Page 40

His mother shook her head, smiled, and turned the pages one by one with care. Alexander’s hand copied stories, passages Eleanor contributed, and a few small drawings tucked between them. There was a dog, a kite, and a very wobbly horse. Charlotte had seen him gather the scattered letters, decide what to include, and carry the finished pages to the binder in a satchel pressed protectively against his chest.

She had also seen him put them away when she asked him to walk with her, and the memory still warmed her. That had pleased her more than she had quite known how to say. His mother stopped at a page near the middle. “Charlotte?”

Charlotte looked up, her heart giving a small, startled skip.

“This is yours.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

She felt Alexander turn toward her, though she kept her attention upon his mother, afraid that if she looked at him she would lose her composure. “I was afraid you might not remember it,” Charlotte said.

“The afternoon you came here in the rain?”

Charlotte nodded. She had been young, miserably conscious of her wet hem and muddy shoes, and certain she ought to leave before anyone important discovered her in such a state, dripping on a carpet worth more than her father’s horses. Alexander’s mother had sent for dry slippers, ordered tea, and asked her opinion of the book lying open beside her chair, as though a girl in a soaked cloak were a perfectly natural guest.

In her contribution, Charlotte had written about the relief of having something to discuss besides her own embarrassment, the warmth of the fire, and the kindness of a stranger who had made room for her.

His mother read the last few lines again, her lips moving silently. “I had no idea it meant so much to you.”

“You made me feel welcome when I needed it,” Charlotte said, and her voice thickened.

“My dear, you were always welcome.”

Charlotte swallowed, her eyes stinging. “I know that now.”

Alexander’s mother reached across the space between them, her hand outstretched. Charlotte rose to take it, her skirts whispering, then bent to receive the kiss offered with it, soft and dry and smelling faintly of lavender.

“I am very glad my son finally had the sense to marry you,” his mother whispered, close to her ear.

“So am I,” Charlotte whispered back, and felt a tear slip free.

When she returned to the sofa, Alexander drew her hand into his again, his thumb brushing away the dampness at the corner of her eye with a tenderness that made her chest ache. His mother turned to the last pages, several of which remained blank, creamy and waiting.

“Have you run out of recollections?”

“We thought you might wish to add your own,” he said.

“How prudent. Someone ought to correct the pair of you.”

“I warned him you would say that,” Eleanor observed, with a smug little smile.

Their mother closed the volume and held it in her lap, her hands folded over the cover.

“I cannot imagine a gift I should treasure more.”

Alexander’s fingers tightened around Charlotte’s.

She looked at him. His shoulders had eased at last, and such open pleasure sat on his face, a boyish, unguarded joy, that she wanted to kiss him.

She settled for brushing her thumb over his hand, slow and warm.

For the moment.

By the time they returned home, evening had settled over London, soft and violet at the windows, and the lamps along the street had begun to glow.

Charlotte gave her gloves to the waiting maid and turned toward the library, loosening her bonnet's ribbons. Alexander followed, carrying the slim parcel his mother had pressed into his hands before they left, tucked under one arm like a treasure.

“What did she give you?” Charlotte asked, over her shoulder.