Oh, Jemima thought, when he said no. Oh. She had had so little part in all the arrangements that she had just assumed. Once her parents had spoken to her, after that night, it had all been – taken right out of her hands. She had learned as much from listening anxiously at the door to her parents’ whispers as she had when they had sat her down directly to share the arrangement. Everything had been decided. Her father had been to see Mr. Greengrass, she had learned, and he had agreed to marry her.
She wasn’t certain how far agreed was the fitting word, because she had no idea how her father had phrased it or how many protests Mr. Greengrass had made – but in no fractured daydream of that conversation could she imagine he had walked into it with any enthusiasm at all. He had been dragged into it, coerced or persuaded or forced by duty to – but there was still the question of what had propelled him to say what he had said to Mrs. Dempsey in the first place, when they hadn’t done anything at all.
“Oh,” Jemima said aloud, because she had put together the pieces well enough now to realise he had come to see her, then. Perhaps her parents had arranged this. Whatever the reason, she was probably expected to see her husband-to-be at some point again before they met at the altar. “No, I don’t think so. He didn’t mention anything,” Jemima admitted with a small, chagrined shake of her head. She drifted further into the room, away from the door; she supposed she should take the opportunity to speak to him now while they had one. Alone. While they were not – on show.
She exhaled. He was holding flowers. It had taken Jemima until now to suppose they might be for her, and she – didn’t know what to do with that. She wasn’t going to step over and confiscate them. “How... is everything?” she tried, but lifted her gaze to him to try and silently express what she really meant, which was I’m so sorry for everything. Because, however bewildered she was about what he had done to seal their fate, the anger at that had not been enough to dampen the abject guilt she felt about the situation. It was at least half her fault: if she hadn’t been there in the first place for him to stumble upon her, nothing would have happened.
She wasn’t certain how far agreed was the fitting word, because she had no idea how her father had phrased it or how many protests Mr. Greengrass had made – but in no fractured daydream of that conversation could she imagine he had walked into it with any enthusiasm at all. He had been dragged into it, coerced or persuaded or forced by duty to – but there was still the question of what had propelled him to say what he had said to Mrs. Dempsey in the first place, when they hadn’t done anything at all.
“Oh,” Jemima said aloud, because she had put together the pieces well enough now to realise he had come to see her, then. Perhaps her parents had arranged this. Whatever the reason, she was probably expected to see her husband-to-be at some point again before they met at the altar. “No, I don’t think so. He didn’t mention anything,” Jemima admitted with a small, chagrined shake of her head. She drifted further into the room, away from the door; she supposed she should take the opportunity to speak to him now while they had one. Alone. While they were not – on show.
She exhaled. He was holding flowers. It had taken Jemima until now to suppose they might be for her, and she – didn’t know what to do with that. She wasn’t going to step over and confiscate them. “How... is everything?” she tried, but lifted her gaze to him to try and silently express what she really meant, which was I’m so sorry for everything. Because, however bewildered she was about what he had done to seal their fate, the anger at that had not been enough to dampen the abject guilt she felt about the situation. It was at least half her fault: if she hadn’t been there in the first place for him to stumble upon her, nothing would have happened.
