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“How marvelous,” Sylvia breathed. “I can’t imagine waking up to this view every morning.”
“Yes. I’ve lived here for nearly ten years now, and it still takes my breath away,” the countess agreed as she gracefully took her seat on a cushioned lavender chair.
Sylvia took the seat across from her, and the two made idle chitchat while they waited for tea. The countess asked about their journey and Sylvia’s writing. Over the last month she had been helping the women’s union launch a magazine and planned to pen a monthly column. Mrs. Crawford’s publisher had also been impressed with her work, and she was considering several offers to assist other prominent people writing their memoirs.
“Perhaps you could help me!” the countess said excitedly.
Sylvia smiled. “That is tempting, my lady.”
“Oh, please call me Cecily. I stopped with all that titled nonsense when my husband passed. He never cared much for it either.”
“He sounded like a wonderful man. Rafe speaks of him often.”
“That’s good,” Cecily said softly. “My son was a young man when he died. It was a difficult age to lose his father. And I know he felt guilty because he was away at the time. And you lost your mother even younger?”
Sylvia nodded. “I was fourteen.”
The countess gave her an understanding smile and patted her hand. “I was about that age when my own mother died.”
Sylvia’s throat began to tighten with emotion, but before she could respond, a very serious butler appeared with the tea cart. He removed several domed platters loaded with mouthwatering pastries each more beautiful than the last and poured them both a cup of tea. The countess then thanked him in French, and he gave a low bow before disappearing.
The countess selected a dainty chocolate Napoleon for herself while Sylvia chose a brightly colored framboise tart.
“Excellent choice,” the countess said with a wink before sinking back into her chair with her dessert. “So then,” she began without preamble. “Rafe says you don’t believe in marriage.” Sylvia nearly choked on her tart, but there was no censure in the countess’s tone or gaze. “I’m not judging you,” she added quickly. “Mahmood has proposed half a dozen times. But at our age, I don’t see the point.”
Sylvia took a long sip of tea to buy herself time to formulate an answer.
In truth, she and Rafe had yet to discuss the particulars of their relationship or the future.
She had been busy these last few weeks finishing Mrs. Crawford’s memoirs before she left for Egypt, Georgiana having decided to accompany her in Sylvia’s place. And though the newspapers had been full of stories about Mr. Wardale's death, none had mentioned either of them.
Rafe had still suggested going abroad a few times for their own enjoyment, but nothing had been decided, and there was Hawthorne Cottage to consider. The only thing they both knew for certain was that they wanted to be together.
That hadn’t changed, but Sylvia also hadn’t realized it could be like this. Hadn’t understood that another person could possess such a capacity to love her while also giving her the space to be herself. Over these last few weeks, Sylvia recognized that she needed Rafe in a way that would have once terrified her. Because she hadn’t known that with such a need also came strength. Rebirth. She had come to reimagine everything about her life. A life she now shared with Rafe. And together they had chosen one another again and again. Every day since that afternoon at Hawthorne Cottage. But it no longer felt like enough.
She met the countess’s eyes. “Women have to give up so much to their husbands in marriage. I’ve always believed they should approach the institution with great caution.”
The countess nodded. “You’re smart to think that way. Frankly, I got lucky in marrying Rafe’s father. He was so different from every other man I had met. He appreciated having a partner.” She then hesitated for a moment. “I’d like to think we instilled those same values in our son.”
Sylvia ducked her head. “You have.”
When she looked up, the countess was giving her a knowing smile as if she could read her thoughts. “Good.” She then smoothly changed the subject. When the gentlemen rejoined them an hour later, they were laughing together like old friends.
Rafe smiled widely as he sat beside Sylvia. “Having fun?” he asked as he reached for an apple tart.
“Yes, we were enjoying getting to know one another.”
“Andtalking of the future,” the countess added, making no attempt to minimize her innuendo.
Rafe cleared his throat and seemed uncharacteristically nervous for a moment. He avoided Sylvia’s questioning gaze and instead took a large bite of tart.
The countess then turned to Mahmood. “Why don’t we give these two time to relax while we check on their rooms. I want to make sure everything is perfect.”
They would be staying in another suite in the hotel. As eccentric as the countess was, she had still insisted that Rafe and Sylvia maintain separate rooms, though they shared a connecting door.
“Splendid idea,ma chéri,” Mahmood agreed. They then said their goodbyes, and within a few moments Sylvia and Rafe were alone on the terrace.
He still wasn’t looking at her, having now taken great interest in his teacup.
