“Yes,” he whispered harshly. Samuel’s expression softened with sympathy, and he patted Thomas on the shoulder.
“Then you must expect them to get closer to that truth. They will want to know who the officer was and what his family situation is, and whether there was a formal understanding between Clarissa and this captain before the betrothal to you was announced, and so on and so forth. That curiosity will not go away in short order, and I would not suggest pretending it will."
"But?" Thomas knew there was clearly a but.
"But," Samuel said, "the direction of that curiosity is almost entirely toward Clarissa. Not toward Genevieve." He tilted his head slightly. "People are not, in any significant quarter, inclined to speak ill of your wife."
Thomas found himself leaning forward despite himself.
"Explain that."
"She is liked well enough," Samuel said simply. "Has been for a number of years, quietly, in the way that people who are genuinely good at being in the world often are without quite realizing it themselves. Not many people remember her especially well, but those who remember her remember her fondly. They remember the particular way she had at gatherings of making the person she was speaking to feel as though they had her complete attention.
They remember that she was always kind to people who did not necessarily warrant kindness—which is the truest test of character there is and one that is noticed more than people admit. They remember the smile that is constantly on her expression."
He set down his cup. "She has never, in all her years in society, caused a moment of scandal or distress or trouble for anyone. She is, if anything, regarded with sympathy. A blameless young woman caught entirely in the wake of her sister's choices, handling a thoroughly impossible situation with a composure that a great many people with considerably more practice would struggle to match."
Something in Thomas's chest, which had been maintaining a state of low-grade tension for the better part of several days, released by a measure he had not anticipated and was quietly grateful for. He had known, in the abstract, that Genevieve was well regarded. He had not known quite how specifically or quite how sincerely.
"The other observation," Samuel continued, "is that people have seen you at church, and at the market, and going about ordinary life, and they have noted that you treat her well. Being kind and considerate to her, even if not outwardly affectionate. Which is doing considerably more to settle the matter than any amount of deliberate social maneuvering could accomplish. Authenticity shines, even in rooms full of people who have spent decades cultivating the performance of it."
Thomas absorbed this. "You said the curiosity will not go away quickly."
"It will not. But it will go away. And in the meantime, you can accelerate the process considerably." Samuel looked at him with the directness of old and trusted friendship. "Take her somewhere public. Somewhere of note, where the right people will see you together and observe that this is a real marriage being made into something by two people who are approaching it seriously. Let them see her as your wife, not simply as the woman who replaced her sister."
"The Hervey ball," Thomas said, because the thought had been forming since before he arrived here this morning. "In two days."
"Ideal," Samuel said. "The Herveys are well-connected and the guest list is always broad enough that the word will spread efficiently." He paused. "I shall be there, as it happens. You can introduce us."
Thomas nodded.
“Yes, it is an excellent venue to do just that.”
“But there are things you must do while there, together,” Samuel said, sipping his tea once more.
“Things I must do?” Thomas repeated.
“Yes,” Samuel nodded. “You must treat her as your wife, in all the ways it means to be so. Otherwise the ton will say she is simply a replacement for her sister, that you have entrapped a well-liked woman, and that sympathy can turn to pity and then to gossip. The people around her need to keep up the narrative that she is your true wife, whatever might be happening behind closed doors and at your estate.”
Thomas tensed up.
“I do not think I can treat her in such a way,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Genevieve and I… we have an understanding-”
“An understanding is all well and good, but if the ton hears, they will twist it into something unsightly. You know this as well as I do,” Samuel sighed.
“I know, but—”
“No, there is no but,” Samuel shook his head. “If you are unable to treat her as she should be treated as your wife, in public, then she will be faced with the most atrocious rumors and speculation. Is that what you want for her?”
Thomas thought about Genevieve. He thought about her on their wedding morning, moving down the line of his staff with a composure that had left him quietly astonished. He thought about her in the drawing room over the past weeks, present, warm, asking him questions about the estate that were the questions of someone who was paying genuine attention rather than performing interest.
He thought about what it would mean for her if the whispers continued, if the story of her sister's flight followed her into every room she entered for the next several years, attaching itself to her name like something she could never quite shake free of.
The thought produced in him a feeling that was adjacent to anger but quieter and considerably more resolute. She had done nothing. She was entirely innocent of every aspect of this situation. She had stepped into an impossible morning and conducted herself with a grace that he was still, if he were honest with himself, somewhat awed by.
"She does not deserve that. She should not have to carry any of this," he said.
"No," Samuel agreed simply. "She should not." He reached for the broadsheet. "So make sure she does not."