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Wasshe ill? She certainly felt quite all right, but the paths her thoughts had taken this evening were jolting in their strangeness.
Andrew looked up, following Charles’s gaze to Amelia. When both men’s eyes were fixed on her, she stood, dropping her embroidery into her sewing basket and wiping her hands down her black dinner gown.
“I think I shall retire.”
Andrew nodded, standing, and Charles followed suit, his chair legs scraping against the polished wood floor.
“Mr. Fremont, I thank you for joining us this evening,” she said.
He dipped his head, his grave smile resting on her with uncomfortable constancy. Amelia turned away from them, pausing as the door opened before her, her butler standing to the side. He allowed her to pass, a salver on his hand with a folded sheet of paper atop it. She waited a moment but as he made no move to offer her the salver, she continued into the corridor.
Passing the foot of the staircase, Amelia made her way down the corridor and slipped quietly through the French doors to the back portico. The night had cooled slightly, bringing relief after the overheated day, and she left the doors open to allow the breeze to flow into her house. Resting her shoulder against one of the smooth, stone columns that punctuated the balustrade, the cold marble seeped through the long sleeve of her gown, cooling her arm.
A horse whinnied in the distance and footsteps sounded in the house behind her, but she kept her body still and her gaze fastened on the darkened, rolling lawn in the distance. She had told Cook she would come by before bed to collect a brew of ginger tea for Mrs. Halpert and a chunk of bread in case the woman wanted to give it a try. She had tried prior to dinner, but Mrs. Halpert was sleeping, and Andrew had thought it best to let her rest.
“It is a chilly night,” a deep voice said behind her, startling Amelia. She knew it to be Charles at once, and prickles ran down her spine. “Shall I have someone fetch you a shawl?”
She glanced over her shoulder and found him standing in the open doorway, the corridor empty behind him.
Shaking her head, she said, “I am comfortable. The breeze is welcome after the stifling heat in the drawing room.”
He seemed to absorb this, hesitating in the doorway as though unsure if he ought to retreat or not. They walked a delicate line, the two of them, both seemingly wishing to strengthen their friendship, yet wary of what it could mean or how it would be received. She regretted the actions she’d taken to lead Charles to such hesitation, but she could not alter the past. She could only move forward with more kindness and consideration, and apparently a healthy dose of patience.
It would take some time, she believed, but she hoped she might count herself as one of Charles’s friends eventually.
“Where is Andrew?” she asked.
“He received word from Mr. Green that one of their servants has fallen ill. He left to see to the situation.”
“Gracious.” She hoped it wasn’t a ploy on Hattie’s part to lure her red-headed brother into their home under false pretenses. Though she did not truly feel her friend capable of deceit, Hattie’s recent behavior had caused her to question her sanity at times. “Did they mention the nature of the illness?”
Charles shook his head, stepping across the portico until he stood at the balustrade beside her, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. “I am unaware of the particulars, but he did not look too worried.”
“That is good. Andrew can’t help but show his feelings across his face. I believe if there was cause for concern you’d have seen it.”
Charles smiled, dropping his voice. “Quite unlike his sister, who hides every emotion, small and large, behind a very elegant front.”
Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t know if she was more pleased with his assessment of her elegance, or that he seemed willing to give her a compliment after his recent distance. “Some things are better left unsaid. Or, unshown, rather.”
“And sometimes not knowing what someone is feeling can drive a man mad,” he muttered.
“Does…” She swallowed, gathering her courage and turning so she sat upon the balustrade, her back resting against the column and her ankles crossed to the side. “Do you wish to know what I am thinking right now?”
His gaze flicked to her before turning back to the darkened countryside. Clouds had rolled over the moon, making it impossible to see beyond the faint glow coming from the windows behind them. “Yes.”
“If you guess, I will tell you if you are correct or not.”
Charles’s eyes lit with interest, and he lowered himself on the balustrade beside her, turning slightly so he faced her. “Very well. You are thinking”—he raised his voice an octave to affect a feminine tone—“this man is utterly mad for remaining at Falbrooke when it is clearly about to rain.”
Her eyebrows drew together, and she leaned her head back, softly colliding with the marble column. “It is not going to rain.”
“You can’t smell the rain?” he challenged. “It’s coming. It shall be here any moment.”
She made a point to inhale deeply, then shook her head, fighting a small smile. “All I smell is smoke from the chimneys.”
“Then what you are saying is that my guess was wrong?”
“Undoubtedly.” She chuckled. “Try again.”
