4th January, 1891 — Delaney Townhouse, London
A new year, a new - well, not quite a new him, but Evander was feeling quite resolved, and much better prepared.
He had called on her after work, had a ring to give her, had composed a lengthy pros and cons list, felt quite preternaturally decided. Besides, if he was being ruthlessly honest with himself, he was getting on in years - and Charity would be on her way to Hogwarts and thence to womanhood in no time - and he hardly had the time to start from scratch and embark upon another courtship now, had he? Realistically, it was Caroline or bust: and indeed, he wanted Caroline. He did. He was fairly certain she too felt this way; she had been making hints enough about it, and that she was still as pleasant as she had been towards him a perfect six months ago (to the day) when she had accepted the courtship, he could not imagine this proposal would go badly.
Well, he could imagine it.
But he was hopeful about it, decently confident, and had written down some semblance of all he ought to say in which to couch the words, and was ready to declare it. Only - he had come in, her maid was here in the parlour as usual, Caroline had asked after his health (much better, quite well, all fine) and his workday and then he had felt compelled to ask her some question of social nicety and for all he had endeavoured to listen to her answer, he had missed half of it and now could not get a word in edgeways.
That had - thrown him off, somewhat; he had raced through his speech once again in his head and now seemed to have gone off piste, or jolted it all out of order. “Caroline,” Evander interrupted at last from where he was standing, apropos of nothing she had said, his tone almost coming out exasperated for the nerves and impatience of expelling it. “Will you marry me?”
@"Caroline Delaney"
He had called on her after work, had a ring to give her, had composed a lengthy pros and cons list, felt quite preternaturally decided. Besides, if he was being ruthlessly honest with himself, he was getting on in years - and Charity would be on her way to Hogwarts and thence to womanhood in no time - and he hardly had the time to start from scratch and embark upon another courtship now, had he? Realistically, it was Caroline or bust: and indeed, he wanted Caroline. He did. He was fairly certain she too felt this way; she had been making hints enough about it, and that she was still as pleasant as she had been towards him a perfect six months ago (to the day) when she had accepted the courtship, he could not imagine this proposal would go badly.
Well, he could imagine it.
But he was hopeful about it, decently confident, and had written down some semblance of all he ought to say in which to couch the words, and was ready to declare it. Only - he had come in, her maid was here in the parlour as usual, Caroline had asked after his health (much better, quite well, all fine) and his workday and then he had felt compelled to ask her some question of social nicety and for all he had endeavoured to listen to her answer, he had missed half of it and now could not get a word in edgeways.
That had - thrown him off, somewhat; he had raced through his speech once again in his head and now seemed to have gone off piste, or jolted it all out of order. “Caroline,” Evander interrupted at last from where he was standing, apropos of nothing she had said, his tone almost coming out exasperated for the nerves and impatience of expelling it. “Will you marry me?”
