Harriet snorted. “Ah, the safest possible mode of conversation.”
“It’s not the height of wit or sophistication, I’ll grant you,” Miss Wraxhall returned. “But I find that if what you want is to get to know someone, the safe little questions are the most direct way to start. If someone is unpleasant to talk to about the weather, you’re not going to care about their other thoughts and feelings, or want to tell them your own. The little things are a way of establishing trust: because seeing how someone behaves is a good start to learning who they are.”
“And what if they break the rules of this game?” Harriet pushed. “What if someone doesn’t know the patterns of polite conversation, or a question about the weather reminds them of—” she swallowed the rest of it, because if she’d kept going Harriet was suddenly afraid she would burst into tears here on a public road, where the wind whistled high and sharp and the snow-dusted hills suddenly loomed around her like stormclouds. She could feel her shoulders high and tight, bracing against the thunder her body couldn’t stop expecting…
A hand on her arm. Miss Wraxhall was looking up at her. That sunlight smile was back, but fainter—a single ray rather than a summer. “It’s not about setting a test and seeing if the other person can pass,” she said quietly. Quietly, even though there was nobody else around for miles in any direction. “It’s more like a dance—one person moves back as the other moves forward. Sometimes you both know how to waltz, but other times you have to make up the motions as you go. Can we find a rhythm together? Or are we hopelessly out of step?”
Deep within the frozen ice of Harriet’s heart, something cracked, and beneath it, something hard began to melt. “I haven’t danced in a very long time, Miss Wraxhall.”
“A pity.” The other woman’s hand dropped away and tucked itself back into the muff she carried. Harriet could still feel the pressure of that touch, though, like a band wrapped around her arm. “There’s usually dancing at the end of the poultry show, after all the awards have been handed out.” She gasped, and delight blazed up in her eyes. “You should enter!”
Harriet blinked. “The dancing?”
“No, the poultry show.”
“With what bird?”
“One of the Bickerton Greys, of course.” At Harriet’s scoff, Miss Wraxhall pressed on. “If what you want is to be left alone and gossiped about and seen as outsiders to the village, then that’s your right and I won’t try to argue with you. But if you’d like to get to know the village and become known in turn—then the quickest, best way is the Bickerton Christmas Poultry Show.” Her eyes took on a sharp glitter, like her thoughts had turned serrated. “And what’s more, I bet you could win.”
“Oh yes,” Harriet muttered. “Because what country village doesn’t appreciate a new arrival turning up and showing off? They’re sure to like me then.”
The doctor’s daughter waved this aside. “It’s not about making them like you. You have the whole rest of the year for that. It’s about showing that you are a part of the life of this place.”
Miss Wraxhall’s eyes were on the road, her pace increasing, as though the excitement of the idea were translating to the speed of her feet. Harriet’s longer legs meant she had no trouble keeping up—but it was surprising how enjoyable the stretch of it felt. They covered the rest of the way in no time at all, as Miss Wraxhall described the way to prepare a chicken for show—which Harriet was too charmed by to interrupt, even though she didn’t bother to try and remember it all.
At Thornycroft, Mrs. Goodfellow was sewing in the parlor while Mrs. Crangle wrote up a list of the coming week’s necessary supplies. The latter leapt up at once to offer tea when Harriet made introductions. Mrs. Goodfellow hopped up, a few blonde wisps of hair escaping their pins, and offered Miss Wraxhall the seat closest to the fire. Mr. Dixit drifted down, lured by the smell of scones and butter, and the party was complete.
Miss Wraxhall was warm and polite and not the least bit intrusive; before long Lizzie was telling tales of the tavern she’d run in Brighton before the war—no surprise, as Lizzie was a chatty sort. Harriet even relaxed enough to offer the story of the first disastrous holiday after her wedding, and Mr. Dixit described the cases in some of the letters he was writing.
Harriet looked over to see how Miss Wraxhall was taking this in—and saw that the poor woman, well fed and warm and cozied up in one of Mrs. Goodfellow’s quilts, had fallen helplessly asleep. Lizzie chuckled, assured Mr. Dixit he was not at all dull, and retrieved the empty teacup before it could fall from their guest’s slack hand.
“She was up all night at someone’s deathbed,” Harriet explained.
Lizzie nodded understanding, and Arun’s anxious expression softened. Mrs. Goodfellow tapped a finger against her lips. They slipped out of the room and back to their usual occupations.
Harriet, after a moment, picked up a book and settled into the other fireside chair. She had only intended to let Miss Wraxhall sleep a few moments—but the book was better than she expected, and the time escaped her. She had just met the cold Mr. Thornton, clearly the villain of the piece, when a quiet sound from the other chair reminded her she was not in Milton, but in her own parlor.
“Miss Wraxhall?” Harriet murmured.
The woman made that sound again, a little creak from the back of her throat. Her eyes were still closed and her lips slightly parted.
Harriet leaned closer. There were still the dark marks of exhaustion beneath Miss Wraxhall’s eyes: Harriet fought the temptation to press her fingertips to the skin there and try to smooth them away. She looked younger when asleep, as the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth eased a little, free of their tension and movement. One wayward lock of Miss Wraxhall’s hair, twined silver and sable, was resting against her cheekbone.
This time, temptation won.
Harriet’s fingers gently brushed that lock of hair back and tucked it behind one sweetly curling ear.
Miss Wraxhall’s eyes flew open.
Harriet’s breath was sucked from her lungs. She froze, staring into those rich brown eyes. Something soft and warm flickered there, just for a moment, and Harriet’s spine ached with the strain of not leaning forward and seeing if Miss Wraxhall’s lips were as soft and sweet as they looked.
Instead, she sat back in her own chair and put her hands firmly around the book, where they could get into no mischief. “You’re awake,” she said.
Miss Wraxhall yawned and rubbed at the side of her neck. Her voice was still sleep-muffled, velvet and warm. “I’m so sorry, I’ve never done that before.”
Harriet’s pulse jumped, and her knuckles whitened where they held the novel. “You seemed like you needed the rest,” she said gruffly.
Miss Wraxhall’s lips flattened with chagrin. “I hope you made my apologies to your friends. It was rude of me, and no mistake—and after all those things I told you about polite conversation.”
