Her general attitude as she returned didn't surprise him, but her words did. His eyebrows raised and he bit his lower lip. He didn't know what to say to that. She hadn't put it out there like a question, but rather as a statement. She was entirely sure that he resented her. He didn't know what he'd done to give her that impression. The few conversations they'd had since her return to England had been cool and stiff, yes, but it wasn't as though he was simmering with anger or hate when he interacted with her. Maybe she was thinking all the way back to the blizzard; that was fair enough, if so. He'd said things that were out of character for him when she'd insisted on leaving. Freeze, then, if that's what you want — but surely she had known even in the heat of the moment that he hadn't really meant it?
The other option, of course, was that he'd said something in the letter that had gotten her thinking he resented her. He didn't remember what he'd written, not specifically, so he wasn't sure. Alfred knew what sorts of things the letter had probably contained, because he knew what had been on his mind earlier in the night when he hadn't yet had so much to drink, but he didn't remember sending it (or getting back to the ship), so he couldn't be entirely sure of what it said. Only that it had said far too much.
Alfred looked down at his own plate (half-consumed but no longer particularly appetizing) and wondered what, if anything, he ought to say. She'd given him permission to say nothing at all. That was probably what he should do. There was probably no good outcome here, so no point in wasting his breath trying to explain anything. But he didn't think he was capable of just leaving it there, with Jo thinking that he hated her.
"Listen," he began, with considerable difficulty. He rubbed his thumb along the side of his pint glass and kept his eyes on his plate. "I don't — actually — exactly — remember — all of what I wrote in that letter. If it gave the impression I resented you then — I'm sorry," he managed. "I, ah — I don't. I'm actually — I'm sorry about the letter no matter what impression it gave. I don't know what I was thin— well, I wasn't thinking, really, that's the whole point, isn't it? Ah — but I'm sorry, really."
The other option, of course, was that he'd said something in the letter that had gotten her thinking he resented her. He didn't remember what he'd written, not specifically, so he wasn't sure. Alfred knew what sorts of things the letter had probably contained, because he knew what had been on his mind earlier in the night when he hadn't yet had so much to drink, but he didn't remember sending it (or getting back to the ship), so he couldn't be entirely sure of what it said. Only that it had said far too much.
Alfred looked down at his own plate (half-consumed but no longer particularly appetizing) and wondered what, if anything, he ought to say. She'd given him permission to say nothing at all. That was probably what he should do. There was probably no good outcome here, so no point in wasting his breath trying to explain anything. But he didn't think he was capable of just leaving it there, with Jo thinking that he hated her.
"Listen," he began, with considerable difficulty. He rubbed his thumb along the side of his pint glass and kept his eyes on his plate. "I don't — actually — exactly — remember — all of what I wrote in that letter. If it gave the impression I resented you then — I'm sorry," he managed. "I, ah — I don't. I'm actually — I'm sorry about the letter no matter what impression it gave. I don't know what I was thin— well, I wasn't thinking, really, that's the whole point, isn't it? Ah — but I'm sorry, really."
MJ made the most Alfredy of sets and then two years later she made it EVEN BETTER