Chapter 20 #2
She had slept more than she expected to, which was either a credit to Rachel’s company or exhaustion doing its practical work. Probably both.
She was on her second cup when Percy appeared in the doorway.
He was looking, she had noticed, more comfortable in the London house than he had at first. He knew where the warmest spots were now, and which footmen were the most likely to leave a door ajar, and which chairs in which rooms caught the afternoon sun.
He crossed the dining room without looking at her, which was his standard approach, and went to the rug beside the fireplace and sat down. She looked at him. He looked at the fire.
“Good morning,” she said.
She cut a small piece from the edge of her plain toast and held it out toward him.
Percy looked at it. He looked at the fire again.
Then he stood and crossed to her chair with the air of a creature who had arrived at a decision independently of anyone else’s suggestions, arrived at her feet, and sat.
He looked up. She lowered the piece of toast. He ate it from her fingers, which he had done twice before, but she did not think she was going to become accustomed to it. He finished and sat, looking up at her.
“That’s good.”
She reached down, very slowly. She let her hand come toward him from the side, not the top, which she had learned was better. From above was a threat, from the side was an offer. The backs of her fingers came to rest against his cheek. He leaned into it.
“That’s a good boy.”
Just slightly. The smallest possible degree of yielding, which from Percy she understood was considerable.
His eyes closed halfway. She did not move her hand.
She let the warmth of his head against her fingers be exactly what it was.
After a moment he stepped back, sat, and began to wash his face, which meant the transaction was complete.
“Yes,” she said, quietly. “All right.”
She drank her tea. Percy washed his face.
Outside, London went about its business.
The fire popped once and settled, and the morning was quiet and ordinary, and Anna looked at the cat beside her and thought about what it meant to choose something slowly, to earn something that could not be hurried, and to have it be worth exactly the time it took.
I will be all right.
Lady Oldbarrow arrived at half past two, which was not quite the fashionable hour and not quite not. Anna suspected this was deliberate. She brought a novel tucked under one arm and the piece of news about Lord Selbourne’s hair. Tea was promptly poured as they all sat in the drawing room.
“You are looking well,” Lady Oldbarrow said to Anna, with the directness of a woman who had earned the right to it.
“I am feeling better after a good night’s sleep here,” Anna said. “Thank you.”
“Hmm.” Lady Oldbarrow accepted her cup. “It is a remarkable house. I have always thought so. Though remarkable is not always the same as comfortable.” She glanced at Anna over the rim. “Are your quarters comfortable?”
“Very much so.”
“Good.” She set down the cup. “Rachel tells me you are a reader.”
The subject changed the way Lady Oldbarrow changed subjects, completely, and yet not entirely. Anna had the sense of being looked at from a slightly different angle.
“I am, My Lady,” Anna said.
“Then you will like this.” She produced the novel and passed it across. “I found it very absorbing. The heroine is perhaps too sensible for her own happiness, which I find realistic if occasionally frustrating.” A pause. “Do you find sensible women frustrating, Miss Cartwell?”
“I find them admirable,” Anna said carefully.
“Yes.” Lady Oldbarrow smiled. “So does everyone, in retrospect.”
Rachel laughed. Anna felt the corner of her own mouth move.
“The difficulty,” Lady Oldbarrow continued, settling back, “is that sensible women are very good at identifying what is practical, and not always so good at identifying what they want. The two are not always the same thing, as I’m sure you know.”
“What are you talking about, Lady Oldbarrow?” Rachel asked.
“I am merely discussing the novel,” Lady Oldbarrow said serenely as she delicately sipped her tea, though Anna knew she was not merely discussing the novel.
The door opened. Frederick came in and joined them for a cup of tea. Anna’s heartbeat quickened as she thought of their embrace.
“Ah, good afternoon, godson. We were just discussing,” Lady Oldbarrow said, “the particular difficulty of knowing what one wants.”
Frederick looked up from his cup.
“A common difficulty,” he said, after a moment.
“Less common than people suppose,” Lady Oldbarrow said pleasantly. “Most people know precisely what they want. The difficulty is usually something else entirely.” She smiled at Anna. “Don’t you think, Miss Cartwell?”
Anna met her gaze and then looked at Frederick. “I think you may be right.”
Lady Oldbarrow looked between them once, briefly, with the satisfaction of a woman who has confirmed what she came to confirm.
Anna watched her turn to Rachel, and asked about the library, and the conversation moved on, and no one said anything further about it.
Anna tried to pay attention, but found herself unable to focus.
Frederick excused himself after the first hour. Anna did not watch him go.
She was certain Lady Oldbarrow noticed both things.