“Your riding boots smell hopeless,” Mary said later as she laced her dress up.
“Oh, Colin said to talk to his valet, he’ll know what to do.”
“Oh, didColinsay so?” Mary teased in a sing-song tone.
“Shut up, Mary. I remember how you used to be. I’d be talking about my ingrown toenail, and you’d find a way to mention Robert.”
“So it’s like that with you two? Like me and Robert?” Mary looked up and met her eyes in the mirror, no longer teasing but genuinely curious.
“I don’t know. I don’t think it will ever be as pure and absolute as you two, but I feel we’re getting closer. I don’t know,” Lizzie sighed.
Mary stroked her shoulders before starting to work on her hair.
“Have you discussed what you overheard him say about you since you got married? Or what happened in that cloak room?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied curtly.
“Lizzie,” Mary said reproachfully.
“I know,” Elizabeth interrupted her. “I just… What is the point of mentioning that now? We’re wed, it’s done, and things have been good with us.”
“I think you are scared of what he might say.”
“And if I am? Should I expose myself to further humiliation or heartbreak for no reason?”
“It’s not exactly for no reason!” Mary protested. “But I will leave it be for now because I see you are not ready for that conversation.”
Lizzie’s throat felt tight. “Thank you.”
Neither said anything for a while.
Elizabeth then asked, doing her best to sound conciliatory, “How is Robert liking Norwich? I feel like I haven’t properly seen him since our arrival.”
“He likes it a lot; he even started talking about moving to the country. But you know me, I’m a city girl.”
“Never say never,” Lizzie said.
Dinner was delicious and the company pleasant. Lizzie told Lady Burnham all about Miss Judy and all the things they’d seen and how they got caught in the rain. Talbot hid his smile in his glass when she described the cabin, and Lizzie wished she could pinch him without the other woman noticing.
When it was time for dessert, the servants brought out baked custard, and Lizzie sat up, her delight evident on her face.
“Incredible,” her husband said.
“What is?” she looked around.
“You. You’re happier upon seeing the baked custard than you were at being gifted a beautiful mare with a very distinguished pedigree.”
“It’s... baked custard. You know it’s my favourite,” Lizzie replied helplessly, looking at Lady Burnham, who was pressing her lips together in a futile effort to remain unaffected by their ridiculous conversation.
“You truly care little for my title and my wealth, don’t you, wife?”
“I... don’t know what you want me to say,” Lizzie decided on honesty, and her husband laughed.
“It’s alright, darling. Eat your custard.”
Lady Burnham smiled maternally at both of them, and Lizzie, with a shrug, turned to her beloved dish.
*
