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Elizabeth glanced toward the window, where a gardener had paused to inspect a climbing rose, turning a bloom between his fingers. She understood the distinction perfectly. She found it easier to enter a room when she had something useful to do, something that made her feel she belonged.
Charlotte moved a little nearer, the sofa cushions sighing beneath her. “You have been very good to everyone here.”
“They have needed help,” Elizabeth said.
“And you have given it.” Her friend’s voice softened. “That does not mean everything must be earned first.” She smiled. “You are allowed to find your own pleasures.”
Elizabeth swallowed, her throat tight. She wished Charlotte had continued teasing. It was much easier to smile at a joke than to answer kindness. Especially when it touched something she had kept quiet. “I know,” she said, her voice smaller than she intended.
Charlotte did not contradict her. For several moments they listened to the faint sounds from the garden. Somewhere upstairs, a maid laughed, then lowered her voice. The house's ordinary sounds wrapped around them, comforting and familiar. Elizabeth looked at the invitation again, studying the looping letters of Lady Wetherby’s hand. “Are there many gentlemen attending?” she asked, with studied lightness.
“A few,” Charlotte said. “Proper numbers must be adhered to, you know that. This is not a gathering of the league.” She nodded as though the answer had been merely practical, smoothing a crease in her skirt. Charlotte allowed the pretense for a moment, her eyes warm with understanding. “Would you prefer there were none?”
“No.” The reply came quickly, surprising Elizabeth. She looked up, embarrassed by how much it might reveal, her cheeks heating. “I do not object to gentlemen.”
“I had not supposed you did,” Charlotte said. “But I have been wrong upon occasion.”
“I only...” She stopped, searching for an explanation that would not make her sound ridiculous. She twisted her hands together. Charlotte waited. Her face showed no impatience or eager demand for a confidence, only calm, open attention. Elizabeth could leave the sentence unfinished if she wished, and that knowledge was its own gift. Instead, she placed the invitation upon the table and clasped her hands in her lap, drawing a slow breath. “I am uncertain what to do when one pays me particular attention.”
Her friend’s expression remained calm. “What sort of attention?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed further until she felt their heat against her palms. “The sort one notices,” she said.
“That narrows the matter considerably,” Charlotte said dryly.
A small, half-startled laugh escaped her. Charlotte smiled, and the difficulty eased enough for Elizabeth to continue. “If a gentleman asks about the journey, I can answer him. If he says my gown is becoming, I thank him. But sometimes there is something more in the way he looks at me, and I cannot tell whether I ought to encourage it.”
“Would you like to?” Charlotte asked.
Elizabeth looked down at her hands, at her wedding ring catching the light. That was the question she generally avoided. She considered whether encouragement would be proper, whether the gentleman might misunderstand. Would she know what to say if he came nearer, or would her tongue tangle, and her mind go blank? She seldom allowed herself to begin with what she wanted from a gentleman. “Sometimes,” she admitted, so quietly that she hardly heard it herself.
Charlotte rested her hand lightly over Elizabeth’s clasped fingers, warm and steady. “Then you may take your time discovering whether you like the man.”
“What if he expects me to know immediately?” Elizabeth asked, anxiously.
“Then he better learn patience,” Charlotte said. “Any man worth your time will wait for you.”
Elizabeth smiled, but her throat had tightened. She had been married. She was hardly an innocent girl who knew nothing of a man’s attention. Nevertheless, widowhood had left her uncertain about freedoms other women seemed to take for granted, moving through the world with a confidence she had never learned.
Her marriage had been all right. She had managed a household, observed customary courtesies, and learned to occupy a place beside her husband. Her husband had died after a brief fever, leaving Elizabeth a widow before she had quite grown accustomed to being a wife. Since then, she had found friends. She had found work that mattered to her and the satisfaction of helping women who needed the same support she had received. It was a good life, a useful life, and she was grateful for it.
Lately, she had discovered she still missed things. The thought came to her at odd moments, when she watched a couple laughing across a room or heard footsteps in a quiet corridor, and it left a small, tender ache. “I should like someone to keep me company,” she said quietly. “I want to...” Elizabeth wasn't sure of the right words. “I just want.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened gently over hers. “I suspect the right gentleman will find it very difficult to leave.”
Elizabeth shook her head, though the words pleased her, and a faint, hopeful warmth stirred beneath her ribs. “You make it sound easy.”
Charlotte shook her head. “No. I make it sound possible.”
That distinction settled more comfortably, like a stone finding its place. Elizabeth lifted her gaze and met her friend’s eyes. “I do not want you to find someone and tell him to be kind to me.”
Charlotte’s expression grew serious at once, her brows drawing together. “I would never do that.”
“Or explain that I am shy.” She would hate that.
“You may explain yourself to anyone you choose. I shall confine my conversation to my own numerous attractions,” Charlotte said, with a sweep of her hand.
Elizabeth laughed with relief, her shoulders loosening. She could bear Charlotte’s encouragement. She could not bear to think a gentleman had been asked to show interest in her out of pity.
