Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [91]
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 naïve? On the contrary, it is you and Christina who are naïve—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;