She hadn’t been much allowed to mope, given the flurry of activity a sudden wedding had made for everyone in the household. There was her dress – and, well, her father was making arrangements for her dowry, and she supposed practically everything else about her future, because she had had very little involvement in that – but there were things she could help with: the dresses required for her sisters, and flowers and guests and invitations and tidying out all the clutter in her childhood room, since she would not be living in it for very much longer.
She was just padding down the stairs with an old pair of slippers when someone knocked at the door. She paused, caught there as their housekeeper opened it and – she could see him from here; her stomach had done a strange, discomfiting flip of too many mingled emotions to place; it was him. The housekeeper ushered him in and looked at her, expectant... so Jemima, naturally, had no choice but to put down the slippers and go greet him.
“Hello,” she said faintly, trying to seem pleased but too aware of the housekeeper’s gaze on her to process much about Mr. Greengrass yet. She mumbled something about the parlour, and led the way there in a daze, and – felt awkward and self-conscious from the moment she stepped into the room after him, because even if there was cold, unforgiving February sunlight streaming through the window and the parlour door was open and she was fully dressed, she felt as though she had been dropped right back in the cloakroom at the ball.
She stood there facing him, anyway, trying to settle her nerves by studying him from this distance – concentrating on his shoulders, the flowers in his hand, the polish of his shoes. She should probably invite him to sit – perhaps she should sit too, but instead she was still poised near the door. “Did you want to see my father?” Jemima inquired. The housekeeper would have gone on to tell her parents Mr. Greengrass was here, she was sure, so she had no real excuse to duck out of the room and leave him here – but she was listening for footsteps in the hall, half-waiting for someone to come and save her. Maybe in vain. (They were engaged, she remembered. By now, an engaged couple would be entitled to be alone.)
She was just padding down the stairs with an old pair of slippers when someone knocked at the door. She paused, caught there as their housekeeper opened it and – she could see him from here; her stomach had done a strange, discomfiting flip of too many mingled emotions to place; it was him. The housekeeper ushered him in and looked at her, expectant... so Jemima, naturally, had no choice but to put down the slippers and go greet him.
“Hello,” she said faintly, trying to seem pleased but too aware of the housekeeper’s gaze on her to process much about Mr. Greengrass yet. She mumbled something about the parlour, and led the way there in a daze, and – felt awkward and self-conscious from the moment she stepped into the room after him, because even if there was cold, unforgiving February sunlight streaming through the window and the parlour door was open and she was fully dressed, she felt as though she had been dropped right back in the cloakroom at the ball.
She stood there facing him, anyway, trying to settle her nerves by studying him from this distance – concentrating on his shoulders, the flowers in his hand, the polish of his shoes. She should probably invite him to sit – perhaps she should sit too, but instead she was still poised near the door. “Did you want to see my father?” Jemima inquired. The housekeeper would have gone on to tell her parents Mr. Greengrass was here, she was sure, so she had no real excuse to duck out of the room and leave him here – but she was listening for footsteps in the hall, half-waiting for someone to come and save her. Maybe in vain. (They were engaged, she remembered. By now, an engaged couple would be entitled to be alone.)
