The audience stands to applaud the performers as they bow, and Beatrix leaps to her feet. She glances over at Oliver. Every gaze in the theater is on the dancers, except for his. He’s watching her.
He leans closer, to be heard over the crowd. “Did you like it?”
Beatrix has been so swept away by the ballet that she’s lost all track of time. Lost track of the world outside her little box with Oliver. “I loved it.”
The carriage lurches to a stop outside the manor, and Beatrix peers out through the window into the night. The house is dark. The Holbrooks must still be at their dinner party.
“Back before the lady of the house even knows you were gone, as promised,” Oliver says. He doesn’t move to leave the carriage. Neither does she.
“Would you like to come inside? I could make us some tea,” she suggests. “Or something to eat, if you’re hungry.” Anything to hold on to the evening for a little while longer.
“I better not,” Oliver says. “I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.”
Beatrix forces a smile. “Next time, then.”
“Next time?” He sounds surprised by the suggestion.
“I mean, if you want to,” she adds hurriedly. “I had a wonderful time.”
“I did, too,” Oliver agrees.
“Then why shouldn’t we do it again?” They’ve both enjoyed the ballet and each other’s company. That seems as good a reason as any.
Oliver hesitates. “I know you said you don’t mind waiting—”
“I don’t,” Beatrix insists. Time is going to pass her by anyway. She could at least have something to look forward to.
“I won’t be back until 1814.”
“Oh.”
Oliver sags against the upholstered bench. “It’s a long time.”
For you. Oliver leaves that part unspoken, but for him it will only be a matter of days.
“Tea in a century, then?” She tries not to sound disappointed.
Oliver runs a hand through his hair, his tricorn hat discarded on the empty bench across from them. “Maybe we should say goodbye now.”
Beatrix’s heartbeat thunders in her ears. “Is that what you want?”
He considers her for a long moment. She swears she stops breathing. But he shakes his head. “No, it’s not. But I don’t want you to wait a hundred years for me, either.”
“It doesn’t sound like we have much choice in the matter.” If shewants to see him, she has to wait. For nearly one hundred years. Is she mad to even consider it?
Oliver looks her in the eye. “You have a choice, Bea.” Has he already decided, then?
She should let him go. Take these few precious memories of their time together—a time when she forgot about time—and cherish them forever.
A long, lonely forever.
“You called me Bea.”
“Oh,” Oliver says, a note of surprise in his voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s lovely,” she assures him. Not just because the name feels new and worn-in all at once, like it has always been hers, but because she can’t help thinking that goodbye is an awfully strange time to call her something different.
She gives him a coy smile. He’s wrong. It isn’t a choice at all. “See you in 1814.”
