Olivia’s expression brightened. “Did you know Catherine Parr wrote books and had them published under her own name?”
“I didn’t,” Miss Theodosia said. “It’s rare. Most women still write under pseudonyms to avoid prejudice.”
“I once considered writing a novel,” Olivia shared, swirling her spoon in her soup.
Richard groaned. “I’m not sure the world is ready for that.”
She ignored him. “It was going to be a romance, naturally. But I abandoned it. I’ve decided love is dead.”
“Love is not dead, my dear,” their mother responded. “Your father and I loved each other very deeply.”
Olivia’s gaze dropped to her bowl. “Well, it’s dead for me.”
A silence followed—longer than it ought to have been.
Richard felt something shift in his chest. A pang. His sister had always believed in love. She used to sneak novels into her governess’s lessons, daydreaming about gallant heroes and moonlit proposals. Mr. Smith had destroyed that part of her, and Richard didn’t know how to bring it back.
Before he could speak, Miss Theodosia’s voice broke through the silence. “Love never truly dies,” she said. “Even when it’s lost… it lingers. It stays with you.”
Olivia snorted. “Love is a useless emotion. All it ever does is leave you with pain.” But her voice cracked at the edges, and her eyes shimmered a little too brightly in the candlelight.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” Miss Theodosia said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Lord Wilton told me only a little, just enough to understand?—”
The chair scraped sharply against the floor as Olivia shoved it back and shot to her feet. “Excuse me,” she said. “I can’t do this. Not right now.”
Without another word, she turned and swept from the room, her skirts rustling with haste, leaving an uneasy silence in her wake.
Miss Theodosia watched her go, her body half-turned in her chair. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she murmured, her voice filled with remorse.
“No,” Richard said curtly, not bothering to mask his irritation. “You shouldn’t have.”
She turned back to him slowly. “Should I go after her?”
“No,” he snapped. “That will only make it worse.”
Miss Theodosia lowered her gaze to the table, her fingers curled slightly against the edge of her napkin. The slump of her shoulders and the quiet way her chest rose and fell made itclear that she wasn’t skilled at hiding her emotions—not yet, at least. The guilt she carried was written clearly across her face.
He picked up his spoon again and resumed eating his soup, determined to ignore the knot in his stomach. The silence that followed felt oppressive. He could feel his mother’s disapproval radiating from her end of the table.
Still, he said nothing.
After what felt like an eternity, Miss Theodosia pushed her chair back with slow deliberation. “I believe it would be best if I retired for the evening,” she said, rising with dignity despite the tremor in her voice.
Finally.That was the first sensible thing she’d said all night. He opened his mouth to agree?—
“Nonsense,” his mother interjected. “You will remain right where you are.”
Miss Theodosia paused, caught off guard. “But, my lady?—”
His mother leaned forward slightly. “You did nothing wrong. You offered kindness. That is not a crime. You have no reason to punish yourself for Olivia’s pain.”
Then she turned her gaze sharply towards her son. “Isn’t that right, Richard?”
The words were there, poised on the edge of his tongue. He wanted to argue. Wanted to protest that Miss Theodosia had overstepped, that she didn’t belong, that she should have known better. But something in his mother’s stare stopped him. There was a challenge in it, and disappointment.
He swallowed his retort. “Yes,” he said grudgingly. “That’s right.”
His mother gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Now, let us enjoy the next course, shall we?”
