“Oh! None at all,” Temeraire said, “but what does that signify, when you are so dreadfully altered, and everyone thinks you should marry; even Mei does, even if she does not call it marriage. She thinks you ought take a concubine, and ten of them at that.”
“I may confidently promise you to do no such thing,” Laurence said, much relieved and beginning to be half-amused, “and I have not the least notion why anyone should concern themselves with my marriage, save myself and my nearest relations.”
Temeraire calmed a little; at least his tail settled slowly to the ground. “And you do not want to marry her?” he said.
Laurence looked round; it was an outrageous subject for conversation, and Temeraire’s voice could not be called discreet. “Pray let us go inside,” he said, “if you wish to speak any further on the subject,” and went as far to the back of the pavilion as he could, and seated himself on the cushions there. Temeraire sat before him coiled tightly, and curled his tail around his limbs, still radiating wary distress.
“I should begin,” Laurence said cautiously, unsure how to begin, “by asking you whether you object to the lady in particular, or to the—to the event, in a general way?”
“I do not see anything particularly remarkable about Mrs. Pemberton at all,” Temeraire answered, “which should make her in the least suitable for you. After all, you are a prince of China, and my captain, and you have been in a great many battles. Whatever has she done, to brag of? But I do not at all mean to be rude,” he said, in succession to this piece of outrageous rudeness. “I should not like it in the least if you were to marry anyone else, either.”
“Pray explain to me a little further,” Laurence said, wondering if it would console Temeraire to be assured of his own ineligibility; few gentlewomen would contemplate throwing themselves away upon an aviator. “I would by no means distress you, but I had not been aware of any objections you might have, nor that my marriage—not that I contemplate any such step at present—should be any bar to my continuing to serve. So far as I knew, while aviators make poor material for an eligible woman, we are not barred from establishing a home, and—and I beg your pardon, but Roland has given me to understand that providing you an heir is rather in the nature of my duty.”
“Well, I have never wanted an heir,” Temeraire said, snorting. “I should certainly never wish to replace you with another, no matter the circumstances. I understand Excidium feels differently about the matter, and I do not at all mean to criticize, but that is his business. For my part, I do not see why I ought to be expected to like it if you should be married, only because it means that someday, if you should die, there might be another person I might like. It is all very airy and unreasonable, it seems to me, and I do not care for it at all.”
“Well,” Laurence said, “if it will relieve your mind, I will promise you not to marry without seeking your consent: I must consider your feelings as engaged in the matter as those of my family, and I can conceive of few circumstances in which I would proceed over any objections you might express.”
He hesitated, then; he could conceive of one: namely, an obligation which could not be escaped. “Temeraire,” he said, “before I can make you such a promise, however, I must ask you whether I should be obliged by decency to—that is—” He drew a deep breath and bluntly asked, “Do I owe Admiral Roland an offer? Is she—is Miss Roland my daughter?”
“Why no, she is not, at all,” Temeraire said, in surprise. “Her father is some aviator in the North: we have never met him, and I do not think Emily has seen him over three times in her life. Whyever would you suppose she were your daughter?”
“You have relieved me greatly,” Laurence said, but the relief was short-lived. Temeraire went on, “After all, Admiral Roland has only been your lover since the year five, and Emily was nine when you met; how could the two of you have made her? But it doesn’t signify,” Temeraire added in tones of reproach, “for you have already asked her, and she wouldn’t have you, because she was your commander.”
So Laurence hardly knew whether to laugh or be mortified: it seemed his life the last eight years had been a succession of scandals and outrages, which he ought have blushed to think of. To have intrigued with an unmarried gentlewoman, and a fellow-officer no less—
But Temeraire, perceiving his distress, misread the cause; he said in a small voice, “Why, Laurence—do you wish so to be married? I knew that you were quite unhappy that Miss Galman would not have you, after—after I was hatched.”