He glanced at her, faint surprise in his expression.
“My tutor,” he said after a moment. “Sometimes.”
“And was he good company?”
Nathaniel’s mouth curved slightly.
“He was relentless, but it did do wonders for my intellect.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“He was consistent,” he amended.
She smiled faintly.
“Consistency can be comforting.”
“It can.”
A quiet understanding passed between them. That was precisely what she was asking of him, after all.
“My childhood was loud,” Margaret offered after a moment.
He looked at her with interest.
“Loud?”
“With two sisters,” she said. “As well as a mother who believed in loud conversation and a father who read aloud whether we wished it or not.”
“That sounds crowded.”
“It was.”
“And you enjoyed it?”
“Yes. Perhaps not at the time, but I do miss it now.”
He studied her face as she spoke, as though assembling a new picture.
“We shared everything,” she continued. “Nothing belonged to one person for long.”
“And now?” he asked.
“And now I dine at the end of a table meant for twelve.”
The honesty of it did not carry accusation this time. Only contrast. He absorbed that quietly.
“I did not consider the difference,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “You would not have.”
A faint exhale left him.
“I suppose I assumed solitude was what everyone preferred.”
“It is not,” she said gently.
He nodded slowly, understanding settling.
