“Still,” she pressed. “It must be frustrating to come home one day and see that I have completely dismantled half the house without asking permission.”
He chuckled. “I do not think a few rooms count as half the house.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Truly, it hardly concerns me.” The butler poured him a glass, and he was happy to let him. He then took a sip, his eyes fixed on Helena. “Although I do wonder about it.”
“So, you do care.”
“I did not say that.”
“What are you saying exactly?”
Another sip of wine, always watching her. “For the past week, you have been rather… rebellious. I cannot help but wonder the reason.”
“It is not your business,” she said sharply.
He laughed. “Yes, you have made that perfectly clear. Almost as if there is a point to it all.”
“I…” She hesitated, careful not to say something that might give away her motive. “I have been bored, that’s all. And when I become bored, I become restless. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever you want,” he said simply. “As I told you.”
“Yes…” She eyed him, trying her best to see through the ruse, realizing quickly that he was speaking truthfully. “You did, didn’t you?”
This was not going at all how she planned. If anything, it was going well! He was not dismissive of her entirely, nor was he commanding. He seemed curious about her, interested in waysthat he should not have been. And with no audience there, it felt sincere.
And things only got worse from there.
Food was served shortly, a pea soup to start, and then some sort of seared meat with baked vegetables and thick gravy. Far too much for two people. She wondered if he had known that she would be joining him. As if he expected it, even wanted it.
“Tell me about your writing,” Sebastian asked as she cut into her meat.
“Excuse me?” She paused with knife and fork in hand, caught completely by surprise because it was the last question she had expected.
“Your writing,” he said earnestly as he speared a piece of meat with his fork. “In fact, what of the novel that you wrote? I’m trying to remember the title…” He bit his lip, and then his eyes lit up. “The Lady Who Would be King.”
“How did you know that?” she gasped.
“I saw it the night Mr. Ramsay accosted you,” he explained.
“And… and you remembered it?”
“Of course.” He sounded surprised by the question, as if there was no reason he should not have. “So, come on then, tell me. What is it about? I would love to hear it.”
“You would?”
“Yes,” he laughed. “It’s a good title, and I am positively curious about the plot. Maybe you will let me read it one day, God willing.”
Helena stared at him with her mouth open. For years now, she had worked in secret, unable to talk about her writing, unwilling to because she knew that nobody would understand. That she would be judged for it, derided and ridiculed. That was just the way these things went.
But she wanted to talk about it. She loved speaking of the art of storytelling, the intricacies of characters, and the maneuverings of plot. And as to her own novel? She had not discussed it with a soul, even if she very much wanted to.
“You… you won’t laugh?” she asked nervously.
“Why would I laugh?” He frowned at her. “If anything, I am leaning toward being impressed.”
“Alright, make fun.”
