Chapter Thirteen #2
After the final course was cleared and a toast made to the Lifeboat Trust’s renewed mission, the guests began rising from the tables. Conversations trailed like ribbons behind them as they made their way back to the ballroom.
A string ensemble resumed in the adjoining hall, striking the first notes of a country dance as the castle staff moved deftly to guide the transition.
The Lifeboat Trust matrons lingered at the doors, ushering everyone along with satisfied expressions.
Dancing, after all, meant prolonged generosity.
Quinton leaned back slightly, watching as the first dancers took to the floor.
Once, in another lifetime, he might have claimed her hand without hesitation.
The swell of violins struck a chord in his chest. He used to imagine this, her hand in his, the sweep of her dress, the thrill of leading her into something light.
But that dream had been too tender to hold in the dark.
So he’d buried it. During his captivity, in the endless days and nights, he’d stare at the stars through slits in the stone wall where the mortar had worn away.
He imagined it, dancing with her, hand in hand.
And now, here she was. Real. Yet out of reach.
Barrington leaned over. “Will you dance with her?”
Quinton shook his head slowly. “Not yet.”
Barrington snorted. “You’re going to make her do it, aren’t you?”
Quinton smiled faintly. “Make her? No. She never needed prompting before.”
Mary-Ann stepped aside to speak with Mrs. Bainbridge.
Even across the room, he noticed something guarded in her posture, as if she felt his gaze.
She turned once, not toward him, but toward the crowd, her glance sweeping past where he stood.
Was she looking for him? He couldn’t be sure.
But she didn’t look fully at ease. Her smile was pleasant but carefully composed.
Her hands were still. Then she turned again and saw him.
Before she could gather herself, he was approaching her. His steps were sure, unhurried as he approached her from the side. She turned before he spoke.
“Quinton.” Her voice was even, but her eyes searched his face.
“Mary-Ann.” He nodded, his eyes twinkling.
They stood in silence for a breath.
“You look well,” she said.
He accepted the compliment with a quiet nod. “So do you.”
She didn’t respond to that. Not directly.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” she said softly, surprising them both.
She glanced away for a moment, then added more lightly, “Everyone’s glad you’re home.”
He tilted his head. “And you?”
Her eyes met his again, steady this time. “Yes. Me too.”
He hadn’t expected calm acceptance nor the warmth beneath it. The quiet, undeniable truth that he still matters to her.
“Will you walk with me?” he asked.
*
Her breath caught just slightly, and she hesitated. Something passed through her expression. It was quick and unspoken before she nodded. Still, clarity had always steadied her. If she had questions, this was how she would get answers. “Yes,” she said. And threaded her arm through his.
They slipped toward the edge of the room into a narrow corridor where the music faded to a distant hum.
She didn’t know why she’d said yes. Not exactly.
Her feet had moved before her mind had caught up.
But now, with his arm so close, the distance between what had been and what might still be felt narrower than ever.
It wasn’t forgiveness she sought. It was something quieter, a kind of knowing.
And in that corridor, with no music and no audience, she might find it.
Their arms barely touched, linen brushing wool, but the contact was enough to root him. The warmth of her beside him, real, not imagined, stilled everything else.
The air was cooler there, and the stone walls carried echoes of their footsteps.
Mary-Ann ran her fingers along the wall, trailing them across the ridges.
Quinton watched her silently, struck by how naturally she moved through this space as if it belonged to her.
Candle sconces flickered along the way, casting golden pools of light and long shadows across the stone floor.
The scent of beeswax and old stone lingered in the air, earthy, quiet, a world apart from the laughter and strings behind them.
“You’ve changed,” she said softly.
He nodded. “So have you.”
“I don’t know what to say when I look at you.”
“Say what’s true.” He looked ahead.
“That you still brood too much?” she said, the familiar lilt hitting him like a memory made flesh.
The corner of his mouth twitched. It was something she used to tease him about, and hearing it now, nestled among tension and truth, it made his chest tighten. She remembered. Not just the man, but their language. The private vocabulary that only two people in love could invent.
She paused. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she said softly.
He looked at her, searching for something beyond her words. “That’s enough.” And it was for now.
As they walked on, the silence between them wasn’t empty. It carried years of what was unsaid.
“Do you ever think,” she began, “that if one letter had found its way through, just one, we’d be in an entirely different situation?”
He met her eyes. “I used to think that every day.”
She nodded once, sharply. “So did I.”
She glanced at him again, and for a moment, it was as if the silence between them gave way. Not enemies. Not strangers. Just two people who had waited too long, each believing the other had let go.
The moment stretched, long and fragile.
Behind them, the music swelled as the orchestra changed tempo.
“I should go back,” she said.
He stepped aside. “Of course.”
She didn’t move immediately. She glanced back, not quite at him, but in his direction. Her fingers brushed the wall before she stepped back through the archway into the ballroom.
She didn’t look back. But something in her bearing had shifted. He couldn’t name it exactly. Only that the distance between them no longer felt impassable.
Quinton remained behind. He didn’t follow. Not yet.
The notes of the waltz drifted faintly down the corridor. His footsteps echoed softly and distinctly as if even the air around him had chosen silence.
He ran a hand along the cool stone wall, tracing hers. He exhaled. The tension hadn’t left him, but it had shifted. She remembered him, their past, the language that had once been theirs alone.
That was more than enough. He’d lost her once, and it had nearly ruined him. He would not lose her to silence again.
He didn’t come tonight to make decisions. But the moment she met his eyes across the ballroom when she spoke in the rhythm only they had shared, the course had set itself.
He would make her love him again. Not by pleading. Not by pressing. But by reminding her of everything they had once been and everything they still could be.
His mission was set.