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He had accepted. He had written. He had decided when to go and how long to remain, and she had been invited into the garden to be pleased about it, as one might be invited to admire a finished painting. “I see,” she said.

Alexander’s smile faded, and he tightened his grip on her hand. “Charlotte.”

“Then you have not spoken to my father?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I thought it best to wait until I could make him a proper offer.”

“Then what are you asking of me?” she asked.

He glanced down at the hand he still held, and she saw him realize he had no answer. “That you wait.”

She had expected the words by then. Still, hearing them hurt, a clean, sharp ache beneath her ribs, as though a hand had pressed on a bruise. “For two years,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Without an engagement.” She had to be certain she understood what he expected of her.

“I cannot bind you to me when I have so little to offer you,” he said.

“But you would like my promise.” How could he not see why that was an impossible thing to ask of her? He was not making her promises; he was asking her to give him one. How could she trust he would actually come back for her?

His brows drew together, and a shadow crossed his face. “I should like to know we understand one another.”

Charlotte gently freed her other hand and folded both in front of her, pressing them together to keep them still. They had understood one another yesterday. Or she had believed they did. He had walked beside her after dinner, listening while she described a book, his head bent to catch every word. She had thought how pleasant it would be to spend her evenings that way, for always. Now he spoke as though those evenings could be put aside and collected later, like a coat left with a servant.

“Could we not marry before you go?” she asked. Alexander stared at her, his lips parting. Her cheeks warmed, but she forced herself to continue, her voice trembling a little. “If you mean to ask me when you return, why should we not discuss it now?”

“Because I cannot support a wife,” Alexander said, and the words came out flat and final, like a door pulled shut. He looked not at her but at the lilacs behind her shoulder.

“You have just told me you will receive a salary,” Charlotte said. Her pulse had begun to hammer, and she tightened her hands in her skirt to keep them from trembling.

“A modest one.”

“Then we should live modestly,” she said, and lifted her chin, though her voice shook on the last word. She said it plainly, offering him her whole heart in a sentence, and watched his face for any sign he understood.

He shook his head slowly, and something in the gesture's gentleness frightened her more than anger would have. “You do not know what you are suggesting,” he said.

Charlotte went still. The words had come readily, with no intention to wound. That made them worse. She felt them settle in her like cold water in a cup. “Perhaps you might explain it to me,” she said, with a calm she did not feel.

“The property requires work. I shall be occupied from morning until night. The house may be uncomfortable. You would be far from everyone you know.”

“You would be there.”

His expression softened, tender and sad. He reached for her again, but she stepped back before he could take her hands, and he flinched. “That would not make it pleasant for you,” he said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because I know how you live here,” he insisted.

“And you believe I could live no other way?” He thought so little of her…

“I believe you deserve better,” he said, earnestly.

Charlotte looked toward the bench, unable to meet his eyes. She wished he had come uncertain. She wished he had asked her to help him think, even if they had ended by deciding he ought to go alone. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. He had not come to ask her to marry him. Instead, he had brought an answer to a question she had not been allowed to hear. “What if the work takes longer?” she asked.

“I do not believe it will,” he said.

“But if it does?” she insisted.