August said, “I always liked storms. They make the world feel newly made for a little while.”
She tilted her head, as if reconsidering him. “I dislike the waiting. You know it is coming, but you never know when it will hit. I would rather get it over with.”
He nodded. “I always tried to count the seconds between the flash and the thunder.”
Eliza smiled, but it was a closed smile. “And?”
“I lost count, every time.”
They sat in silence. August tried to remember why he had come or what he hoped to accomplish but found himself content watching the way the storm made patterns on the glass overhead.
He asked, “What were you reading?”
She hesitated. “Donne,No man is an island.A lie, I think. Most men are perfectly content to be islands.”
“Perhaps they prefer it,” August suggested, “rather than risk drowning in the mainland.”
Eliza regarded him, and for once, he could not read her at all.
He pressed, “Did you dislike the ball at Irondale? You seemed to enjoy yourself, at least until the end.”
She gave a small shrug. “Enjoyment is not the same as ease.”
“You did not seem uneasy.”
“Appearances,” she said. “You should know about those.”
He smiled then tried a new tactic. “My father used to say that if you want to know a person, you should watch what they do when they think no one is watching.”
She set her jaw. “Did you ever watch your parents?”
The question landed heavier than expected.
“My mother is not the sort one observes. She would notice and make you regret it.”
“And your father?” she asked.
He considered. “He never did anything he was not willing to have seen.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
August barked a laugh. “You have no idea.” Then asked in a softer tone, “Were your parents like that?”
She went very still. “I do not remember.” It was a lie, and she had a feeling he knew it too.
He let the silence expand. “You never speak of it.”
She looked down at the table, fingers drumming once, then stopping. “There is little to say. My father fell from a horse before I was born.” Her voice was flat. “I had my uncle. He was kind if distracted.”
August had the sense of walking on ice, thin and ready to shatter. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Please don’t be. Pity is a kindness best reserved for others.”
They stared at the candle. August wanted to touch her hand, to close the space. He did not know why.
Instead, he said, “You do not allow anyone near you, do you?”
She looked up. “Does that trouble you?”