"It is."
"Thomas seems—" A small pause, decorative as a rest in music. "Very attentive."
"He is," Genevieve said calmly. "He's a good man."
"He always was." Clarissa's voice was light, effortless. "One of the best I have known."
Genevieve looked at her sister.
"He is my husband, Clarissa."
Not loudly. Not with any particular edge to it. Simply as a statement of fact, the kind that did not require ornamentation because it was already complete.
Clarissa's chin went up, fractionally.
"I know that."
"Good." Genevieve picked up her teacup again. "Then we understand each other."
"I only meant—"
"I know what you meant." Genevieve looked at her and let her see, briefly and clearly, that she did. "I have always known what you meant. We are sisters. I can read you as well as you can read me, and probably somewhat better, because I have been paying attention for years and you have generally been too occupied being dramatic to notice."
Clarissa opened her mouth. Closed it.
"I love you," Genevieve said. "You are my sister, and I am glad you are home and not lying in a ditch somewhere, which is where I spent several weeks imagining you might be. I want good things for you. I want you to find a life that makes you happy." She paused. "But do not mistake my kindness for inattention. And do not test my husband's good nature, because his patience, unlike mine, has a floor."
A long, still moment.
Something moved across Clarissa's face. Complicated and perhaps, if Genevieve was being generous, not entirely without shame. The practiced beauty of her expression fractured, just slightly, and underneath it Genevieve caught a glimpse of the girl she had grown up beside, prickly and envious and genuinely, achingly wanting.
It lasted only a moment. Then Clarissa smiled again.
"You have changed," she said.
"I have grown up," Genevieve said. "You might try it."
She said it without heat, the way you said things that were simply true and did not require anger to support them. Clarissa stared at her. Then, unexpectedly, she made a sound that was almost a laugh. Short and a little disbelieving, as though Genevieve had produced something she had not thought her capable of.
Then, Genevieve felt warmth at her side. Glancing up, Thomas was there. His expression tense but not yet stormy.
She felt, rather than saw, the moment Clarissa's attention shifted to Thomas. It was a subtle thing. A slight brightening, a particular arrangement of expression. She could not have described what changed, only that something did.
"Thomas." Clarissa smiled at her brother-in-law with the full effect of her smile, the one that had always operated on men like a language they did not know they spoke. "It is so good to see you."
Thomas inclined his head.
"Clarissa. I hope you are well."
Clarissa tilted her head slightly.
"You have been keeping well, I think? I hear you have been very social." There was nothing in her tone that could be objected to. The words were entirely ordinary and the warmth in them was entirely convincing and Genevieve, who had grown up listening to Clarissa's various registers.
"We have enjoyed the events we have been able to outside of the season," Thomas said, evenly.
"You both look wonderfully settled." Clarissa's gaze moved to Genevieve with something that in a different face would have been generosity. "Genevieve, I always said marriage would suit you."
Genevieve did not recall her saying any such thing.