27 October, 1893 — Daphnel Home, Wellingtonshire
It was a cyclical problem; initially Victor had been avoiding a particular sort of conversation, but the longer he stayed away from home the more he dreaded any conversation on returning home. Once he'd been gone long enough for it to have been noteworthy there were only two routes that conversation could take. Option A: whoever greeted him would be frantically wondering where he had been, and he'd have to explain himself, and he wouldn't have any explanations he actually wanted to admit to. Option B (the worse one, which only grew more dreadful the longer he was gone): they wouldn't have been concerned at all. By a week out Victor was sure they would have noticed, but he was not entirely sure that they would care.
Much as he was dreading it, he had eventually managed to convince himself that whatever awaited was less dreadful than the prospect of spending a dozen years or so drifting aimlessly over the Atlantic Ocean, which seemed the best alternative if he really wanted to avoid everyone. So home he went.
He drifted in through the front door without taking any pains to announce himself, then at the first sign of a living being launched into a question: "Has someone already sent Christabel's things to the Dempsey Estate?" Victor didn't know what his family had pieced together or been told about the events of last week, but hopefully they'd figured out enough to know her things needed to be sent on. If Christabel was here, aiming to argue or to reconcile, that was a whole other level of conversation that he hadn't emotionally prepared for — he might do better to turn and float right back through the door.
Much as he was dreading it, he had eventually managed to convince himself that whatever awaited was less dreadful than the prospect of spending a dozen years or so drifting aimlessly over the Atlantic Ocean, which seemed the best alternative if he really wanted to avoid everyone. So home he went.
He drifted in through the front door without taking any pains to announce himself, then at the first sign of a living being launched into a question: "Has someone already sent Christabel's things to the Dempsey Estate?" Victor didn't know what his family had pieced together or been told about the events of last week, but hopefully they'd figured out enough to know her things needed to be sent on. If Christabel was here, aiming to argue or to reconcile, that was a whole other level of conversation that he hadn't emotionally prepared for — he might do better to turn and float right back through the door.
Fabulous set by Lady!