“No, one of the secretaries at the bank does.”
“Is there no way to allow you home earlier? Or is returning home late a common occurrence among the staff? I apologize, do a great many of you work there? I admit I hardly know a thing about banking.”
“With your penchant for sums, I expect you know far more than most. But yes, there is a fairly large staff. The bank is well-established. We are no Bank of London, but we hold our own.”
“And you enjoy working there?”
He paused, his fork just before his mouth. “For the most part, yes.” He took the bite.
She nodded. “I don’t recall you wishing to go into banking—was it a dream you took up after I left?”
“More or less. My uncle was in banking, so it was always a possible option for me. And it fits well with my natural tendencies.” In fact, he’d hatched the plan on his way home from the Grand Tour and the infamous wager. He’d known he would need a career on the horizon if her parents were to let him come call. So, he’d stopped for several months in Kent, delaying his return home, to learn from his uncle. His schooling had been enough to set him up well, but his uncle rounded his education off and sent him home with letters of recommendation that would help him secure a position. It had done just that.
But the delay had cost him a wife.
“Yes, it does fit, I think. You always were brilliant with numbers and people. Besides, I could not see you as a clergyman or some sort,” Sophie mused.
“Do you mean to tell me I am not pious enough?”
“Yes, exactly that.”
His mouth twitched, and a light laugh escaped her.
He turned the conversation to her as deftly as he sliced through his veal. “And this position—a computer. Is it your dream?”
“More or less.” She smiled over the rim of her glass.
Touche. He wanted to delve into that—ask exactly what she meant—but it was more prudent to keep things surface level. The barest of updates. So that she could exit his life in two weeks' time as seamlessly as she seemed to have entered it.
“How is your family?” she asked then. Evidently, she had not gotten his mental declaration to keep their conversation perfunctory.
He could not help the grimace that crossed his face. But he did his best to cover it by lifting his own glass and taking a long draught. “You already know about Edmund. He is in India. Geoffrey is… well, he is Geoffrey. He barely leaves the house and is set to be the most studious—and pompous—of estate owners you may meet in your lifetime. My father keeps busy…”
“And your mother?” she asked it innocently, taking a bite. And she’d been across the country for half a decade—he couldn’t expect her to know. Though one might have expected her own mother would have told her in their numerous correspondences.
He bit the insides of his cheek, steeling himself. “She is dead.”
Everything stilled, except the flickering candlelight which sent a flash of shadow across Sophie’s parted lips. There was a clatter as Sophie’s fork fell the few centimeters to her plate. “I… I had no idea. When?”
He offered a tense smile—he would tell her all, but quickly. He didn’t like dwelling on the events that had changed his life. “Four years ago. A riding accident—she was thrown from the horse and did not recover from the resulting injuries.”
“You—I—I am terribly sorry, Andrew.”
Another tense smile made it to his mouth. “As am I.” Blast, but it still hurt, likely always would.
“Are you…” she trailed off. Yet wherever she was headed with it, he did not wish to continue the conversation.
“How are your parents?” He avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the plate of food in front of him. He did not want to see her reaction to his changing of the subject, but in the pause following his question, he imagined she watched him closely.
“We do not speak a great deal.”
“Your sisters?” He pushed his meat to the side of the plate, nearer the spinach.
“Are well, I am sure.”
“And… your husband?” he asked the question innocently enough, spearing a piece of carrot as he did.
Her responding expression was curiously dry. “Ever elusive.”
