She seemed almost amused by his tactic to rid them of the wasps; possibly she had interpreted it as a more whimsical gesture than an attempt at a death-trap. Evander thought it better not to remark, and let her think what she wished.
He moved back to where he had been sitting before and settled back into place beside her, retaining the carefully-calculated distance between them whether or not her sister-in-law was looking, and wishing he did not have the contents of that letter from Alfred echoing in his head. But surely picnics were already more spontaneous than a usual dinner, surely he would prove him wrong on more counts than one -
Caroline’s answer pulled his focus, thankfully, and Evander looked back at her, almost quite entranced by her honesty. He supposed it took a great deal of resolve to be uprooted as she had been, courage to stay in an unknown place; he wondered what she was accustomed to doing, when left to her own devices in that London townhouse. She seemed the sort to throw herself wholeheartedly into anything.
“I... I grew to know that feeling rather well, myself,” Evander remarked, though he imagined it would sound less surprising from him. He had been well used to having time to himself - being the one who stayed - even before he had lost his sister and his mother had passed away, and Alfred had been gone so long that his empty house was almost all he knew. He would not pretend he had disliked it, but he hadn’t known anything different. “Until quite recently, at least.” He had been thinking of Charity as he said it; but he could not fault Caroline if she presumed it was about her, either, for it was equally accurate - her company had punctuated his days in quite the consistent fashion. And he did not mind it.
He only wished he did not feel so daunted by something as supposedly simple as making conversation in her presence; if he were only a little more relaxed, Evander might have managed to stop and think and ease his worry, let things sit more naturally, more relaxed, perhaps even find the silence comfortable and not a gaping expectation. “As long as you have not tired of your life here,” he said, as brightly as he could bear, wondering what it was she saw in Britain that had seen her stay with her brothers here at all. “But have you been to Irvingly often? What do you think of it?” It was not the centre of the social season by any means; London was a very different kettle of fish. (But being uprooted from London to Irvingly was hardly a move across the Atlantic, was it?)
He moved back to where he had been sitting before and settled back into place beside her, retaining the carefully-calculated distance between them whether or not her sister-in-law was looking, and wishing he did not have the contents of that letter from Alfred echoing in his head. But surely picnics were already more spontaneous than a usual dinner, surely he would prove him wrong on more counts than one -
Caroline’s answer pulled his focus, thankfully, and Evander looked back at her, almost quite entranced by her honesty. He supposed it took a great deal of resolve to be uprooted as she had been, courage to stay in an unknown place; he wondered what she was accustomed to doing, when left to her own devices in that London townhouse. She seemed the sort to throw herself wholeheartedly into anything.
“I... I grew to know that feeling rather well, myself,” Evander remarked, though he imagined it would sound less surprising from him. He had been well used to having time to himself - being the one who stayed - even before he had lost his sister and his mother had passed away, and Alfred had been gone so long that his empty house was almost all he knew. He would not pretend he had disliked it, but he hadn’t known anything different. “Until quite recently, at least.” He had been thinking of Charity as he said it; but he could not fault Caroline if she presumed it was about her, either, for it was equally accurate - her company had punctuated his days in quite the consistent fashion. And he did not mind it.
He only wished he did not feel so daunted by something as supposedly simple as making conversation in her presence; if he were only a little more relaxed, Evander might have managed to stop and think and ease his worry, let things sit more naturally, more relaxed, perhaps even find the silence comfortable and not a gaping expectation. “As long as you have not tired of your life here,” he said, as brightly as he could bear, wondering what it was she saw in Britain that had seen her stay with her brothers here at all. “But have you been to Irvingly often? What do you think of it?” It was not the centre of the social season by any means; London was a very different kettle of fish. (But being uprooted from London to Irvingly was hardly a move across the Atlantic, was it?)
