Miss Debenham's Secret (The Husband Hunters Club 5.50)

Or worse.

Her heart fluttered wildly when she thought of ‘worse’.

She tried to concentrate on her teaching, that was the only way she could keep her mind from dwelling on dire possibilities, but sometimes she couldn’t help herself. Now the day they had capsized in their sailing boat seemed somehow a prophesy of things to come, which was very silly, and so Alistair would tell her next time he wrote.

She missed him terribly, but she’d rather miss him than lose him altogether.

“Clarissa, that is an appalling habit.”

Guiltily she removed her fingernails from her mouth. “Sorry, Father.”

“What are you reading that is so compelling?”

“The story about Alistair’s ship in action, Father.”

He nodded but said nothing. He still hadn’t forgiven Alistair and Clarissa knew he blamed him for making her far more assertive than she used to be. She rather thought her father was afraid that one day she would up and leave him to manage for himself in his old age. He’d probably blame Alistair for that, too.

“I must go,” she said, carefully placing the newspaper in a drawer for next time. “The students will be arriving soon and I haven’t put out the slates or written up the lessons.”

He shot her a look and for some reason she thought he appeared guilty. “I have an old grammar school friend coming for a visit today,” he said, as if it were of little consequence. “You needn’t come home for lunch, Clarissa. I will manage. I’d rather you didn’t interrupt us.”

He was acting strangely but Clarissa was too busy thinking about Alistair to give it much thought as she hurried away.

***

Debenham opened the door to the knock. He was prepared for this visit and he knew what to say, but nevertheless he was shocked when he saw his visitor, and felt a momentary inability to speak. He’d made Clarissa believe it was an old friend but he’d lied, to spare her feelings, he told himself self-righteously. This was all for Clarissa’s sake and nothing to do with his fears for his own lonely old age.

In fact the man who was visiting him today was Lieutenant Alistair McKay.

The young man had gone off to sea hale and hearty and he’d returned a cripple. He walked with the aid of crutches because half his leg had been sawn off, and there was a rather ugly scar on his face too.

“Come in then,” he said gruffly, and turned away so he wouldn’t have to watch the chap struggling through the doorway and into the parlour.

He waited until Alistair had sat himself down, with some awkwardness, and offered him tea.

“I won’t stay for refreshments,” Alistair said quietly, and there was no lurking smile in his eyes, as there used to be. Alistair was not only changed outwardly, physically, but inwardly too.

“I am here to talk to you about Clarissa,” he said with quiet determination.

Mr. Debenham had thought as much. It was why he had made certain his daughter would not be present at this interview.

“Clarissa is doing very well at the school,” he said quickly. “She is in charge now that Mr. Marly has taken a position at my old grammar school. She seems to have a real aptitude for the work.”

Alistair gave a ghost of his old smile. “I’m glad to hear it. I’m glad she is doing well. Is she happy, do you think?”

“Of course.”

“I had planned, when I returned, to ask her to marry me. I didn’t know it myself until I sailed away, but I think you did, didn’t you, Mr. Debenham?”

Debenham frowned and nodded slowly. “I did, and I didn’t approve although I suppose I would have allowed it, seeing Mr. Marly has gone off. But surely you don’t still intend to do so?” he asked, shocked. “You are a cripple, sir. You can’t mean to burden my poor daughter? And what of her work at the school? She is doing so well; you can’t surely expect her to give up all of that to live in poverty with a cripple?”

The words were probably rather harsh but Debenham refused to allow sentiment to interfere. They must be said.

The man was looking down, his hand closing and unclosing on one of his crutches. He seemed to be labouring under some intense emotion. When he finally lifted his head he was paler even than before, the scar standing out like fiery red, but he looked as if he had come to a difficult decision.

“You’re right, of course. I cannot marry her now. It would be unfair to burden her. But I fear if she knew I was injured she would come to me whatever you or I said to the contrary.”

Debenham grunted in agreement. Since his daughter had made the acquaintance of McKay she had become extremely wilful. “Then you must write to her and tell her you have met someone else,” he said. “The pain will be sharp at first, but it will fade, and it is better for her to suffer now, briefly, than to spend her whole life mourning. I’m afraid Clarissa is the sort to form a tragic attachment to your memory,” he added with distaste, forgetting