Chapter Seventeen #2
Questions were asked about their meals, their conversations, their shared spaces.
Endless questions continued, asking about the household staff and the estate management and the countless small details that made up a matrimony.
Helena answered them all with the same steady honesty she had promised, and with each answer, she became more aware of how much she knew about Edmund, how much she had learned without consciously trying.
When it was finally over, Mr Whitcomb set down his quill, and regarded them both with an expression that had shifted considerably from his initial clinical detachment.
“I believe I have sufficient information for my report,” he said. “You will receive notification of the outcome within the week.”
They rose. Helena’s legs were unsteady, though she did not let it show. Edmund offered his arm, and she took it, grateful for the support.
Mr Thornton met them in the corridor, his expression cautiously optimistic. “I believe that went well,” he said. “Very well indeed.”
Helena barely heard him. She was too aware of Edmund beside her, the warmth of his arm beneath her fingers, the slight tremor in his breathing that suggested he was not as composed as he appeared.
They walked out of the building together, into the pale spring sunlight. Neither spoke immediately.
Finally, Helena said: “You know I take my tea with too much sugar.”
Edmund glanced at her. “I have always known.”
“You have never said.”
“I did not want to embarrass you.”
Helena stopped walking. They were in the middle of the street, an entirely inappropriate place for the conversation she was about to have, but she could not take another step without saying what was pressing against her lips.
“Edmund.”
He stopped, and turned to face her. His expression was unguarded in a way she had rarely seen, open, vulnerable, waiting.
“You are an infuriating, wonderful man.”
He said nothing. But the almost-smile, that almost-smile she had catalogued and counted and treasured, became something else entirely. Something full and warm and real.
They stood there in the street for a long moment, looking at each other. Helena felt something shift between them, something final, and something irreversible. The examination had stripped away their last defences. There was nothing left to hide behind.
“We should return to the townhouse,” Edmund said finally. His voice was rough.
“Yes.” Helena’s voice was not much steadier. “We should.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence, but it was a different silence than before. It was a moment fraught with quiet anticipation, heavy with every feeling they had left unsaid.
***
That evening, they sat in the library together, side by side on the settee near the fire, close enough that Helena could feel the warmth of Edmund’s shoulder against hers.
Neither of them was reading. The books they had selected sat unopened in their laps, props rather than purposes.
Helena reached for the volume on the side table, a collection of poetry she had been meaning to finish. Her hand brushed Edmund’s.
Neither pulled back.
She felt the contact like electricity, the slight roughness of his skin, the warmth of his fingers, the sudden catch in his breathing that told her he felt it too. Her hand had stopped, frozen in place, her fingertips resting against his.
“Helena.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
She looked at him. His face was very close, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the slight part of his lips, the pulse beating rapidly in his throat.
“Yes?”
He did not answer. Instead, he turned his hand beneath hers, so that their palms pressed together. His fingers interlaced with hers, gentle and deliberate.
They sat like that for a long moment, hand in hand on the settee, the fire crackling beside them, the books forgotten in their laps. It was not a kiss. It was not a declaration. But it was something. Something more than they had allowed themselves before.
Something that felt like a beginning.
***
That night, Helena lay in bed and allowed her thoughts to wander. She was not thinking about Reginald, or about the solicitors. She did not think about the legal challenges or the outcome that would arrive within the week.
She was thinking about Edmund’s voice, answering questions about her tea preferences as though they were the most natural thing in the world.
Too much sugar, though she prefers others not to notice.
The tenderness in the words. The absolute certainty of a man who had been watching, noticing, cataloguing, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
I didn’t want to embarrass you.
Such a small act. Such a devastating thing. He had known her secret, this tiny, insignificant secret about sugar in her tea, and he had kept it. Had made sure her preferences were met without ever making her feel exposed.
That was affection. Not grand gestures or passionate declarations, but a quiet, careful attention. A refusal to shame her even in the smallest things. The accumulation of noticed details that said, louder than any words: I see you. I pay attention. You matter to me.
Helena rose from her bed.
She crossed to the connecting door, that barrier that had stood between them since her arrival, that symbol of the separate lives they had agreed to maintain.
She pressed her palm flat against the wood.
On the other side, she heard nothing. But she imagined she could feel him, imagined she could sense his presence just beyond the door, as close and as far away as he had always been.
Tomorrow, she thought. Or the day after. When the outcome arrives. When we know that Reginald cannot touch us anymore.
Then I will tell him everything.
Her hand lingered on the door for a long moment.
Then she returned to bed, and dreamed of hands interlaced on a settee, and a man who counted her laughs because each one was a gift.