Lara ignored her gentle mockery. “She does not like Arnold. Last year, when he was referred by a number of very important men for a position in the Home Office, she appointed someone else. A man far less clever and not nearly so handsome.”
“She says she does not like his eyes.”
Lara stared at her.
This time Portia did wish she could take the words back. But perhaps it was best if Lara knew the truth, then she would not ask her for impossible favors.
“I did not mean to hurt you, Lara,” she went on cautiously. “It is nothing Arnold has done, I promise you, but sometimes Victoria takes a…a dislike to certain people, and she has taken one to him.”
Lara’s face went red. “Oh, don’t spare me! Why does she dislike him, pray? He is handsome and intelligent and well-bred. Which is more than can be said for her husband! Tell me, Portia, what has she said?”
“Only that she finds his eyes cold. As if…”
“As if?”
“He has no heart.”
Lara was furious. “And she’s wed to gloomy Albert!”
“Lara, hush!”
“Well, it’s true, everybody says so.”
“Albert cares a great deal for this country.”
“I wish Papa were here,” she whispered, wiping at her cheeks, but her tears were of anger rather than sorrow. “He would have helped Arnold. He always said Arnold would have made a fine general.”
His actual words had been: Because he doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself, so he’d send his men to their deaths with impunity. But Portia didn’t say anything.
“You’ve always resented me,” Lara said in a low, angry voice.
“Lara, you know that isn’t true.”
“It is true! Papa loved me best and you hated that.”
“Lara, please…”
“Well, you’ll give me your help whether you want to or not. You owe it to me. You will come on Thursday night and no one will say we are not the best of friends.”
“Thursday…?”
“My soiree. You promised to be there. People are expecting you. Don’t you dare let me down.”
“I don’t know if—”
“You promised! And wear black. I want you in mourning.”
She marched out, slamming the door.
Portia stood in the ensuing silence.
Dear God, in mourning, like some freak at a fair. It was a wonder Lara did not post bills around London, advertising the fact that the Widow of the Nation’s Hero would be appearing at Curzon Street.
She would do it. Of course she would. But in her heart she knew that what she said or did would make no difference. She could never make Lara happy.
Suddenly, she longed to walk out of the house and not come back. Just keep walking, until she was free of the squabbles and the need to constantly think of others. Free to do as she wished.
And what is it you wish?