He said nothing. It was not his absolution to give.
The sun had shifted while they stood there and the shadows from the tree line moved slightly across the path. Somewhere in the woods a wood pigeon was being persistently unremarkable. Thomas waited.
"I have not—" Clarissa started, and stopped, and something in her face moved in a way that was less arranged than anything he had seen from her in weeks. "I have not told Lydia to say anything. Not specifically."
It was not, he noted, a denial.
"Whatever has been set in motion," he said, "I am asking you to stop it. Not for my sake. For Genevieve's."
"You are very changed," Clarissa said, almost accusatory .
"People do change," he agreed. "I believe the general consensus is that this is broadly encouraged."
She almost laughed. He saw it. The way her mouth moved before she stopped it. His frown deepened and he took a step toward her before remembering what had happened previously. He did not wish to encourage another outburst, but he also did not wish her to miss the seriousness he felt about this.
"Will you stop it?" he asked. Direct, because directness had always worked better with Clarissa than anything more considered. She responded to the thing stated plainly. She had always found her way around implication.
She was quiet for a long moment.
"We shall see,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning up in something like a smirk. It was an ugly expression on her.
“Clarissa,” he said, his tone warning.
“How my sister and I deal with each other is our business, is it not?” she asked.
“It is my business when she is my wife,” he said, taking another step forward.
She stepped toward him, her smile widening.
He moved back, toward his horse.
“Thomas,” she cooed. “I sincerely doubt you care for her as you cared for me.”
“Be careful with your words,” he said firmly.
“You loved me,” she said. “You have known my sister, what, half a year? If that? There is no reason for you to claim that you love her.”
She stepped closer to him and put her hand on his lapel. His vision flickered red and he grabbed her wrist and pushed her away.
“Enough!” he shouted. Birds scattered from the trees and Clarissa looked shocked at him. Her expression softened purposefully.
"I am grateful to you," Clarissa said, finally, looking at the money in her hands. "Whatever else, I am genuinely grateful."
"I know," he said. "But that does not allow you to act in the way you have. Use the money well. Find yourself something stable, Clarissa. Something that does not require you to depend on anyone."
She looked up at him.
"That is what I want."
"Then want it in a direction that does not damage my wife."
She nodded, once. She was using the economy of a woman who had decided to accept something and was not going to elaborate on the decision. He recognized the manner. He had seen Genevieve do something similar. The clean, private way of closing a door on a feeling without theatre. He had not expected to find it in Clarissa.
"There is one more thing," she said.
He waited.
"Lydia knows things I told her in confidence. About the history of it. I said more than I should have, in the early weeks, when I was less…" She paused. "Less careful. I cannot un-say it. But I can stop adding to it, and I can make clear to her that the subject is finished, and she will understand what that means. She is practical, if nothing else."