“Most assuredly,” he said, meeting her gaze now, his expression openly amused. “Though I flatter myself it’s more complex than the usual caricature of a fortune-seeking gentleman.”
She studied him for a moment, noting the ease with which he jested and the faint caution in his eyes beneath it. There was charm, indeed, and confidence—but also something watchful, as if he were accustomed to weighing every word before letting it go. A man well-versed in masking depth with levity.
“I don’t think you’re as easy to read as society believes,” she said, surprising herself with the admission.
A flicker of surprise passed across Charles’s features, followed by something warmer, more genuine. “No?” he asked. “And what do you think I am, Miss Eliza?”
She hesitated—then offered a smile, small and sincere. “Still considering. But I like a good mystery.”
He inclined his head, as though accepting the terms of a wager. “Then I hope I prove worthy of your investigation.”
Arthur felt glad for their ease but was content to remain where he was, alone with Abigail in this moment of shared contemplation.
Noticing Arthur’s distracted glance, Abigail followed his gaze toward the other two. A small smile softened her lips. “They appear genuinely content in each other’s company,” she murmured.
Arthur nodded gently. “Indeed. Shared interests do have a way of fostering genuine connections. Not that similar pastimes are as important as values, but a healthy dose of companionship based on mutual interests cannot be a bad thing.”
“And what ofus, Arthur?” Abigail asked softly, almost hesitantly. Her gaze met his with quiet curiosity. “Is it history that connectsus, or something else entirely?”
Her quiet honesty caught him momentarily off guard. He hesitated, carefully weighing his reply. “Perhaps history is the door through which we find common ground. Yet… today… it feels as though there might be something more meaningful behind it.”
She seemed to hold her breath at his quiet admission, and he realised with sudden clarity the vulnerability he’d unwittingly shown in his words. And yet, the thought of retracting them gave him pause. He found himself unwilling to take them back.
“Tell me,” Abigail said gently, her eyes holding his steadily, “what draws you so deeply to history? Is it scholarly pursuit—the idea of a connection with those who came before us, a deep-seated interest, or something more personal?”
Arthur’s expression softened, appreciating her subtle invitation to share something deeper. “For me, history is both escape and anchor,” he replied slowly.
“It provides wisdom, indeed—but also perspective. Marcus Aurelius, for example, offers a constant reminder of the fleeting nature of our worries—how unimportant our burdens become when seen through the lens of centuries. Whenever things seem overwhelming to me, his words ground me, reminding me of my insignificance, and that many of my anxieties are both unfounded and futile.”
Abigail smiled and found herself nodding in agreement, warmth deepening in her eyes. “HisMeditationshave been your companion through difficult times?”
Arthur nodded, surprised and pleased by her intuitive understanding. “Oh, absolutely. His words have guided me through complexities more often than I’d care to admit. A thread of calm through the chaos of our short life, during which we spend far more time worrying about what might happen, and less time enjoying what usually does.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “It sounds remarkably similar to the solace I’ve found in Mary Wollstonecraft’s works. Her writings challenge me constantly, pushing me to question inherited assumptions, urging me to authenticity; a removal from everything expected of young women today, but a thought process toward which I cannot help but venture.”
Arthur watched her, admiration blossoming unexpectedly within him, her quiet courage deeply affecting. “I sense you take that challenge very seriously.”
“I must,” she replied softly, her sincerity evident. “If one does not strive to live authentically, what remains?”
Their conversation trailed into a comfortable silence, a thoughtful pause in which Arthur contemplated Abigail’s words, realizing how profoundly they resonated. Her authenticity appealed powerfully to him—she was genuine, refreshingly free from pretension, and yet strong enough to navigate the complexities of their shared charade.
In truth, their charade was already feeling far more authentic to him than any of the ‘viable matches’ his mother insisted on procuring for him.
Was there more truth in their lie? Was the fact becoming the true fiction while their pretense transformed into a new reality?
It occurred to him suddenly that he had not thought of Sophia Carter at all during their conversation, and this realization was met with a huge sense of surprise. For so long, Sophia’s betrayal had clouded every perception, and overshadowed every encounter. Yet here, in Abigail’s quiet, compelling company, the shadow had receded significantly.
Arthur turned slightly toward Abigail, studying her profile in gentle appreciation. Her quiet strength, her sincerity—these qualities resonated deeply with him. She was nothing like Sophia, whose beauty belied her true nature. Her charm had been calculated; her affections had proved fickle. Abigail’s allure was subtler, quieter, but infinitely deeper. It stirred within him something entirely new—something unexpected and intriguing.
However, he could not escape the caution that remained like a persistent itch under his skin as a reminder of what he had endured in the past. He recognized a familiar warmth rising within him, reminiscent of feelings he had once held for Sophia.
But this sensation differed—it lacked the restless anxiety, the constant uncertainty, and sense of mistrust that had plagued his relationship with Sophia. With Abigail, the connection felt steady, calm, grounded in mutual respect and sincere understanding.
And while he was wary of embracing too hastily the idea that Abigail might be someone truly special, Arthur knew he could no longer deny that his feelings for her had surpassed the boundary of their careful pretense. He was drawn to her—not merely as a convenient ally, but as someone he genuinely respected, someone whose company he now sought out without pretense. Dare he say, it? A friend.
This quiet acknowledgement startled him. Abigail’s sincerity, her intellect, her gentle humor—all were qualities that made his growing affection feel both natural and inevitable. Nevertheless, a lingering thread of anxiety persisted, and he apprehended that the faintest tug might cause it to unravel entirely, should he have misjudged the circumstances altogether. Opening his heart again meant vulnerability, risking the familiar sting of rejection.
He drew in a slow breath, quietly considering Abigail again.
