much.
“I know that some consignors wanted privacy,” she tried.
“So many?”
“My father had an excellent memory. All the rest of the information was probably in his head.”
“No doubt.” He pushed off the table and righted his coat. “I expect with some effort I will make sense of it all, even without his memory to guide me.”
“Perhaps you should take the accounts with you, so you may study them at your leisure.”
He thought about that, then waved the notion away. “I will do it here. It will give me a chance to see how Riggles is improving this sale, and whether it should even be held.”
He took his leave then. As he did their gazes met once more, very briefly. During those few seconds she again could not look away, or move, or even breathe very well.
“A re you reading, Southwaite? Am I intruding?”
Darius looked up from his book. He had not been reading. His thoughts had been on a very nervous Obediah Riggles, suspiciously vague account books, and a pretty woman in a rose dress, surrounded by beautifully crafted old silver.
He had almost kissed Emma Fairbourne today. He would like to claim it had been a mad impulse. Only he never was a victim of such things, and today, in that back room, thedecision to kiss her had been just that: a decision, one that had been very cool and not at all impulsive, and also very calculated.
His better sense had stopped him. He supposed he was glad for that. Mostly. Probably. That he really wasn’t only forced the conclusion that he needed to end this alliance. He would do it very soon.
“You are not disturbing me, Lydia.” He set the book aside while his sister sat down in a nearby chair. “That is a pretty dress.”
She picked indifferently at the fabric on her lap and shrugged. Her maid had dressed Lydia’s dark hair in the simplest of styles, a chignon on the nape of her neck. That had been Lydia’s choice, not the servant’s.
For reasons he did not understand, his sister did not care about her beauty, or about much at all. She had grown so quiet this last year, so nondescript and separate from the world, that he often feared for her health.
He wondered if he found her even more vague and devoid of warmth today because he had spent time with a woman full of spirit and vivid humanity. He looked in Emma Fairbourne’s eyes and saw an active mind and frank disposition, and layers of thought and experience. He looked into Lydia’s eyes and saw…nothing.
“You went down to Kent,” she said. “You did not take me as you had promised.”
Her voice carried a note of accusation. He was glad to hear anything that reflected some emotion. “I went with some friends. It would not have been appropriate to bring you.”
She did not argue. She never did. She just gazed at him, her eyes shallow and opaque. “I want to go and live there.”
“No.” It was an old argument between them. Her relentless pursuit of isolation troubled him, like so much else about her.
“I will find a companion so I am not alone.”
“No.”
“I do not understand why you refuse me this, and force me to stay in town.”
“You do not have to understand it. You only have to obey.” He spoke with irritation, not at her rebelliousness but because this conversation was the only one they had anymore. He swallowed his resentment over that, and found a better tone. “You have removed yourself from society, from your friends, from our relatives…”
From me
. “I will not allow you to take the final step and remove yourself from even the observation of normal human activity.”
Her gaze fixed on a spot on the distant carpet. He wished she would truly rebel, and start a row. Any evidence of emotion would be wonderful. Instead she wore the kind of manner a woman might don for a formal evening among strangers. It was as if she had put on a costume one day, and forgotten how to take it off when she returned home.
The insight distracted him. Put her at the right table with the
“I know that some consignors wanted privacy,” she tried.
“So many?”
“My father had an excellent memory. All the rest of the information was probably in his head.”
“No doubt.” He pushed off the table and righted his coat. “I expect with some effort I will make sense of it all, even without his memory to guide me.”
“Perhaps you should take the accounts with you, so you may study them at your leisure.”
He thought about that, then waved the notion away. “I will do it here. It will give me a chance to see how Riggles is improving this sale, and whether it should even be held.”
He took his leave then. As he did their gazes met once more, very briefly. During those few seconds she again could not look away, or move, or even breathe very well.
“A re you reading, Southwaite? Am I intruding?”
Darius looked up from his book. He had not been reading. His thoughts had been on a very nervous Obediah Riggles, suspiciously vague account books, and a pretty woman in a rose dress, surrounded by beautifully crafted old silver.
He had almost kissed Emma Fairbourne today. He would like to claim it had been a mad impulse. Only he never was a victim of such things, and today, in that back room, thedecision to kiss her had been just that: a decision, one that had been very cool and not at all impulsive, and also very calculated.
His better sense had stopped him. He supposed he was glad for that. Mostly. Probably. That he really wasn’t only forced the conclusion that he needed to end this alliance. He would do it very soon.
“You are not disturbing me, Lydia.” He set the book aside while his sister sat down in a nearby chair. “That is a pretty dress.”
She picked indifferently at the fabric on her lap and shrugged. Her maid had dressed Lydia’s dark hair in the simplest of styles, a chignon on the nape of her neck. That had been Lydia’s choice, not the servant’s.
For reasons he did not understand, his sister did not care about her beauty, or about much at all. She had grown so quiet this last year, so nondescript and separate from the world, that he often feared for her health.
He wondered if he found her even more vague and devoid of warmth today because he had spent time with a woman full of spirit and vivid humanity. He looked in Emma Fairbourne’s eyes and saw an active mind and frank disposition, and layers of thought and experience. He looked into Lydia’s eyes and saw…nothing.
“You went down to Kent,” she said. “You did not take me as you had promised.”
Her voice carried a note of accusation. He was glad to hear anything that reflected some emotion. “I went with some friends. It would not have been appropriate to bring you.”
She did not argue. She never did. She just gazed at him, her eyes shallow and opaque. “I want to go and live there.”
“No.” It was an old argument between them. Her relentless pursuit of isolation troubled him, like so much else about her.
“I will find a companion so I am not alone.”
“No.”
“I do not understand why you refuse me this, and force me to stay in town.”
“You do not have to understand it. You only have to obey.” He spoke with irritation, not at her rebelliousness but because this conversation was the only one they had anymore. He swallowed his resentment over that, and found a better tone. “You have removed yourself from society, from your friends, from our relatives…”
From me
. “I will not allow you to take the final step and remove yourself from even the observation of normal human activity.”
Her gaze fixed on a spot on the distant carpet. He wished she would truly rebel, and start a row. Any evidence of emotion would be wonderful. Instead she wore the kind of manner a woman might don for a formal evening among strangers. It was as if she had put on a costume one day, and forgotten how to take it off when she returned home.
The insight distracted him. Put her at the right table with the
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