“My father believed distance built strength,” he said after a pause.
“And do you?”
“I believed it did.”
“And now?”
He looked at her directly.
“I am reconsidering.”
Something softened in her expression at that. The candles burned lower, wax pooling at their bases. The house beyond the dining room had quieted entirely.
“Did you ever wish to leave Ravensmere as a boy?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
“And did you?”
“I did, yes.” He paused. “To travel, and then to spend the season in London. But I always returned.”
“Why?”
“Because it is mine,” he said. “And because it needed me.”
She regarded him thoughtfully.
“Perhaps it needs more than management.”
He met her gaze.
“Perhaps.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“And you?” he asked. “Did you ever wish to leave your loud house?”
“Frequently,” she said.
He arched a brow.
“Usually after an argument over ribbons,” she added dryly. “But I never wished to leave permanently.”
“Why not?”
“Because even when we disagreed, we remained.” She paused. “No one withdrew.”
The word lingered between them. Nathaniel did not look away this time.
“I see,” he said quietly.
They sat in that understanding for a moment longer. Outside, the wind brushed lightly against the windows. The fire had burned low, but the room no longer felt cavernous.
“I do not want this house to feel empty for you,” he said.
“And I do not want it to feel burdensome for you,” she replied.
He nodded once. The conversation did not resolve everything. It did not untangle weeks of distance. But he remained seated, and when at last they rose from the table, it was together.
