a hotel, and long walks in the autumn solitude of the hills would leave his problem untouched.
Instead he spoke the simple truth.
“My feeling has nothing to do with London, or the death of Judge Stafford. It has simply sharpened my knowledge of what I must do.”
There was a flicker of fear in her face, which might have meant anything. With a cold hollow in his stomach he plowed on, dreading her response, and yet determined now not to shirk the issue. He was capable of more pain than he had believed, but he was not a coward.
She was waiting, accepting now that she could not dissuade him.
“I must acknowledge that my happiness lies with you.” He could feel the blood hot in his cheeks. “And ask you if you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Almost before he had finished the denial was in her face, the misery in her eyes.
“It would be an honor, Micah. But you must know I cannot.”
“Why not?” He heard his voice and hated himself for his lack of dignity, his childishness, as if arguing could make a difference. Why was he vain enough to have imagined that her gratitude, her innate kindness was anything akin to love?
“You know the answer to that.” Her voice was low and full of pain. Her face had the baffled look of one who has been struck unexpectedly.
“You do not care for me.” He forced the words out, preferring to say them himself so he would not hear them on her lips.
She looked down at the floor.
“Yes, I do,” she said very quietly, less than a smile touching her mouth, merely a softness. “I care for you very much—far too much to allow you to marry a woman who is socially such an outcast that alliance with her would ruin you.”
He drew in his breath to argue.
She heard him, and looked up quickly.
“Yes, it would. The scandal surrounding Sholto will never be forgotten. I am inextricably tied to it, and I always will be. I was his wife. There will always be people who remember that.”
“I don’t—” he began.
“Hush, my dear,” she interrupted him. “It is very noble of you to say that you do not care about society, but you have to. How could you hold the position you do, commanding the investigation into delicate cases where political discretion is needed, and immense tact, scandals that involve our greatest families, if your own wife had been so closely tied to the very worst of them?” Her eyes were intense. “I know very little of the police, but I can see that much. I am sensible of your honor, that you would not withdraw an offer once made, no matter what your greater wisdom might tell you, but please—we have been friends. Let us at least keep honesty between us. It would ruin you, and I cannot let that happen.”
Again he wanted to speak, to argue, but he knew she was right. He could never continue in his position if he were married to Eleanor Byam. Some scandals were forgotten, but that one would not be—not in ten years, not in twenty. The absurdity was that if he were to keep her as his mistress there would be whispers, a little laughter, perhaps a good deal of envy. She was a beautiful woman, but their affair would be largely ignored. Whereas if he did what was immeasurably more honorable, and married her, he would be distrusted and eventually shunned.
“I know,” he said very quietly. He wanted to touch her. He wished to so intensely it was a physical effort not to, but he knew it would be wrong, clumsy, and somehow indelicate. “But I count your company a greater happiness than any social or professional position.”
She looked away quickly, for the first time her composure breaking. The tears filled her eyes. She stood up and walked over to the mantel shelf.
“You are very generous, and I admire you immensely for it. But it does not alter anything. I cannot let you do such a thing.” She turned around and forced herself to smile at him, the tears standing out in her eyes. “What kind of love would I have for you if I were to take my own well-being at such a price to you? It would be no happiness.”