Anna wandered through the house, doing nothing and not really making any attempt to even seem like she was doing something. It was too difficult to do anything. She had tried embroidering, but her mind had wandered. Her hands had propelled the needle through the cloth with a skill that rivalled a professional seamstress, but without a conscious thought to guide it in the pattern, she had ended up with a twisting mess of lines. Upon examining the ‘kerchief, she had tried to see if there were any sense in the pattern at all, but to follow one line with the eye was a futile attempt, as it soon split into many and those would curve around in feeble and faltering attempts to merge back into the pattern. And why was she embroidering in such a noxious peach colour, especially on a green-gold paisley background? It was a hideous contrast that only accentuated the senseless design of the paisley itself.

Since embroidering had not worked out, she had attempted to read. But reading a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland produced only a sense of extreme discomfort and the disturbing thought that Anna was much like Alice, wandering through a land that seemed to revolve around arbitrary rules, without understanding many of them. Then she had thought she was nothing like Alice at all, because she was not so foolish as to eat a cookie simply because it said EAT ME on it. And then she had found a dozen more characteristics that she shared with Alice, and another ten she didn’t. She had had to put the book up, unable to continue reading it. She had taken a different book from the shelves, picking out at random; it turned out to be the Bible. She had flipped it open, and her eyes had fallen on 1 Peter 4:8: “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”

She had had to leave the library then. She had tried to distract herself from the impending visit in other ways, but playing with the kittens had ended when the mother cat had taken them away, one by one, carting them off to the basket to nurse and sleep. The maid was new, and Anna hadn’t felt comfortable talking to her. The cook was busy with the dinner, determined to create something that a Baron would not sneer at. And so now Anna was wandering. Finally, tired of walking for what seemed like hours, she sat where she could see out the window to the front of the house, but far enough back from the glass pane that those outside would not see her. And she fell to worrying, exactly the thing she had been trying to avoid.

Nora was coming to visit today. Or at least, she was expected to come, and Anna thought that she would, hoped that she would. But if she didn’t come, it might actually be the better, at least for the Kendalls… no! A vile, disloyal thought. It was best if Nora did come, if they maintained and built fresh their old friendship. Anna was just nervous because of course Nora would talk about the orphanage—at least once Anna released her from her promise by telling her that Christopher knew and she didn’t have to worry about it—and then Anna would have to remember that all over again. Although Anna was willing to completely let it lie in the past, and she would bet that Nora was too, she knew that Charlotte would feel the need to talk about it. Because Nora knew about more than just the orphanage. Nora also knew about the murders. And unlike Christopher, Nora was not bound by a love for them to keep her mouth shut. Of course Charlotte would want to talk about it.

And to make it worse, Nora would not be alone. The Baron of Wothersham was coming with her. Anna was quite certain that there was something going on between the two of them. She had seen how the man looked at Nora at the Ball, and she had heard Nora’s assertion that Lord Wothersham was the kindest man that she’d met. Anna didn’t know precisely how Nora felt about the Baron, but she knew how she felt. The man was horrible, so tall and forbidding and just plain mean-looking. How could Nora bear to be by him? Well, maybe it was because the man didn’t look so terrifying when he looked at Nora. But he would be mean to Anna. Anna had been disrespectful to him. How could she have said those things to him? And his sister. It was such a good thing that she wasn’t coming too, otherwise Anna wouldn’t make it through this dinner.

Anna tried to think of positive things that had happened, in order to not be swamped by all the things that were going to go wrong. Christopher had stayed. That was the best thing she could think of, that and that he still loved them. What else? Oh! Charlotte had forgotten to bring up Rueben Raymond and what he had done to Anna. There was another positive thing. She must have forgotten in the stress of telling Christopher everything—at least that’s what Anna hoped. At least that worry was off her shoulders; she wouldn’t have to lie in order to prevent Charlotte from going berserk and doing something dreadful to the man. And there were the kittens, they were doing well. And the cook was making things that smelled wonderful, and the china was beautiful, and the house was spic and span, and there really was a lot to be thankful for…

Oh, dear, this was going to be a miserable day. Why did Nora have to bring the Baron with her? Maybe he wouldn’t come. Yes, of course he wouldn’t, Anna told herself. Nora was a whore; it must be a thing of… a thing of… a result of that which had made him say that he would, and that had been why he looked at Nora that way at the Ball. She had been in a little room and… the Baron had been waiting outside. Hmm. But still, they had probably sometime done that. Because the Baron was a man, you couldn’t expect him to keep to himself, especially since he wasn’t married or engaged, or even courting anyone, and Nora was what she was. He wasn’t really going to come. Having semi-convinced herself that it would be just Nora, if anyone, coming today, Anna felt much brighter. She turned her thoughts to other things.

She would have to find out if there was some way to help Nora out of the rut that her life was in. It wouldn’t do to stand by while her old friend remained a whore. Yet she couldn’t dictate what happened to Nora either… but perhaps if she arranged for there to be other options, then Nora would accept some gentle prodding? Anna would have to talk to Christopher to see if there was any job that he knew about. She glanced out the window again, always vigilant for arrivals, and mulled over the possibilities.

"No, I don't want this.» Charlotte lifted the centerpiece off the table and handed it over to the maid. "I don't want it scented."
"Sorry, ma'm."
"Don't bother being sorry, just change it. And these." She removed the white candlesticks that Martha had just set out. Newly shined for the occasion, the silver holders containing them had not been used for over six years. "We don't use these. We use the thick ones. You know? Votive candles? No one told you this?"
"No, ma'm."
"Well, I don't want to see them again. Did you buy them?"
"I did, ma'm. I'm sorry."
"Well, if no one told you, then there was no way for you to know, was there? Just don't use them again."
"I won't." The centerpiece and the candles were loaded onto the tea-cart and Martha quietly began pushing it out of the room. She paused at the door and turned tentatively. "May I ask why?" It was a reasonable question, after all. She must have worked hard shining those holders, and she must have wondered why they were not in use. But Charlotte did not want to answer truthfully. That was Anna’s buisness.
"They’re... to tall," she simply replied. Martha, not too daft to realize that she was being brushed off, nodded, curtseyed and left, and Charlotte smoothed the tablecloth for no reason, hoping she knew what she was doing with this visit.

--

"So... let me see if I understand you correctly," Christopher had started pacing up and down after she had explained the situation to him Wednesday evening. "You have invited a prostitute to our home this upcoming Sunday..."
"Yes."
"For afternoon tea?"
"Yes."
"And the Baron Wothersham is coming as well."
"Yes."
"Aha."
"Are you angry?"
"I..." He pinched the root of his nose. He looked confused and a little annoyed.
"I know I should have asked you, but I could not do that at the time. I am asking you now. I will call it off if you want me to."
"What exactly is it you think will come out of this meeting? What will you say to her?" He sat down again, beside her on the bed. She stared at his knees. He was voicing her own very doubts and questions.
"I am not... entirely sure. I would like to... just talk to her. I would like to find out exactly what she told them back then. And..."
"I thought you said she swore she had not talked and would not." Christopher reminded her.
"She did swear. I do not trust her."
"Well, no surprises there," he muttered.
"She was terrified; she would have said the same thing no matter what sort of information she revealed back then," Charlotte went on, ignoring his not-so-implicit complaint about her distrustful nature. "Of course she talked. She loved him. I don’t know her, but I know a thing or two about how it must have been. I loved him once, too." Charlotte was musing out loud and for a moment she forgot that those words might be uncomfortable for her husband to hear. When she turned to Christopher he looked as though he was about to be sick. "I don’t anymore," she assured him, " - and neither does she, which is why I am no longer too worried about her talking. I just want to know what has already been said, and to whom."
"With the Lord Wothersham present?" he asked blackly.
"No, no, of course not. I need to make friends with her first. At the moment she thinks I am a demented murderess." Christopher got a glint of playfulness in his eyes. She sent him a mischievous smile and a warning look. "You shut your mouth."
"I did not say a word."
"You wanted to, you... horrible, horrible man." She pushed him , but he caught hold of her with both arms and pulled her onto his lap, kissing her shoulder.
"You can be as demented as you like." he murmured.
"Oh, good then. Because I plan to."

"But..." He sighed and straightened up. His face had a new shadow in it and Charlotte knew she had not won him over just yet. "I don’t like the Lord Wothersham." he complained sulkily.
"I know, darling." She had shifted so that she sat across his lap and was facing him. Now she stroked his face as if he was a child who needed his mother to give him somewhat of a push to eat his greens. "Neither do I. But she was so very frightened of me! And he seemed to have a way with her."
"How... extremely odd. Who would have thought he had a way with... well, anyone? And then a woman at that."
"I know."
"You say she called him the kindest man she had met?" His brow furrowed and he squinted incredulously past her into the flames of the hearth. He was thinking. She stroked his hair and waited for a while before she went on.
"She looked very taken with him. And he treated her very well as far as I could see. He even looked to be... almost hugging her... at one point."
"But you can not be certain that she was not acting, or that he is not just her client, and..."
"No, I can not," Charlotte agreed. "Although, whatever their relation is, I need to talk to her. And she is Anna’s childhood friend as well; they want to meet! So even if I do not get a single word out of her on Sunday... It is still worth it. To win her trust..."
"You want her to trust you? Why should she? Think of yourself; you trust no one!" Oh, God, why did he have to be so difficult?
"I want to at least try!" she insisted stubbornly.
"Anna is terrified of him," Christopher muttered then, his voice once again dark and sulky.
"Oh." Charlotte rolled her eyes and exasperatedly threw out her arms. "Oh, great! Well, yes, yes, of course, let us by all means use that argument! Why do we not just board up the windows, lock all the doors and never see people again for as long as we live?" Christopher sighed resignedly and turned away – to the extent that a man can turn away while his wife is sitting across his lap - but Charlotte detected half a smile playing on his face. He did know what she meant, and he did agree, she knew it. Still, to underline her point, she added: "Anna is afraid of everyone, the baron is nothing special in that regard."
"I know."
"And she actually defended him at one point. She said she did not think that Nora was – yes! You were there! You heard that!" She pointed at his nose. Christopher’s smile had turned from half of one into a wide, if still resigned grin. She knew she had won.
"All right, all right, have it your way." Charlotte emitted a little squeak of happiness and kissed him.
"Thank you!"
"You are a stubborn, demanding, spoiled wife."
"But you know you love me."
"Of course; because you demand it."
"Yes, I do! Kiss me more!" She threw her head back, exposing her neck to him. He chuckled.
"Listen to yourself!"
"Do it!" She giggled upwards at the roof as she gave the command, which made it sound rather less intimidating than intended.

--

"What...? No – Gosh, what are you doing here?" Martha was still in the next room, by the dumbwaiter, but Charlotte could tell from the unnaturally high pitch her voice that she was not speaking to a person.
"Which one is it? Is it the grey one?"
"Yes, with the light spots on the head." Charlotte smiled. She had no idea how that little thing kept sneaking out and into the main rooms of the house. And it was the same kitten every single time.
"C’mere you."
"Need help?"
"Naw, thank you ma’m, but he’s not hard to get." Martha nearly forgot herself around the kittens. Charlotte liked to listen in on her when she had lowered her voice and thought she was on her own with them. "Are yah? Neeeh, oh, purring. What are you doing out here, eh? All alone so far from your mommy? Let’s go back to her. Back to nap with the others." Martha’s burbling voice disappeared as she left for the hallway and Charlotte remained standing where she was for a few moments before going downstairs to the kitchen to see if the cook needed help.

She was shooed back up rather soon, however, by the cook who insisted that "the smells and smokes will stick to missus’ dress," and that "’sides, there ain’t naught left to do." So she went to see how Anna was doing. Giving a small cough so as to not scare her sister when coming up from behind, Charlotte glided over to her, put her arms around her and her chin on Anna’s shoulder.
"They won’t be arriving just yet," she smiled, hinting to the fact that Anna had been staring out the window. "Nervous?"

Anna patiently waited, watching out the windows and thinking. It was not hard for Anna to wait patiently; in fact, that was probably her greatest skill. It was developed out of necessity, since Mrs Humperdink sometimes had left Anna locked alone in the small room for hours at a time, and there was nothing to do except learn to wait patiently under the tables, avoiding looking at the things on them. That was when Anna had learned to tell herself stories; now she used the same ability to make the interminable wait for Nora to arrive bearable. There was a small cough from behind, and Anna turned her head to throw her sister a smile, but quickly returned her attention to the window that overlooked the walk. Why weren’t they here yet? As if she could hear Anna’s thoughts, Charlotte put her arms around Anna, hugging her back, and said, “They won’t be arriving just yet.”

Anna nodded. She knew that, she was just…
“Nervous?”
Anna’s lips quirked. Yes, that. She confirmed Charlotte’s astute guess with, “Yes. Yes I am.”
She didn’t say anything else for a bit, and Charlotte didn’t press. Both of them just stood there until Anna decided to tell Charlotte what was on her mind. Maybe that would help. Maybe Charlotte would say something like she usually did, something that would drain away Anna’s anxiety. Charlotte’s chin rested on Anna’s shoulder, and Anna leaned her head against Charlotte’s. She said, “I am nervous, Charlotte. How can this be happening? Nora’s coming. I haven’t seen her in years except for at the ball. She’s grown. I’m grown. Yet we won’t talk about that, I know we won’t. We will talk about when we were little. And I don’t want to. I should never have gone to the ball.”

Except, of course, even if she had not gone to the ball, Charlotte would still have seen Nora there. But it could have been hoped that Nora would not have recognised Charlotte at all, and would not now have been in the frame of mind that she would of necessity be in—namely that she was going to visit a murderess and that murderess’ professed sister. Anna was quite sure that it had been her comment about Charlotte being Ormbsy’s “favourite” that had triggered Nora’s recall of Charlotte’s identity. It might have happened anyway, but there was always the possibility that it mightn’t have, if Anna and her big mouth hadn’t been there. Who was to say? At least, if Anna hadn’t been at the ball, then she wouldn’t have upset Lord Wothersham by saying those disrespectful things to him.

Anna continued telling Charlotte her troubles after a small pause. “Except, then I wouldn’t have the chance to know an old friend again, would I? And I know what happened to me, and I know that you and Christopher know, and I know it wasn’t my fault. I shouldn’t feel less to discuss it with people who know what happened, not when it happened to them too. I shouldn’t feel like it makes me somehow shamed that everyone in the house will know what happened to me. I shouldn't feel like if I had just been smarter, or more assertive, or believed harder, that maybe what happened wouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t wish that Nora wasn’t coming because I’m afraid that she’ll despise me for what she has to know was done to me, because she won’t—it happened to her too. She’ll understand.”

Anna turned in the circle of Charlotte’s arms, putting her arms around her sister and resting her head on Charlotte’s chest, almost as if she were a baby and Charlotte the mother. She just stood there for a moment, quietly taking in Charlotte’s comfort. Then, softly, she added, “I know these things, Charlotte. It just… sometimes, that makes no difference.” And sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes all the knowledge in the world made absolutely no difference to what she felt. Maybe it should have, like it seemed to with Charlotte—she never seemed to doubt herself, or to despise herself; she always seemed so confident and secure in the knowledge that it hadn’t been her fault, and that she had righted the wrongs. But Anna just couldn’t make herself work that way.

But now she was being selfish, she realised. She was telling Charlotte all her worries, and basically dumping that burden on Charlotte as well. It couldn’t be that Charlotte was eager to talk about the past. It wouldn’t be easy on her either, and she didn’t need Anna’s worries as well as her own. Anna cast about for some way to change the subject, but the one her mind landed on wasn’t all that much better. Before she could stop it coming out, however, she had tilted her head on Charlotte’s chest so that she could look in her face. “Did she have to bring Lord Wothersham with her?” Anna asked plaintively.

(OOC: This takes place after the thread "Arrangements." Link to Nora's last post there will be edited in)

By the end of the hedge at number seven Grainger street stood a girl who did not belong there. Ethel had seen her there before, but she knew that this was not where the girl really lived. She knew it because she was familiar with the tenants of number seven, but also because whenever the girl arrived on foot, she came from further down the street. Ethel knew this not because she was a nosy woman; no, she minded her own buisness and let others mind theirs, but being as old as Ethel and having so much time to sit and watch the birds and the weather, one accidentally notices some things. Sometimes these things accidentally piques one’s curiousity.

The girl was - as usual - obviously waiting for someone, which most likely meant that she had been visiting a friend unescorted. However, she always walked from wherever it was she had been staying and came to this exact spot, which meant that she did not want the person driving her to know where she really went. This was what made Ethel curious. Who could her secret friend be? Could it be one of Ethel’s own grandchildren – she had twelve grandsons, and most of them lived nearby. Or one of their friends perhaps? She knew most folks around here. Ethel finally could not stand it any longer and so she made a very sudden decision to return Mrs. Henderson’s little bowl of sugar that she had borrowed more than eight weeks ago.

--

Nora’s hand smoothed invisible wrinkles in her dress for what must be the thousandth time since she put it on. She had been staring into the wardrobe for ages this morning. The last time she had such a hard time picking out a dress must be a very long time ago, because Nora could not remember it. After finally deciding on a white trimmed tea dress of a soft rosy brown colour, she had sat in front of the mirror for more than three hours.
Do I look old? She had pulled at the skin around her mouth and eyes, dabbed make-up on her cheeks, drawn lines around her eyes, colored her lips and eyelids, realized that she was going out in full daylight and washed some of it back off. Natural. You are going for natural, she had told herself. Not too much. Mrs. Kendall and Anna wear very little. Almost nothing. She couldn’t do that. Not nothing. She’d feel... naked. What an irony. Besides, she still had a weak bruise under her left jaw. Using two hand-mirrors, however, she was pretty sure she had managed to cover most of it up. And then it was the hair. Would he like her hair? She had spent over an hour on it, and it looked very pretty in her mirror. But was it good enough? Would he think she was beautiful? Would he want to touch her? She wanted him to want to touch her. She wanted him to be able to tell that she had made herself pretty for him.

Look at you... Silly, silly you. What are you to him? What are you to the Kendalls, or even to Anna? She has a life now. Nora had touched her face and continued staring at herself. What are you to anyone? She was no one. Nothing. This ridiculous budding hope of... what? Meaning something to someone? It ought to be crushed immediately. She needed to stop entertaining these childish fantasies.
But... for one day? Couldn’t she pretend just for one day?
You already did. And look how well that turned out.
Just... Just one more day. Just...
Selfish girl!
Just one more day.

So now she was back where she had last seen him, in Grainger Street, touching the very bush into which he had stumbled when she came too close. What a fool she was! Would he still be angry, despite his apology? Everything about this was so strange that a fake apology would make it no less so. Why was he coming with her to the Kendalls? Her mind was partly clouded by all the same questions and doubts that had run through her head at the ball and during the week since it.

But only partly.

Because the rest of her mind was filled with twirling rainbows, sparkling streams, summernights, happy songs, fairytales and kittens. Her chest felt bubbly, her feet wanted to skip, and all the while tis extreme anticipation of something absolutelly wonderful. She had a feeling about this day; that it was a momentous occasion in her life. As if after today, everything would change forever. Maybe she would die. That was fine. She had made the decision several times now. She was not afraid to die. Maybe she would understand something significant, or learn something, or meet someone. Maybe nothing would happen at all. Maybe she was just being daft.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Miss?"
"Oh! No – no, thank you." An old, smiling woman had approached her and Nora cursed herself for being early. "I’m just... waiting for my..." she gestured towards the road, "...my ride..."
"Oh, good, shan’t be alone for long, then. You have friends here?" The woman pointed at number seven and Nora shook her head. This lady clearly lived around here. What was she going to say if she started asking about names? Was this not rather rude? Nora was no expert on etiquette, but if this was not considered prying, then she definitely thought it should be. Then again, the lady was just trying to show interest. It was Sunday, Nora was a stranger in her street without an escort, she was being cordial. Nora wished she wouldn’t.
"I have been visiting... I just called on a... uh... Oh, excuse me, here he is now." Even before she saw the baron’s face, she knew it was him in the approaching barouche, and the familiar mixture of relief and excitement came over her.
"Ah," said the old woman and Nora distinctly noted evident disappointment in her voice now. Find your gossip elsewhere. Typical that this should happen just when he was picking her up. Oh, a coat of arms! The official crest she had seen in his letter was on the side of the carriage. The old lady’s eyes bulged with curiousity, but she nevertheless bade Nora good day and retreated backwards up the path to the house. Nora on her part had a hard time keeping herself from jumping up and down. She was scared and ecstatic at the same time. She wanted to call out to him, but knew better than to speak until spoken to. Instead all she did was beam. Please, don’t let him be angry, please, please, please....

John, despite being quite ill from Vasiliev’s ghastly driving, could not contain a sense of both anxiety and elated enthusiasm. Strange, he reflected, that he should be so keen to go and spend a few hours at the house of a woman he barely knew. But he knew very well it wasn’t really that; it was really that Nora would be there. Who was another woman he couldn’t really claim to know all that well, if he was being truthful with himself. And it did not matter at all to the agitated thrill that kept burning away in his chest. When Nora looked at him, he felt handsome; when she spoke to him, he felt necessary; when she smiled at him, his life meant something. And when he thought about her, his mind was filled with screwy ideas like that.

He had to get hold of himself. It was the illness that was making him think of such illogical drivel. He should instead be worrying about how she would greet him. She would be angry, he was certain. His own anger of nearly a week before had melted the same night of its occurrence, melted straight into shame and personal disgust with himself. But she would still be angry; she was the wronged party and his poor apology could not possibly be enough to assuage her outrage, no matter how sincere the letter had been. Haverhill must have been mistaken when he said that she had absolved him of guilt. Yet even as he morosely considered this, the feeling in his chest was not extinguished. He would see her again soon. Vasiliev was going too slow. He was only two streets away from her house, if the man would just go faster… except of course this wasn’t really Nora’s house. It was a different house.

It was the house she had lied to him about, a part of him pointed out sadly. The apprehensive excitement refused to be quelled by this new attempt, however, and shot back that he had lied to her before, so she was entitled to it. Then a horrible thought occurred to him; would she be hurt by his lie the way hers had upset him, if she found out? Panic filled him, because he would not wish her hurt by any actions of his, and the only way out of the lie would to be to tell her the truth, an idea which held absolutely no appeal to him. But immediately his logical mind pointed out that in order for her to be hurt by his lies, she would have to actually care about him, and of course she didn’t—it was hubris to think it—and he wouldn’t want her to either, of course. Then he realised that his chain of logic had a flaw in it, because it implied that he had been hurt by her lie because he cared about her, which he most certainly did not, and decided to drop the entire inner argument. It was stupid anyway.

Because he did not wish to think about the uncomfortable implications behind his arguments and counterarguments, he fixed his attention on the gifts that he had brought. He had the chocolates for Mrs Kendall, fine imported Belgian delicacies, and quite expensive. An impersonal gift, but he didn’t know the woman, and truthfully, didn’t like her. He’d gone to slightly more effort for Miss Sutcliffe, actually taking the trouble to choose something he thought she would like, since she had been so kind as to still the argument between his sister and her own sister. As a result, he had a book of poetry for her. Not love poetry since that would send the wrong message, but rather a book of English masterpieces of imagery and fantasy. He had decided on it as a gift when he had remembered what she had remarked to Nora when they had re-entered the ball; he thought she might enjoy it.

And then there was Nora’s camellia, which had taken him the most time to choose. He had sat in the north library and tried and tried to think of something that she might like, but had ended up unable to think of anything because his eyes had kept drifting back to the vase of flowers on the stand-table, and they had kept inspiring him to think some very daft thoughts about what flowers suited Nora. Eventually he had decided that he would give her flowers, excusing the decision to himself by rationalising that every woman loved flowers. And then he had spent three hours reading that daft book about flowers, and then another two deciding which he liked best for her on this occasion, and then had dithered at the flower shop—not the Kendalls’, of course—before steeling himself to buy it. It was remarkable how hard it was to look the florist in the eye—it was almost like the woman had seen right through his carefully constructed inner reasoning.

She had wanted to put together a bouquet of the camellias, but John had objected, buying just the single perfect bloom that he had selected. He felt that a bouquet was too ostentatious, and also destroyed the meaning the daft book had told him the flower carried. How could the camellia communicate his appreciation of Nora’s perfect loveliness, the unique and faultless beauty that she possessed, if there were many of them? Wouldn’t that just mean that she was one beauty among many? He didn’t pretend to understand everything that the book set forth on the subject, but that was the way it seemed to him, and so he had adamantly refused to buy any more, set on giving her only the one pristine camellia.

He insisted to himself that it was all right to give it to her. It didn’t really mean anything, now did it? Anyone could see that Nora was beautiful; it would hardly be remarked upon that he would give her a flower admitting that he thought so too. Anyone would only say he was stating the obvious. Indeed. It wasn’t a personal judgement. Why, he would bet that if the florist had seen Nora, she would have said yes, definitely camellias for her. So it was all right to give it to her, it really was. He withdrew the gifts for the Kendalls from the pockets of his overcoat and placed them on the opposite seat of the barouche, so that they would be handy when he arrived at their house, and then took the box that protected the camellia out of another, opening it and withdrawing the flower before placing the empty box under the curricle seat.

He was almost there. Would she be here? Or was he going to find out that she hadn’t come, that he’d be… he needn’t have worried. He could see her figure waiting up ahead, and a guilty colour rose in his face, fortunately disguised because it only replaced the grey pallor of his illness and made him look natural. He’d kept her waiting, how very discourteous. She was going to be angry about that, too. She would tell him he was a brute and a cad, and he would not be helped by having to agree that she was right. He was drawing abreast of her. The carriage was stopping. And now here he was, swinging down from the barouche at the very place where the incident had happened, landing on the cobblestones no more than a few feet away from her, and it was time to face the music. Best to get on with it.

It started ringing all around him as he stepped forward to address her, a great choir of angels; he had seen what he had not expected to see and the relief was so profound that for a moment his ears really did start ringing. She was smiling, and not a cold, professional smile. It was the smile he had thought before and would certainly think again was so beautiful, a genuine expression that carried nothing but warmth. She was glad to see him. Oh, thank God. She wasn’t angry. She really wasn’t going to hold his outburst against him, for whatever reason. She was a saint to have it in her. He smiled back at her, and was struck again by her absolute perfection of face. That beauty was framed by golden hair that she had arranged in such a way that he could not help but notice how soft it looked, and her smile…

…was the kind of smile that made a man stand about like a booby, forgetting basic courtesies like greeting a woman. What was he doing? He needed to say something, do something. He settled for sweeping off his hat as he said, “Good afternoon, Miss Nora. You look exceptionally lovely.” It was only the truth. He had never seen her but that she was exceptionally lovely; he did not think it was possible for her to be ugly, or even plain. He took her hand in one of his, wishing for an asinine moment that she was not wearing gloves, and kissed the backs of her knuckles as he bowed over it and pressed the camellia into her fingers, saying, “A small gift, in return for such grace.”

Wait, was that overbearing? He’d never actually given a woman a gift like this before, maybe it was? No wait, what was he thinking? He’d given many, many women gifts before, hostesses at parties and that sort of thing; this was nothing unusual. But he hadn’t cared if they would like the gift, the traitorous worrying part of his mind said. But he didn’t care if Nora liked the camellia either, he argued back. After all, it was only a flower. Who cared if she liked it now? It was going to die in a few days anyway. Out of nowhere the thought occurred to him that perhaps that was why men gave flowers; because they would die, and need to be replaced, and who better to replace them than the original giver?

Of course, Nora should always have a fresh camellia. That was only right. He could get the location of her house from Haverhill and… do nothing. He was not thinking these things. Walling them off and refusing to acknowledge that he had ever even conceived of them, he smiled at Nora again and offered her his arm, not that she would really need it on the few steps back to the barouche. He just wanted to have her by his side, to know that she had forgiven him, to know that all was right in the world.

Behind him, Vasiliev jumped down from the driver’s seat and unfolded the steps, and then waited unobtrusively beside them so he would be able to fold them back under the carriage and resume driving when the two of them were ready.

(OOC: Yuss, the tiny mods are cleared on msn, as usual)

He swung himself down from the carriage in a way that made her think she knew no one who could do it just like that. Byron surely couldn’t. He landed on the ground with a thump, and usually he was not sober enough to catch his balance right away. As for Reuben Raymond... Oh, she could hardly even picture Mr. Raymond doing such moves, and when she tried, it made her want to giggle. With Mr. Hanford and a couple of other clients it was the same thing. They were rich and middle-aged, a combination which made many of them become rather large. Lord Wothersham was large too, but only because he was tall and wide-framed. He was nowhere close to flabby. He was nowhere close to anything about any of them. He was perfect.

And now here he was in front of her, smiling. She remembered having told him the first time they met, that he looked good when he smiled. He had said then that he would endavour to smile more often if it pleased her.

He had kept his promise.

- Although why he should aim to humour Nora was beyond her. What a perfect gentleman he was. No one acted this way with her! Except maybe Byron when they were playing around. But Byron was not half as handsome as Lord Wothersham, and he was not a real gentleman. He only pretended. When he no longer felt like pretending, he was no longer polite or gentle. Not that she should not be thankful to Byron - goodness, he was a lifesaver and she would not know what to do without him - but Lord Wothersham... He was in another league entirely. Nora mentally stepped on the finger that prodded the back of her head, whispering 'ulterior motive' over and over again.

So what?!

He was smiling, and oh, he still looked so good when he smiled. But it took a few moments before he spoke, which made her heart do a few nervous extra beats. When he finally did speak, it was a compliment for her.
"I am so glad my lord is pleased," she replied, and curtseyed. It was the standard reply and greeting she performed as good as always upon meeting clients in public, only perhaps for him she curtseyed a tad deeper than what was strictly necessary, and of course not all her clients were titled. He took her hand, then, and while he kissed it she felt something slip in between her fingers.
“A small gift, in return for such grace.”
"Oh!" He did not have to do that. There was no one around to impress; no one to know whether he brought her anything or not. The Kendalls most likely would not ask, and even if they had, why would he care what merchants thought of such things? Even if they had been of a higher station he most likely would not have cared, at least that was how his sister claimed he was. There was no reason for him to give her this! Why was he so good all the time? Again the thought that he must be celestial occured to her. - Or at least somehow very closely connected to the heavenly. "Oh, it’s absolutely perfect!"

Studying the flower while caressing it gently, she wondered what it was called. She would not ask, in case it was something everyone knew. She did not want him to be reminded of how stupid she was. If only her gloves had been off! She wanted to touch it. Was it bad of her to put it to her lips and her nose? She did it anyway, but only for a moment, before lowering the flower again and looking up at him. She could feel tears in her eyes, but she was smiling so he would know that they were for joy. After all, she had never received a gift for no reason before.
"Thank you! So much – How... How very kind – my lord really ought not to bring me gifts! But oh, it’s so pretty...!" He held out his arm and the driver unfolded the steps. Nora carefully lifted her dress with the same hand in which she carried the camelia and with the other she accepted his arm. "You look very handsome yourself if I may be so bold," she peeped as they entered the barouche and sat. It was meant to sound more flirtatious than it did.

She knew she had to get her shame off her chest before they were in a bigger party.
"My Lord, about our last meeting... I - I promise I will not speak much on the matter, but I beg you, let me say this one little thing." He became silent for a moment and then turned away. It was evident that he did not want to talk about it. And they wouldn’t, but she had to say this, or she felt like she just might explode.
"I apologise, Miss Nora. I..." He began muttering some words that sounded like another apology, and Nora wanted to scream just then. This was so unreal. Did he not remember what had happened?! Fortunately he hesitated, and Nora jumped at the chance to speak even though she knew it was unforgivably rude of her.
"Those words I said... I did not mean them as they sounded." She paused, but only for a few seconds before continuing intensely: "I am not good with words like you, I say the most foolish things when I try to say something completely different, I’m clumsy like that." She took hold of his arm with both hands, still holding the camelia tenderly between her fingers. "I am so sorry I offended you, it was never my intention. I never would speak or even think as little of you as that – I adore you! Please forgive me?"

When John gave Nora the camellia, she exclaimed, “Oh, it’s absolutely perfect!” She looked down at it, missing the daft and boyish grin that claimed his face before he could stop it (for which he was inestimably grateful—she did not need to know how much he had hoped she would like the gift) and caressed the petals gently before lifting it to her face. He managed to get rid of the excessive wideness to his smile before she looked up; there were tears in her eyes when she did, which made it completely fade. His gift had made her cry? What was wrong with it? Was she allergic to them? But she smiled, reassuring him, and her words let him know they were not tears of distress. “Thank you! So much – How... How very kind – my lord really ought not to bring me gifts! But oh, it’s so pretty...!”

The display of abject gratitude made him slightly uncomfortable, which warred against his first thought: that my lord really ought to bring her many more gifts, so that she would smile at my lord like that. The awkwardness of being thanked so profusely for a flower—did she never get them from other people?—coupled with the automatic refutation of his own stupid thought to make him silent; he merely smiled and offered her his arm. He handed her into the barouche and then followed her, and Vasiliev started the damned thing up again. John did not have much time to dwell on that, though, because he was preoccupied with what Nora said as he sat beside her: “You look very handsome yourself, if I may be so bold.”

Immediately, he felt handsome. He was a fine figure of a man, was he not? He did not carry excess weight; he was well-muscled in the legs, and if he was perhaps not proportionally as well-muscled in the chest and arms, at least he was stronger than many men; his hair was thick and kempt, and if his nose was a touch strong at least it suited his face; he dressed well and his bearing was appropriate for his station. Of course he was handsome. He had it on the ultimate authority: Nora said he was. His head was about to swell off his neck and float into the sky when Nora spoke again and pricked the bubble of his pride. “My Lord, about our last meeting... I - I promise I will not speak much on the matter, but I beg you, let me say this one little thing.”

He had known it was coming. Of course she would want to talk about that; his letter of apology was nowhere near enough to even begin to ameliorate such an egregious error. Yet still, he was silent. There was no way out of his guilt. He had to own it—and it occurred to him that he had taken the coward’s way out before. He had not thought of it at the time; oh, it was dreadfully difficult to write the letter admitting he was in the wrong. But it was nowhere near as difficult as this, to apologise for something he had done, to have to ask forgiveness that he did not deserve and would not get, right to her face. This was why he had written the letter. He was too much of a coward to face her. He was still too much of a coward. He turned his face away and said softly, “I apologise, Miss Nora. I...”

…was brutishly insensitive. I really am most sorry. I know I have behaved wrongly to you, I know I haven’t the right to ask, but please forgive me? Please? The words wouldn’t come out. Hadn’t he thought about this? Hadn’t he prepared to expose himself to her scorn and disdain, prepared to beg her for her forgiveness, on the off chance that she might condescend to continue an acquaintance with him? Wasn’t this the What-I’ll-Say-When-She’s-Still-Angry speech he’d rehearsed in his head? And then after she refused to forgive him, that was when he would offer to leave her at the Kendalls’ house, so that she wouldn’t have to be burdened with his company.

But he did not want to leave her. He wanted to burden her with his company… well, that wasn’t precisely right: he wanted her not to consider his company a burden. How was he supposed to say what he had thought he would be able to? I will not mind, Miss Nora, if you should wish to continue this afternoon without my presence. Of course he would mind! If she wished him gone, then he would go, but… it was so hard to say it. To have to offer, to put the idea in her mind that yes, she could tell him to go, when it might otherwise not occur to her. He suspected that she would not ever tell him first, but if he offered, which was the right thing to do, she might very well, and so he hesitated. She spoke into the gap, “Those words I said... I did not mean them as they sounded.”

Even though she was silent afterwards, John could think of nothing to say. She didn’t mean them as they sounded? Even going back over them—they were captured by his memory as clearly as if he was there again—he could not think of another meaning. What could she have possibly meant instead? It was clearly an offer to sleep with him for the purpose of… teaching him… to enjoy his…. Humiliation swept over him again, that she would think all that implied of him, but he tried to dismiss it. She hadn’t meant it as it sounded. She meant something else. Of course, he knew that; he’d thought of it before, when reflecting on that night. But… how had it come out like that, then? She spoke again before he thought of a way to vocalise the question. “I am not good with words like you, I say the most foolish things when I try to say something completely different, I’m clumsy like that.”

She took hold of his arm with both of her hands, which necessarily brought her closer to him on the barouche seat. He was suddenly very glad that she had taken his arm into her possession; if she had not, he might not have been able to resist the very great urge to put his arm around her that her sudden closeness encouraged. He told himself that he was being foolish, that she certainly would not appreciate it, nor the reassurances he wanted to say to her, that she was not foolish, not clumsy. Why had he ever been angry with her that night? How could he have been? Of course she hadn’t meant it like it sounded; had she ever said something hurtful to him before? He had over-reacted; she had not meant to offend, and he had gone and made her think that she was foolish and clumsy. She spoke again, though, before he could codify that into words. “I am so sorry I offended you, it was never my intention. I never would speak or even think as little of you as that – I adore you! Please forgive me?”

A hot prickling flashed across the back of his neck and shoulders. She adored him? It required all his control to keep his face stone-calm and his hand from shaking under hers. How did she do that? Every time he saw her, she managed to say or do something that threw him out of his composure. He knew that he would keep hearing those words long after he returned to his own house. I adore you. Wouldn’t it be fantastic, were it true? He could tell his sisters: You remember how you keep saying I’m too sour and that I should give women a chance, or I’ll never get along with them? Hah, well guess what? Nora likes me! She adores me! When she said it, he wanted to embrace her, or to hug himself, or the footman, or even the horses. Something needed to be hugged, just so that some other being would understand how wonderful it was to be adored.

But… as pleasant as it was to think of it as true, it could not be. He needed to ground himself in reality. What woman adored a man that would, in anger, hold her in such an uncouth manner and speak to her so immoderately? She was merely attempting to placate the anger she feared had persisted for the past six days. How horrified would she be, he wondered, to know that despite the fact that he was aware of and acknowledged his guilt, there was still a part of his mind that would not release the memory of how he had pressed her to himself—the feel of her, even clothed, against him—and tortured him with it at night? A bad thought, with her right next to him: he concentrated on what he needed to do. He would have to clear the matter up, despite how unpleasant it was to admit his own fault.

“I… Miss Nora. Allow me to be perfectly candid.” The sentences were clipped, the tone short, because if he did not do this now, and fast, he would never be able to finish. He proceeded to lay the situation out as directly as he could, with the promised frankness. His sentences got progressively shorter as their content became more and more uncomfortable to admit. “I could not think of another meaning to what you said. I still cannot; it does not matter. I was offended then. I am not now. I know that it was not your intent to offend. I should have then. I did not think. My words and actions, however, were intended to offend. I was angry. That is no excuse. I apologise.” He took a deep breath, aware that he was becoming too short. Trying to modulate his words to disguise the stress of delivering them, he said, “What I am trying to say, Miss Nora, is that while I must seek your forgiveness, you certainly have no need to seek mine. There is nothing for me to forgive.”

The next part was the hardest part; while it was true, it was also at the same time the most difficult to say. Would it really hurt to pretend, just for a little while? Just for this visit, just for today? But no. He would not have her attempt to assuage him with obvious untruths. It was better for her to be forthright and honest, even if it was more painful. He would not have her lie to him to make him feel better. Down that road was an even worse tangle than the truth could ever create. “And… you do not need to dissemble on my account, Miss Nora. I am well aware that my behaviour to you has not even been admirable, much less adorable. You need not say anything you do not mean for my sake. I shall be content with your candour.”

The twisting in his gut that followed the words was only partly from the resurgence of the illness that plagued him in any sort of wheeled conveyance. Yes, he would be content with her candour; that did not mean that he would be delighted to hear what she really thought of him. It was only that her open honesty would allow him to know where he stood. Casting about for something else to think about than that depressing subject, his mind fell on the sick feeling in his stomach, and he almost reached for his tin of liquorice-mints—the vapours from them seemed to help settle the upset—before he remembered that she held his arm with both her hands, and was forced to merely sit beside her, the grey pallor returning to his face.

Attempting to change the subject, if not the mode of transport, to something more pleasant, he said inanely, “I am happy you like the camellia.” Perhaps not a very smooth transition, but then, nothing would be, and he would rather not talk about their last meeting, and the only other thing that had come to mind was do you really think I am handsome? and he was certainly not going to say that. He swallowed hard, to try and control the heaving in his stomach, and prayed to the God he did not believe in that she wouldn’t notice his private difficulties.

“I… Miss Nora. Allow me to be perfectly candid.” He had said that before, but what he had said then could not possibly be candour. This time, however, she suspected that it was - at least the first part - because he seemed uncomfortable and awkward. His voice was curt and the sentences short, as if he was ashamed and needed to practically spit them out. “I could not think of another meaning to what you said. I still cannot; it does not matter. I was offended then. I am not now. I know that it was not your intent to offend. I should have then. I did not think. My words and actions, however, were intended to offend. I was angry. That is no excuse. I apologise.” He really did mean to apologise when he sent her that letter. He really did think he had been wrong in doing to a whore what men did to whores every day. He really did live in a very odd world.

Obviously there must still be another reason why he treated her in this ridiculously courteous manner, because his next words could not be taken seriously, even with his twisted world-view in mind.
“What I am trying to say, Miss Nora, is that while I must seek your forgiveness, you certainly have no need to seek mine. There is no¤thing for me to forgive. And… you do not need to dissemble on my account, Miss Nora. I am well aware that my behaviour to you has not even been admirable, much less adorable. You need not say anything you do not mean for my sake. I shall be content with your candour.” She gaped openly at him now. His behaviour had not been admirable? She was a shameless woman, and he kept treating her like a Lady! And at the ball...! What he had done there would be exceptionally adorable even if she were a lady! Did he not remember that she had described him to a group of people as the kindest man she had ever met? Why would he possibly think she was not being honest?

“I am happy you like the camellia.” Camelia. The flower had a pretty name, too.
"I do," she let go of his arm with her right hand and held the flower up to admire it. Then she turned back to face him. "I am happy you are happy," she giggled. She let the hand that was still on his arm glide down to take his and squeeze it. "And believe me, I would not say I adored you if I did not. I tell many men a lot of things to make them feel good, but not that."

He looked concentrated and still uncomfortable, and the colour was disappearing from his face. She hoped he believed her. She hoped she had not said anything wrong.
"If you want me to, I will tell you what I meant to say that day and why - your steward seems to know you well, and he told me I need not be afraid to admit it – but perhaps this is not the best time for such convers-..." She interrupted herself. He had turned a pale shade of gray by now and she had trouble meeting his gaze. "You are unwell," she stated. It was not a question. Nora was usually fairly good at recognizing when something was not right with a person physically. After all, pleasing people physically was mostly what her work consisted of. She knew how to read their signals. Lord Wothersham was of course more difficult than many of her clients because he was not a very expressive person in general. She would need more time to learn him by heart. Was he in pain? He was not clutching anything. "What do you need me to do?" He had started swallowing frequently, which to Nora indicated that he was nauseous. She spent a lot of time around drunk people, so this was something she recognized easily. Suddenly she remembered what he had said about cabs the other day, and he had said it in a rather annoyed manner too: “Well then, if it is to be as I wish, we will walk. I find cabs very unlovely.”

They made him sick.
"It is the motion. The motion is upsetting your stomach? Do you wish for me to tell the driver to stop?"

(OOC: If you're planning on having him puke on her, please stay away from the hair. :P)

Charlotte listened tacitly while Anna talked. Whenever her sister paused, she only waited calmly for her to continue, because she knew there was more to come. She did not interrupt and say "Yes, you should have gone to the ball and I am very glad you did," because she already knew that Anna’s next words were going to be arguments against herself. Her sister’s feelings about seeing her childhood friend again were split, and it was completely understandable.
"I shouldn’t feel like it makes me somehow shamed that everyone in the house will know what happened to me. I shouldn't feel like if I had just been smarter, or more assertive, or believed harder, that maybe what happened wouldn’t have happened." Charlotte bit her lip. This sounded painfully familiar. Anna turned in her arms right then, laying her head towards Charlotte’s chest, and at this moment – although Anna did not know it – Charlotte probably found just as much comfort in her sister as her sister found in her. "I know these things, Charlotte," she almost whispered. "It just… sometimes, that makes no difference.” " This, to Charlotte, was more understandable than anything. She wanted to say "I know," but all that came out was a consenting murmur.

Anna’s last question fortunately drew Charlotte out of her contemplative state, and she gave a soft chuckle.
"You sound like Christopher," she smiled. "The poor baron obviously is not a very welcome guest in our home, is he? I am not thrilled that he is coming either. Let us hope that he does not sense it. We ought to do our best to try and give the poor chap a chance, if nothing else, then because – as you said yourself last Monday – Nora seems to feel safe with him." She stroked Anna’s hair knowing very well that he still had not answered the question. "...I think unfortunately she did have to bring him with her, yes. I feared she would not have come at all otherwise. You saw how terrified she was of me. And he was the one she chose to hide behind."

"As for what we will and will not talk about..." She paused and squeezed her sister tighter. "And what you should and should not feel..." She cupped Anna's chin in her hand and tipped her face upwards. "Look at me. What if I promise you right now that you will not have to talk about anything that you do not want to talk about? Will that make you feel any less nervous? Humperdink," God, how she abhorred the woman; merely saying her name made Charlotte’s muscles tighten with rage, "will not have to be mentioned with a single word. Come, sit with me." She pulled Anna with her to the nearest sopha. "It is your choice, Anna, how much you want other people to know about your private affairs. No one has a right to your confidence and your secrets; not Nora, not Christopher, not I. You decide when you feel ready to expose yourself to friends, and how much you wish to share at any given time. If or when you choose to speak about these things with Nora, you can either do it in a private conversation with only the two of you present, or you can do it holding my hand. Lord Wothersham certainly has no right to be there. I will not pressure you to share private details with a man you do not even like – did you really think I would?" An insecure smile and a movement that was half a shrug, half a shake of the head was all the answer she waited for before she continued.

"And please, dear Anna, I know how hard it is to tell your feelings how they ought and ought not to behave. I would ask you to try and not feel ashamed when they will not listen to you, but then you would only have yet another order for them that they will not obey, wouldn’t you? Sometimes it is all right not to feel all right. And it is always all right to talk with me about it – But only if you want to."

“I do,” Nora giggled in reply to John’s abrupt change of subject, and held up the item in question. “I am happy you are happy.” John attempted to muster a smile, but it didn’t come out quite as warmly as he had intended, being forced over clenched teeth as it was. Fortunately, Nora didn’t seem to notice; she did, however, move her hand down to his, to gently wrap her fingers around it, squeezing slightly. Automatically, his hand tightened around hers in return. It was as if it was the only natural thing to do, although he did not know why it should seem that way, nor why he did it. Nora’s countenance grew serious again, however, and she said, “And believe me, I would not say I adored you if I did not. I tell many men a lot of things to make them feel good, but not that.” John could honestly not think of anything to say to that. He understood the sentence, of course, and the apparent meaning, but it simply went around and around in his head without triggering any reply. His silence allowed Nora to continue.

“If you want me to, I will tell you what I meant to say that day and why –” God had strange, strange ways of answering prayers, John thought sarcastically to himself. What kind of help was it to let her not notice his illness, but to instead fixate on talking about the one thing he would care for her to be thinking about even less? “- your steward seems to know you well, and he told me I need not be afraid to admit it –” Well, Haverhill was right there, but what had the blasted man been telling Nora? John could only be relieved that it had been his steward and not his sister that had been talking to her; at least Haverhill understood how John felt about Nora and didn’t insist that he cared for her the way Helen did. He wouldn’t have said anything embarrassing. John hoped. He swallowed again, trying to gulp down the feeling that his stomach was floating towards his throat.

“-but perhaps this is not the best time for such convers-...” John swallowed yet again, and Nora cut herself off. He tried to smile at her, to encourage her to continue, but she looked at him and said, “You are unwell.”
Ah, great, thanks a lot, God. A double sucker-punch, eh? First she can talk about that humiliation, and then she can notice this one! John gave Nora what was really a very good imitation of a smile—at least it had all the teeth in—and attempted to reassure her with, “No…”
The effort was spoiled because he had to swallow before anything more would come out, and she ignored it anyway, clearly not believing his refutation. She asked, “What do you need me to do?”
Go back a couple of minutes and not notice this, please. He protested feebly, “I’m fine… I just…”
She ignored that, too. “It is the motion. The motion is upsetting your stomach? Do you wish for me to tell the driver to stop?”

Argh, she’d seen straight to the heart of his difficulty. Cursing mentally, John squeezed her hand once more—and why did he do that?—and then withdrew from her grip, reaching for the tin of liquorice-mints in his pocket and taking one out. The coolness from the candy helped slightly, and John replied to her observation with a fatalistic, “No, it always happens. I’ll be fine, I just… I’ll be fine.”
The carriage bounced over a missing cobble just then, and John suppressed the dismayed noise that tried to make its way out of his throat. He leaned forward to put the pressure of his body on his rebellious stomach, resting his head in his hands. The bare palms were slightly clammy, and he reversed his earlier wistful thought about Nora not wearing gloves, finding a new appreciation for the custom. She wouldn’t have been able to feel it through her gloves when she had held his hand.

Then he realised the social error he had just made. He’d turned his back on Nora, the woman he was accompanying, something that he should never do unless absolutely unavoidable—which this most certainly was not. The thought struck him that his normal habits were working against him here; he was used to turning his back on both women and men in his company, because he usually did not care if they were offended or not. He ran a distracted hand through his hair, unwittingly disarraying it from the strict part it had been in before, and turned his head to look over his shoulder at her. But when he made to sit back upright, a wave of nausea bent him over again, and his head collapsed back into his hands. Unable to meet Nora’s eye, he did not look at her again, instead just swaying slightly with the movement of the carriage.

He said, his voice almost hoarse, “I’m sorry, Miss Nora. I did not mean for you to see—” He was cut off by a fresh surge of illness, clamping his teeth tightly against it, and the rest of the sentence never made it out. He had not meant for her to see his illness. He had not meant for her to see him appearing so weak, so unmanly—to be laid low by sickness in the gut! He had not meant… the thought swirled away, and he finished the cut-off sentence differently than he had originally intended. He gave a short, self-disappointed and somewhat bitter laugh and only repeated, “Sorry.”

He gave her hand an extra squeeze before letting go of it. Why did he let go? She wanted to hold on to him. Longingly, her eyes followed his hand as he reached into his pocket and produced the little tin container of liquorice mints. Oh, good! That might help him some.
“No, it always happens. I’ll be fine, I just… I’ll be fine.” His breath smelled like the candy now. The same smell that had wafted through to her half conscious state of mind on the evening of the ball, in the hallway. Someone had been carrying her in their arms. He had been carrying her in his arms. Those strong arms that now supported his head as he leaned forward, away from her. She wanted to follow him, she wanted to put a hand on his back, but knew that it would hardly be welcome when he was ill like this. If someone rubbed her back when she felt sick they were more or less guaranteed an uncomfortable display of her throwing up.

Oh, his hair. He had just run a hand through it and left it in a bit of a mess. She wanted to touch it, to kiss it. He had touched her hair that day. He had kept stroking it. He had carried her in his arms and put her down gently. Then he had held her. He had let her cry into his chest, and there had been a deep, vibrating murmur coming from it as he talked to her. It had been comforting. He was so big and calm. He had said those kind words; that she was safe, that he would not hurt her, that he would not leave. Things he did not have to say. She had thought he must be an angel.

He tried to sit up and meet her gaze, but failed. It pained her to see him like this. She wanted to fix it for him, to be good to him like he had been good to her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Nora," he rasped wearily. "I did not mean for you to see—” Again he had to cave in because his body had taken control – or lost it, depending on how you saw it. She wanted to say the right words to comfort him, like he had done with her, but the shock of him issuing yet another apology her way had her temporarily dumbfounded. Why did he keep doing that?

He laughed – or perhaps it was more of a scoff. She had heard him make that sound before, at McMillian’s, on the day when they had first met. That was when – and where – she had become afraid of him for the first time because he acted so gallantly towards her. He had tried to explain to her that he would not harm her. The explanation had been clumsy and ended with a harsh laugh just like this one, and then he had muttered that he was a fool. This time, however, he aplogised again. “Sorry.”

He was an angel. He had to be. There was no other way for all of this to be true, none that made sense to Nora anyway.

"No," she muttered, and now she put a hand on his arm. With the other one she moved the gifts he had laid on the opposite seat, and placed herself there instead, leaning towards him. "No more sorry, no more apologies, never to me. Please." His face was moist with sweat. She pulled out her handkerchief and began wiping it carefully. He was working hard to keep himself from succumbing to the illness completely. "So brave," she whispered, entranced with his tired face. "So strong."

So good to her, always. So honourable. So penitent; ever apologising. He did not fit in here. He was different.

She remembered another one of those stories about angels; the ones she had heard in her childhood, that had made the idea pop into her head in the first place. It was about an angel who hurt his wing and crashed, and who got stuck on earth for a time. A family took him in and helped him. He had to stay in the barn, because he was much taller than them, and he glowed too brightly for them to keep him in the house at night. But they tended to his wing, and gave him food and rest, hoping that he would heal. But he only kept getting worse. Earth was not a good place for him to stay; the dark, sinful nature of human beings made the angel sick. The family had to call on other angels to come and take him back home to heaven. But to be able to contact such pure beings, they needed to repent and reform.

Ormsby always told her if she did not repent, the angels would not watch over her by night, because her black, corrupted heart would make them sick.

Lord Wothersham was taller than most people Nora knew. He did not glow in the classic sense, but there was definitely something there, Nora thought. Lord Wothersham did not have wings, either. But not all angels have wings. Sometimes they come in the form of men. Ormsby said so. Maybe Miss Doyle and Mrs Hardacre were angels too, or maybe they were a family who had taken him in. Maybe his steward was an angel as well? There was no doubt in Nora’s mind, now, that Lord Wothersham must be one.
"Angel," she cooed softly. "Poor angel. I am making you sick." She pressed her forehead to his. "Tell me how to be good. I want to be good for you."

John had determined before that distraction was key to dealing with the particular illness he got from carriages. If he dwelt on it, then it only became worse, which in turn caused him to think about it more, and so on in a vicious circle. If he distracted himself, however, he was often able to control it to a degree that at least allowed him to maintain his dignity. He had, of course, already lost some dignity here, but he had not lost it all yet; he must think of some way to distract himself. Yet he could think of nothing, and he was very much worried that he was about to lose total control over his body, right in front of Nora. He was not looking at her, because it was too difficult from their relative positions, at least when the nausea was factored in, and thus he had no idea what she might be thinking of him.

Was there quiet disgust in her eyes? Did she think he was repugnantly weak to be controlled by his illness this way, forced into displaying obvious symptoms, yet too polite to comment on it? For a moment, the nausea subsided a little to make way for worry, and John thought sardonically to himself that at least he was doing a good job of distracting himself, even if he was just becoming more uncomfortable in another way. He did not think that he could bear it if Nora thought he was—he never got to finish the thought, because she put her hand on his arm, and immediately he began to worry about other things. Did she want to get his attention, so that he could stop the carriage and let her out? Did she not want to be in his company any longer? Was she repulsed by him?

Not allowing the more calm and rational part of him that pointed out she would hardly touch him were that the case to quiet any of his irrational concerns, he tried to look at her again, but could barely persuade his head to move at all before he was acutely reminded that it was motion making him sick in the first place. He became aware that she was moving, and for a moment he panicked completely and thought that she was trying to get out of the carriage, while it was still moving, because she was that disgusted with him. He lifted his head to utter a protest, to defend himself with the argument that he was not always so weak—it was only in carriages, and he was sorry for the inconvenience, but would she please stay?—and found she was sitting on the seat opposite to him. He looked at her dully, surprised yet too ill to think of anything to say about it, and she said, “No more sorry, no more apologies, never to me. Please.”

He wondered blankly why she would ask such a thing. Of course he would apologise to her if he felt he needed to. If he didn’t then… well, then he would be treating her the way he treated everyone else. Impolitely, brusquely, callously. And Nora was exceptional, definitely an exceptional woman. He could not be rude to her. She pulled something from her reticule, and he wondered incuriously why she would need a handkerchief, but felt too tired to think of a reason. But she raised it towards his face, and his own hands dropped from where he had been supporting himself, but he did not lean back. She began to carefully wipe away the sheen of moisture that came from suppressing his illness. At once, the thought came that he should not let her do this, that it really wasn’t decent of him to enjoy what was clearly only a concerned touch so much, but he did not say anything, nor pull away.

It reminded him of before, when she had searched his eyes in the small room off the ball, caressing his face—although why it should when there were two layers of cloth, both glove and handkerchief between them in this one, was beyond him. But she was searching his eyes again, maybe that was the link. He hadn’t thought she had found what she was looking for before; would she now? It seemed that maybe she did, because she whispered, “So brave. So strong.” It was not true. But if that was what she thought, then he would let her go right on believing it. Which really made him more of a coward than ever, since it was certainly a form of cowardice not to set her to rights on his character; but he wanted her to think he was brave, and strong; he wanted her to think well of him, and so he did not correct her.

And then she said, even more softly, pressing her forehead to his, “Angel. Poor angel. I am making you sick. Tell me how to be good. I want to be good for you.”

…wha…?

His first urge, when she called him an angel, was to laugh. Surely she was joking, and what a particularly ironic joke given his non-belief in angels—but then she continued, and he realised from both her words and her face before she pressed her forehead to his that she was not jesting at all. He was so confused that he did not even notice the roiling in his stomach any more, even though it never entered his head that she meant it literally. An angel? Him? That was a term of endearment reserved those with a far better character than him; those with a character nearer to… to… he displayed none of the purported traits of angels—he was neither kind nor compassionate, not even polite! He did not have heavenly beauty or stature, neither grace nor goodwill. Why would she call him an angel? Why would she look to him to tell her how to be good? There were people he knew that would line up to tell her just how bad he was; he wasn’t the person, and certainly not the angel, to look to for advice on goodness.

He could not comprehend it. And there was her other confusing idea, as well. She was making him sick? He could not think of anything that should have led her to that assumption, nor could he think of anything to say. He searched for something that would not sound as bewildered as he felt, and came up with nothing at all. Abstractly, his mind attempted to decide which was a more unfounded conclusion for her to have arrived at—his supposed angelic goodness or that he was sick because of his proximity to her—and wore itself out at the monumental task; it was a completely insolvable dilemma. He forced his errant thoughts back onto a useful track: Why would she feel that she was making him ill? She was intelligent, she was compassionate, she was engaging, graceful, beautiful, gentle—he could think of a hundred more adjectives to describe her, but none of them were deleterious to his health.

Aware that time was stretching on without him saying anything, he tried to say something and found that his mouth was too dry. Why… his mouth was hanging open and had dried out, that was why. He shut it at once, trying to look as if it had never been otherwise, and swallowed once again to bring the moisture back. He searched for something to tell her again, and even opened his mouth to say it a couple of times, but nothing came out. Finally, on the third attempt, a very confused “Ha…?” trailed out of him, and feeling that this was a singularly inadequate reply, he changed it at once to a clearing of his throat, “Ha—h’m.” What was she thinking? What should he say to reassure her that she was not making him ill, to put her at ease? He started again, without any better a result, “Miss Nora…”

Then all at once the words came to him, and he said them before he had time to doubt himself. With their foreheads still pressed together, he said, “You are good, Miss Nora.” His right hand came up to frame her face, the touch similar to the way he had touched her six days ago, except that this one was gentle where that one had been angry, and he simply held her, raising his own head to press a gentle kiss—the sort he had used to comfort his sisters when they were little—to the place where their foreheads had touched. His voice was soft. “You are good.” He laughed slightly and added, “And for me, especially. I should be a great deal more ill were you not here, trust me.”

And it was true, although he would also be a great deal less confused. He let his hand drop from her face, and realised at once that he had forgotten something important when putting it there in the first place: his hand was still clammy from his illness. His touch had left a slight moistness on her face; he flushed and apologised with, “Oh. I am sorry.” He immediately pulled out his own handkerchief and delicately blotted her cheek, resisting the impulse to let his fingers trail over her features. Removing the cloth from her face, he surreptitiously let it soak up the dampness from his hand as he put it away. To try and distract her from his unattractive physical qualities, he smiled crookedly at her. “Besides, I am nothing close to angelic. I do not even believe in angels.”

Anna had to smile, even if only faintly, when Charlotte told her she sounded like Christopher. She supposed that Christopher must have had a similar conversation sometime—or at least that part had been similar, God forbid that the rest should have been!—since he wasn’t at all fond of the baron. Christopher had not kept it a secret that he thought the man was pompous and arrogant. But Charlotte had good and temperate reasons for wanting to try and treat the baron cordially, and Anna let herself be persuaded that he was not so bad as all that, not if Nora liked him and picked him as her protector from Charlotte. Not that Nora should have felt she needed a protector, of course, Anna instantly leaped to Charlotte’s mental defence, but the baron had to be all right if Nora thought well of him.

Except of course she might have just picked him because he was the only one there except for his sister, that might be it.

She didn’t voice the concern though, and Charlotte went on to reassure Anna that they would not talk about her past if Anna didn’t want to. Yet it wasn’t really her specific past she was worried they would talk about, so all Anna could do was smile insecurely and make a negative gesture when Charlotte asked if Anna really thought that she would pressure her to tell Lord Wothersham about it. Anna was worried that they were going to talk about that time at all. Humperdink was only a side fear, fear by association. She did not want to talk about the orphanage at all; she did not want to talk about the fact that they had not actually grown up together, that they were not related by blood. She did not want to talk about how Nora had been there too, because then Ormsby would come up for sure, and once he came up, the kettle would really boil.

She could have talked about any or all of those to Nora. Nora would understand, Nora wouldn’t judge, Nora wouldn’t pry into anything that Anna didn’t want to say. That was just how Nora was; she was Anna’s first friend besides Charlotte and had never been judgemental. She’d always been somewhat silent and hesitant to talk for a long time, but then, so was Anna, and she’d always been so kind and had always, well, understood. Anna could have talked to her. She could even have talked to her about Ormsby and the murders, although it wouldn’t be fun. If Nora had been by herself, then Anna wouldn’t worry at all, since there would be nothing at all that wasn’t already known by everyone at the table. It would have only been a discussion about what to do about it.

But the baron would be there, and he had doubtless not gotten where he was by being stupid. He would listen, and try to connect, and he would figure it out. Or if he couldn’t, then he would pry. Maybe he wouldn’t pry at Anna or Charlotte, but he would certainly pry at Nora; after all, if he heard such things were in her past, how could he not want to know? Christopher had. And Anna did not want to put Nora in that position, where she either had to lie, or had to tell him things that she wouldn’t want to.

Unless, of course, Anna reminded herself, she had already told him. Then it occurred to Anna that maybe the reason Nora thought that Lord Wothersham was the kindest man alive was because she had told him, and he hadn’t left. Certainly if anyone asked Anna who was the kindest man alive, she would have said Christopher, and that would have been one of the reasons why. Her eyes widened at the possibility. Charlotte told her that it was always all right to talk to her, but only if she wanted to, and that familiar reassurance gave Anna a second, conflicting suspicion. She leaned towards her sister on the sopha, kissing Charlotte’s cheek as she said, “I know.” She drew her legs up beside her and laid her head on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Do you think that might be why Nora likes Lord Wothersham? Because he said he would listen if she wanted to tell him but he didn’t pry? Or maybe it’s because she did tell him but he didn’t leave?”

As if he had not confused her enough already.

Nora was silent for a long time after Lord Wothersham stopped talking. Her eyes rested on the place where his handkerchief had disappeared from view. There was so much to digest in what he had just said. She had no idea where to begin. The heaviest thing of them all, however, was his last statement. "I do not even believe in angels." That could not possibly be true. Could it?

Could angels lie?

If they could; Why would an angel say that he did not believe in angels? Why would an angel tell a woman who was obviously damned that she was good?

Could he be a demon sent to appear as goodness itself – one of those tricksters who lure human beings away from the path of righteousness? Why would the Devil target and tempt a soul that was already his? There was no need, unless the trickster had misunderstood his mission or someone else was its real victim. Why would it be kind to Nora?

Could he really be just a man? Could a godless man really be this kind and selfless? Could a godless man hold such a position and such riches? Surely God could not reward a heathen in such a way? If he was a godless man then he must be a crook. He must have gotten where he was using wicked and illegal means, collaborating with Satan himself. Nora lifted her gaze and reached her conclusion the instant she saw his face again. She touched her chin where his hand had recently been, wishing that he had never removed it. An angel had touched her face.

Of course angels could lie! They would have to, if they were to appear as men. They would have to make up stories about their childhoods, about their families and careers, things that any human being will be asked about. It was obvious. They would have to deny that they were angels whenever anyone asked, at least if they were to keep it a secret. In emergencies like this one, she could not blame him for putting it on thick. He did "not even believe in angels." There was "nothing angelic" about him. She smiled. That was why he had hesitated so. He had seemed almost scared when he first attempted to answer her. He did not have to worry. She would not betray his identity.

She was "good," he had said. But he had said it – no doubt – for one out of two reasons: Either he was planning to give her advice later on and this was not the time to begin, or he knew that there was no hope for her and yet out of the kindness of his heart he wished to give her some, even if it was false.

She could not do much about his illness if he did not admit to the reason. And perhaps it was really just motion sickness? After all, he had not been sick at the ball. But then... His sisters had been there. They might very well be like him. The other two times she had met him, he had fled the room because of her attrocious behaviour. She had not had the time and occasion to make him ill then, not that she knew of anyway.

"I am good at keeping secrets," she told him softly. "I shan’t speak of this to anyone." She put a finger to her lips and withheld a giggle. Then she stole his hand quite suddenly and put it back where it had been a few minutes ago. "And I thought I told you no more sorry." His hand still felt moist on her skin, despite his efforts to wipe it dry. She could not have cared less about that.

Nora bowed her head for a long moment before looking at John speculatively and raising her hand to where his had been moments ago. He could read nothing from her expression. It was always like that. He never could, unless it was blatant, and it was vaguely disconcerting at the same time as it was enchanting. Then she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear over the rattle of the barouche on the cobblestones, “I am good at keeping secrets.” John tried to fathom what she could possibly be talking about—he was sure she was, if she said so, but what relevance did that have to anything they had been talking about before? She continued, “I shan’t speak of this to anyone.” Then she pressed a finger to her lips in the classic gesture of secrecy, and his mind raced to think of the reason for her decidedly odd non sequiturs and eccentric behaviour.

He wondered for a moment if his initial fear at the Easter Ball, though later dismissed, hadn’t been correct after all—perhaps the beating she had suffered had knocked something loose in her head. Maybe she was unhinged and this was a manifestation of it. But other than this one error of thinking—and anybody would agree that to call him her angel (anybody’s really, but hers particularly) was definitely an error of thinking—she did seem to be in possession of all her faculties. Could it be that she was making sport of him? That was far more likely than either madness or a misjudgement of his character. Of course. That must be it. He was about to very politely ask her to desist, when she took advantage of his moments of confusion to take his hand and place it on her face before he could think to stop her. She said to him, “And I thought I told you no more sorry.”

John looked at her for a moment, and she looked back without any sign of sporting with him about her, and his confidence in his conclusion wavered. But if she was not poking fun at him, then she must be mad, or… and then it hit him. Of course! She had dealt with people with his particular difficulty with carriages before, and knew that the best way to help them was to distract them. She was making sport, but it was supposed to be with him, not of him, and it was done in an attempt to ease his discomfort. Relieved that he had figured out what was going on, John gave a wry half-smile in response to her admonition before murmuring deadpan, “Sorry….” She held his hand to her face, cradling it between her own so that in turn his palm cradled her face. He could not think of a polite way to extract himself from her grasp, and so merely looked at her.

This was, he realised, the fifth time he had held her face in his hand. He’d touched her this way at the castle, at the ball, in front of the Grainger-street house six days before, just a moment ago, and now for a fifth time. Each touch had been for a different reason, yet he thought suddenly that he could touch her face a thousand times for the same reason and not grow tired of it. His other hand came up, this one more dry from having rested on the cloth of his trouser leg, so that her face was framed by both his hands. He knew that, given her profession, many men would have held her this way before; he wondered if any of them realised what a marvel they held.

He was touched that she would attempt to ease discomfort in his life when she must have a life a thousand times more uncomfortable than his own, and when he had not even managed to muster basic courtesy for her on many occasions. He was also shamed by it, that he could not measure up to her magnanimity of spirit. The times that he had treated her badly stood out in his mind, obscuring the times he had treated her with anything even approaching decency, and he very suddenly made the decision that he would not ever lose his temper with her again. He could not, and would not, behave as he had with her. The thumb of the hand not held within her own moved across her cheek, halfway to her nose and then back, as if he might be able to pick up some of the kindness she showed him this way, and then reflect it in his own behaviour. Very softly, he said, “You—”

Just then, a cough came from Vasiliev and the driver said, “We should be arriving in a moment, your lordship.” At the first sound, John started, his hands flying off Nora’s face and out of her grasp to land back in his own personal space, his eyes darting from Nora’s to look at the driver. Fortunately, Vasiliev’s back was still turned—but he would have heard nearly everything that had been said. Which was not a problem, John realised, since nothing had been said that the driver would have any frame of reference for understanding, and nothing had been revealed—except that he was made ill by the motion of carriages, but all his employees knew that already. Except… it was a problem. John had managed to forget that the driver was there, and now Vasiliev’s presence intruded on the personal and private nature of the conversation. John was peeved, even though he knew it was unjust for him to be.

But, the Devil take it, Nora had been talking to him, not to the driver. The man had no right to overhear anything. And the Kendalls had no right to live so close to the Grainger-street house. And time shouldn’t run so fast. And—John clamped his teeth together in a scowl and forced himself to sit straight, the muscles in his cheeks tensing and his eyebrows hooding his eyes as the motion caused a nearly uncontrollable surge in his stomach. When he could speak again, he bit out, “I’m sure I appreciate the warning, Vasiliev.”
Vasiliev wisely kept his eyes forward and did not reply as they drew up in front of the house, staring at the animals harnessed to the barouche as if a horse’s ass were the most fascinating sight in the world. The carriage stopped exactly in front of the walk to the front door of the Kendalls.

With a very stiff dignity and none of the enthusiasm he had left the carriage with at the Grainger-street house—only to be expected, since he did not really wish to see the Kendalls, not the way he had wished to see Nora—John stepped down. He left the barouche with such swiftness that Vasiliev had not had time to do anything more than to set the brake. John shrugged mentally and unfolded the carriage steps himself. It was ridiculous to stand about waiting for the footman to come do it, and he would not make Nora jump the distance—for him it was a long step down, but for her it would be a short hop. He offered his hand to Nora to assist her down.

“Do you think that might be why Nora likes Lord Wothersham? Because he said he would listen if she wanted to tell him but he didn’t pry? Or maybe it’s because she did tell him but he didn’t leave?”
"I don’t know." Charlotte sucked the inside of her cheeks contemplatively. "He might have? I don’t know him. I don’t know her, either." She could not exactly picture the Lord Wothersham taking any such interest in a whore. But then neither had she been able to imagine him looking at flowers, being ’the kindest man’ someone had ever met, or accompanying said whore on a Sunday visit to the Kendalls. "You are the one who used to know her. Is she easily convinced to talk of such things, do you think?" Some people were more open than others. Some people seemed to have no trouble at all divulging what others would consider personal information. "Everyone knows that women of Nora’s profession have... unfortunate... stories to tell. If the baron was aware of her profession when he began his involvement with her, I can not see why her telling him about Ormsby should make him end it. After all, is not so different from what she does every day."

That was not entirely true, Charlotte thought, but aside from the matter of age, the differences were not something an outsider would see. No one could possibly know.

She did not talk much about Ormsby herself. But she had her own reasons, as she had so clearly spelled out to her husband the evening before.

..........

The three of them had been in the drawing room: Christopher in his chair reading the Gazette, Anna lying on the floor in front of the hearth with a book, and Charlotte on a footstool between the two of them, staring into the flames.
"What makes you so certain that she does not love him still and thinks you were in the wrong to do what you did?" It had been so long since anyone had spoken that Charlotte had completely forgotten the subject of their conversation.
"Well..." She deliberated for a moment. "First of all; I am not in prison. She would have turned me in by now, wouldn’t she?"
"I suppose..." She could not see his face, but the restless rattling of his paper suggested that he was not entirely satisfied with her reasoning.
"Secondly: I do not think it would be possible for anyone to reach her age with his teachings still ingrained in them. That way of thinking..." Charlotte paused. When she continued her voice had turned caustic and hard. "Such a self-effacing and self... destructive..." She trailed off, unable to produce any more sound at the moment. Christopher leaned forward and pulled the footstool closer so that she was sitting between his knees. He rested his chin gently on her shoulder. Charlotte took a few minutes to simply breathe in his comfort. But then he brushed away a few strands of hair and asked her with a tender voice close to a whisper: "What things did he say to you?"
Charlotte simply shook her head.
"Thirdly," she continued finally, but was interrupted by his all too familiar plead.
"Tell me, Charlotte."
"- and lastly," she merely carried on stubbornly, her voice now ice cold, "I choose to believe it. The alternative would just be... too damn depressing." He kissed her neck.
"Tell me. Talk to me."
"Leave off, Christopher."
"You know now that nothing would change. Did I not prove that to you? Tell me. Please."
"No, I will not." Charlotte brushed him off her shoulder and stood up. She was calm and composed, but stern and determined. "I will not dwell on it, I will not repeat it. I will not say those words, I will not think them, I will not have them in my head! They are dead. He is dead. It is over. I will not let it back into my life." They were quiet for a long time. Then Christopher nodded.
"As you wish."

.........

"This one or the green one?" Christopher had entered the room now and evidently was not at all surprised to find the two of them there. He pointed at his chest to indicate the blue waistcoat he was wearing.
"Ah, look at him," Charlotte cooed in an exaggerated admiring tone. "Look at my husband, Anna, is that not a fine specimen of a man? Is he not handsome? Such a fine figure! I think I have fallen in love with him all over again since Tuesday. His chest. His powerful jaw. His broad shoulders."
"Powerful? There is nothing powerful about my jaw, and if you think I am broad-shouldered, I must be the first man you have ever seen." Charlotte ignored this. She was in the mood for teasing. She had indeed fallen for him again recently, and harder this time than ever before. Her ceaseless compliments and her newfound (and unladylike) eagerness to engage in bedroom activities embarrassed him somewhat, and Charlotte thoroughly enjoyed it.
"Look at his hands. So strong and yet so gentle...!"
"Quit that. Which one?"
"His thinning hair..."
"Quit it! Or one day this week I will bring a friend to talk with about all of your features, and we shall be staring at you and whispering and oooh’ing and aaah’ing."
"Oh, Please do. Only don’t bring Mr. Pryer. He would not be able to keep his focus on the right lady." They laughed.
"And who could blame him?" Christopher crouched down to frame Anna’s face with his hands. He was half smiling, but his eyes were warm and sincere. "Such an exceptional beauty." Charlotte smiled. Anna was only just young enough to be Christopher’s daughter. In many ways she was still not a grown woman, and Charlotte knew that Christopher had come to feel something of a fatherly love for her. He had always wanted children. "You know I only married you because she would not have me," he told his wife as he got to his feet. She made a grimace and kicked after him.
"Shut it, you!"

"What a bastard," she told Anna.
"On that note; Charlotte, you must remember to watch your language today."
"I know that!"
"You have had a tendency to forget yoursellf, you know. And it is Lord Better-Than-Thou we are dealing with."
"Yes. Well, you need to watch your attitude. We have not invited them here to make enemies. Any disdain you feel for him you should keep to yourself."
"I am not daft, Charlotte."
"And neither am I."
"Good then," he said, patting her shoulder. "She is," he whispered sideways to Anna and Charlotte kicked after him again. "So; blue or green?"
"I am too daft to be asked for sensible advice on such matters."
"A carriage, ma’m!"
"Ooo!"
"Ah, well, blue it is, then. Come, Anna. Let us welcome our more and less welcome guests. And remember: If you feel uncomfortable, you are free to excuse yourself and leave the room at any time, and one of us will follow."

(OOC: All dialogue and the modding of other characters was worked out on msn)

He held her face with both hands. Nora automatically closed her eyes to take in the experience. They were hot, his hands. Or maybe it was her skin. Or both. He brushed his thumb gently across her cheek, and Nora’s mouth fell open with a small gasp. Her breath continued to be audible like this, but although shaky, it was deep and regular. Nora, however, was not aware of her own inappropriate reaction to his caress. She was only aware of his touch; there was nothing else in the world. And it did not last long, but she savored every second and it felt timeless.

Then all of a sudden several things happened in quick succession. Just as Nora unwillingly let out a small ’Hmh’ of a whimper, Lord Wothersham began to speak. He got no further than past his first word, however, before the driver interrupted to inform him that they were approaching their destination. Nora felt him quickly remove his hands as soon as the coachman’s voice was heard. She opened her eyes to notice that his face had changed its expression entirely. He looked nervous at first, almost as if he had been caught doing something very wrong – which, Nora mused, probably was the case seen from his point of view. He had been very familiar with her just now, and they were in a barouche and quite visible to the public eye, not to speak of what the driver might had seen or heard. Nora wanted to apologize for shaming him, but her throat was dry from breathing with an open mouth and her face was still burning. She did not want to talk of uncomfortable things. She wanted to remember that moment and cherish it like she cherished what had happened in the salon at the theatre.

So she pretended not to notice the shadow that had come over the baron’s features. She pretended that it did not make her nervous. He looked angry now.
“I’m sure I appreciate the warning, Vasiliev.” Yes, he most definitely was angry. Nora bit her lip and faked interest in their surroundings, feeling her pulse rise to an agonizingly high pace. He must not hate her, not now! She needed him. She would not be able to face Mrs. Kendall without someone strong by her side.

He seemed in a hurry to leave the carriage, and his manner was chilled and solemn. This caused Nora to become even more concerned. Had she ruined it all and made him decide that it was best not to come with her after all? Would he leave her now? She took his offered hand and let him support her as she descended, and found that it was much needed, because her legs were shaking. As she reached the ground she was reminded of his great height and he seemed, if possible, only more imposing. She stared as he reached into the barouche to pick up something from the seat. She could not remember seeing anyone tall enough to do that before, at least not with such ease; as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he turned and positioned his arm so that she could wrap hers around it.
"Well. Let's go meet your friends." She nodded without speaking, but inwardly she sang with relief as they approached the front steps. Thank you, thank you, thank you... She was too anxious to notice the unusually well-kempt greenery around the three-story brick home.

The door opened before they reached it, and through it came Mrs. Kendall, dressed in light violet-grey and with an aimiable smile on her face. What pretence! Nora instinctively clutched the baron’s arm tighter.
"Miss Nora, delighted to see you!" Nora took the hand that was held out to her, but still no words would come – no audible ones anyway. She tried to smile, but her talents at affectation surely could be nowhere near as great as Mrs. Kendall’s. "Lord Wothersham; delighted. How good of you to come. Please come in."
"A pleasure, Mrs Kendall." His voice sounded calm. He was not afraid of her. But then neither did he know what she was capable of – what she had in fact done already.

They entered a foyer that was neither very huge nor cramped, but it had a nice, warm atmosphere to it. The upper parts of the walls – the parts not clad in wood – were cream-colored, and the carpet on the floor was a deep blue. Anna was there. Anna was not afraid of Mrs. Kendall either. Was she? She said she was not and acted like she was not. She said Mrs. Kendall was her sister.
"Lord Wothersham, welcome. Miss Nora, how lovely to see you again, I hope you are well?" It was Mr. Kendall. Nora’s mouth opened again, but her voice still refused to work, so instead she simply curtseyed.
"It is good of you to accommodate me, Mr Kendall," the baron said politely, and Nora thought it a tad comical that he should choose this exact expression, since she was fairly certain that he had not been overjoyed to be invited. When people talked like he did not, it sounded almost as if they were the ones who had asked to come. A sting of fear hit Nora again just then as she was reminded of her previous thoughts about Mrs. Kendall and Lord Wothersham possibly being in coallition. But she knew it was ridiculous and she knew what he was, now.
"And your sister is well, I hope?" Mrs. Kendall inquired. As if you care, Nora thought darkly.
"My sisters are both very well," he answered. Hah! She had forgotten one of them! A faux pas already, and he called her on it! Triumph!
"Let Martha take your coat." suggested Mr. Kendall, but Lord Wothersham’s hands were full, and he seemed to realise that himself at this point.
"How impolite of me to forget my manners," he said, although Nora was positive that there was not a soul in the room who had found him the slightest bit discourteous "A gift, in return for your hospitality." He was addressing Mrs. Kendall and he handed her a very exquisite looking box with a silk ribbon on it.
"Oh my - oh, chocolates!" Mrs. Kendall seemed overjoyed.
"How very appropriate," her husband remarked with a smile. "You have won her heart."
"Yes, you have! You are too kind."
"And of course I also brought a gift for your lovely sister." How generous he was! Nora goggled in admiration as he produced another rectangular item and proffered it to Anna. Anna, however, did not accept the gift, but instead took a step away from it.
"That’s, that’s, that’s, all right! I don’t want it!" she spluttered. The baron’s eyes flickered slightly towards Mrs. Kendall. Nora followed his example. What was wrong with Anna?
"Ah, certainly, Miss Sut—" Lord Wothersham faltered, and now he did not seem as calm and unaffected as before. Mrs. Kendall looked up from her own present.
"What? Of course you do, dear."
"No! No, that's okay! I don’t need anything! I’m very ugly! I’m sure you think I’m very ugly, don’t you? Aren't I, Charlotte? Christopher?" Nora gaped. Why did she think she was ugly? Why did she ask for confimation on this from the Kendalls - what had they been telling her? She was not ugly at all; she was a sweet girl, and even if she were ugly that ought not to mean that she did not deserve a gift when her family invited a baron for tea.
"I apologise if I have offended you in any way, Miss Sutcliffe." He really did apologize too much. It was obvious that this was not his doing.

Mrs. Kendall handed the chocolates to her husband and walked over to put an arm around Anna’s shoulder.
"Shhh." She reached out and accepted the gift, encircling Anna in her arms as she removed the paper in front of her. "Oh, look, it's a book, Anna. How lovely!"
"Ah, that certainly is very nice." Mr. Kendall put in. It was. Once more Nora was filled with awe and respect for Anna. Imagine, she had learned to decipher all those signs! She understood what they said.
"Th-Thank you! Thank you, it’s lovely!" Anna peeped and tried to retreat behind Mrs. Kendall. But whatever it was that had made her feel uneasy did not cause her to lose her tongue completely like Nora had done. "You look lovely!" she said. "I'm happy to see you! How are you!"
"Oh!" Nora erupted when she realised the words had been directed at her. Now she would have to say something. "I... You too! I mean... – you look good too! I’m happy to see you too! I’m – I’m – I’m good. I’m good. Thank you. Hello."
Ahaha. You always did have a way with words. Well, at least now Anna would learn pretty soon what a dunce Nora was, instead of discovering it later on, maybe while talking about something she had read in one of her books.

It was very quiet all of a sudden. Were they waiting for her? Nora shifted nervously. Should she have said something more? She had forgotten to ask Anna how she was. Could she do that now? Mrs. Kendall smiled at her.
"Perhaps we sh -" she began at the exact same time as her husband cleared his throat and made a small hand-gesture in the direction of the maid. Oh, right, their coats! Nora only now realised that she was still latched onto Lord Wothersham’s arm in a tight hold – he was of course not able to remove his coat until she let go. What a stumblebum she was. She blushed and released him from her grip with a small noise from her throat that was originally meant to be a "sorry." The maid stood just beside the two of them, apparently trying to be in plain sight and invisible at the same time, which must be hard work. Nora gave her an insecure smile as she removed her cape and handed it over.
"Christopher, let's have a taste of those right away, shall we not?" Mrs. Kendall said, and for once her voice was welcome. The silence had not really lasted long, but it felt awkward and absolutely enough to Nora.
"Of course" As Nora turned back from handing the maid her outer wear, Mr. Kendall was holding the newly opened box of chocolates out in front of her. She looked at him, wide-eyed. Chocolates? For her - for no reason at all? Was he sure? "Go ahead, Miss Nora. You first." Nora had tasted chocolates before, but very seldom and always as part of a game or as an aphrodisiac. Never like this. Would the baron mind? She turned to him and sent him a look that could not be misinterpreted. May I, please? She would wait for his permission. She really wanted one of those chocolates, but if he said she was not to have one, then she would respect his wishes without question. He had been so kind to her and he was so good and so noble. There was no reason – as far as Nora could see – why he should be here today. How she was to ever express her gratitude to him she had no idea, but showing him complete devotion and obedience was the least she could do as a beginning.

It seemed to John that things were going fairly well. Mrs Kendall had obviously been waiting anxiously for them—well, for Nora, since he was really just an escort here—and opened the door before they even made it all the way up the walk. John was not worried, however; they were exactly on time and could not be faulted on anything as yet. He returned pleasantry for pleasantry, and then they went in, where he did it again with the rest of them. Nora was not saying anything, he noticed. He glanced at her curiously; she seemed afraid, and he realised she was clutching his arm more tightly than usual. He could not say anything about it in front of the Kendalls though, and so he did his best to attract attention to himself, to give her time to gather herself. It seemed to work, at least the effort to distract the Kendalls from her; in fact, matters were proceeding far more smoothly than he had expected.

Until, that is, he tried to give Miss Sutcliffe her gift. She refused it, and then began to tell him she was ugly. He could not fathom why she would say anything of the sort. She was lovely—not in Nora’s class, but then, who was?—and he could not think of any thing he had said that would make her think otherwise. He’d hardly had a chance to say anything. How could she possibly have interpreted his few words to arrive at an insult to her appearance? Nevertheless, unable to formulate a response to the situation that would allow him to disavow responsibility and make the unknown influences on it clear to him, he fell back on the response that would at least get him off the hook; a blanket apology. “I apologise if I have offended you in any way, Miss Sutcliffe.”

There was no possibility that he might have done something to warrant Miss Sutcliffe’s odd accusation, but it was the fastest way to resolve the incident, and he would not prolong the awkwardness for his own preference. This was Nora’s friend, and Nora’s tea; it would not be ruined by his pride. The apology did indeed get him off the hook, as it turned out, or at least Mrs Kendall did not choose to make an issue of the situation. It was resolved with no additional effort on John’s part; he simply stood by as Nora’s friends dealt with it. Keeping his mouth shut was the better part of wisdom, he felt; he could not go wrong by saying nothing. After a brief exchange between the Kendalls and Miss Sutcliffe, the latter suddenly complimented her old friend and asked how she was. Nora blurted out a nervous reply: “Oh! I... You too! I mean... – you look good too! I’m happy to see you too! I’m – I’m – I’m good. I’m good. Thank you. Hello.”

It was patently obvious that Nora had not had enough time to gather herself; while she might not be an orator, she never stumbled over her words as though she were walking through Dartmoor in the dark, either. He put his free hand over the one she had tightly holding on to his arm, trying to reassure her. Why was she so afraid of the Kendalls? Had they done something to her? The vague suspicions from the Easter Ball coming back to him, he glanced around the Kendall party, careful to keep his face impassive. It wouldn’t have been Miss Sutcliffe; she was too timid a person to hurt anyone. It must have been one of the Kendalls—but the husband or the wife? He would have thought the husband, since he might have hired Nora and abused her, but the man seemed solidly affectionate of his wife, which made it less likely, and besides… the wife was very …impressive, was perhaps the best word he could think of.

But he could not call them on whatever it was they had done to her until he knew exactly what he was talking about, or until they were manifestly rude or threatening to her again, and so he was forced to let the matter rest without offering anything but his support to Nora. There was a moment of silence, and then Mrs Kendall started to say something at the same time as her husband reminded everyone that John and Nora still had their coats on. John had just been waiting until his arms were free of both presents and Nora to take it off, but Miss Nora seemed to feel she had been remiss. She blushed, and John gave her hand a slight squeeze before she took it from his arm, to let her know that he, at least, did not feel that she needed to be embarrassed. As both of them removed their outer clothing, Mrs Kendall turned to her husband and remarked that they should have a taste of her gift, and he concurred.

Looking around the entryway as Mr Kendall offered the box to Nora, as he was interested to see how Nora’s friends lived, it took John a moment to realise that a silence had fallen on the others. Automatically assuming it was because his observation had not gone unnoticed, as he had thought it would with the distraction of the chocolates in front of them, he returned his attention to the people before him hastily, hoping that they would not have been offended by his curiosity, for Nora’s sake. He did not give two figs for their opinion, but he did not want them to think ill of her by association. But when he looked at them again, he found Mrs Kendall looking at him sharply, as though he were at fault for something, Miss Sutcliffe looking sadly at the floor, and Mr Kendall with an impassive face.

Immediately his back went up, and his pride flashed to the fore. What had he done to deserve this? He glanced at Nora, the one person in the room he felt he might count on to not be against him, and found her looking at him strangely, too. It was almost like there was… pleading, maybe?... in her eyes. His pride dissolved in confusion. What had happened? How could one moment’s inattention have resulted in this? What did she want of him, what was she asking for? He tried to think of what it was. He sent a baffled glance in Mr Kendall’s direction, wondering if maybe it was something that had happened between the women, but the man had a poker-face on that rivalled John at his best. There would be no help from that quarter.

John’s gaze flashed around the other four again, but he still could not determine what was wrong. Since Mr Kendall was still holding out the chocolates, he decided to ask if that was the source of the problem, to avoid asking directly if this awkwardness were his fault. He said to the group in general, but in Nora’s direction since she was not looking at him in an inimical manner, “Ah… is there something amiss with the chocolates?”
Mr Kendall looked at the offending candies overly critically, and then announced in a dryly disappointed voice, “Not that I can tell.” His lip twitched in a slight smile.
Mrs Kendall said nothing, only smiling crookedly; her sister likewise said nothing, continuing to stare at the floor. Nora, however, did say something: “I was just... You would not mind it, my lord, if I taste one?”
There was another uncomfortable pause as John realis