“Edward,” she said warmly. “You look well.”
He inclined his head. “Lady Amelia. I was not aware you were in the county.”
“I arrived this morning,” she replied, seating herself without waiting to be asked. “The Winter Solstice gathering has drawn half the countryside back into circulation. It seemed … foolish to remain absent.”
Absent. The word carried weight.
They spoke, at first, of familiar things. Of the family hosting the Winter Solstice gathering—friends of Eleanor’s, people Edward had once dined with often enough to know their habits by heart.
Amelia reminisced about past winters, about candlelight and music, and the peculiar strangeness of returning to society after a prolonged absence.
“I am asked often enough why you never attend,” she said lightly. “I tell them you prefer solitude.”
Edward’s mouth curved faintly. “And do they believe you?”
“They believe what suits them,” she replied.
A pause followed. Edward found his gaze drifting toward the window, toward the gardens beyond.
“I have been considering,” he said at last, “whether Julian might attend this year. Or at least be seen.”
Amelia’s brows lifted in genuine surprise. “Julian?”
“Yes.” Edward folded his hands loosely on the desk. “He is of an age where absence begins to mean something. I thought it might do him good—to see people. To remember the world does not end at Ashford’s gates.”
“That would be … unusual,” she said reservedly.
“I know.” He hesitated. “He would not go alone.”
“No,” Amelia agreed softly. Her gaze sharpened, thoughtful. “Of course not.”
“I would have Charlotte accompany him,” Edward continued, his tone deliberately even. “She has earned his trust. He is at ease with her.”
Amelia studied him now, more intently. “The governess.”
“Yes.”
Something unreadable flickered across her expression—interest, calculation, and a faint tightening at the corners of her mouth.
“You speak of her warmly,” Amelia observed.
“She is competent,” Edward said at once. “Attentive. Julian responds to her. That is all.”
“And you?” Amelia asked, her voice mild but probing.
Edward did not answer immediately. His silence stretched just long enough to acknowledge the question without granting it ground.
“She serves her purpose,” he said finally.
Amelia leaned back in her chair, her gloved hands resting lightly in her lap as she surveyed the room. Her gaze lingered not on the furnishings, but on the absences—the spaces where life should have been louder.
“A child requires more than instruction,” she said at last. “He requires stability.”
Edward did not respond. He already knew where this was leading.
“A woman who belongs here,” she continued, her tone softening, turning deliberate. “A wife. A mother.”
The words settled heavily between them.
