He saw in her a glimmer of the young woman he’d seen the night before emerged – the tender hearted, amiable woman with whom he could see himself developing a true connection and friendship. Perhaps, if she was Ophelia’s good friend and he and Ophelia had become friends, there was a chance here as well.
He stepped forward and gently knocked on the doorframe.
“May I join you?”
She looked at him, wide-eyed but slowly nodded as he pulled out a chair to dine with his wife – for the very first time.
The soft clatter of silverware and the hum of the household preparing for the day filled the breakfast room. Emma sat across from Evan, still slightly disarmed by his presence. Breakfast had always been her solitary ritual, a small sanctuary in the vastness of their shared yet distant life. This morning, however, was different. He was here, unannounced and unhurried, and she didn’t quite know what to make of it.
She glanced at him over her teacup, noting the easy way he settled into his chair, his expression composed. “I must admit,” she began, her voice measured, “I hadn’t expected to see you at breakfast. You’re usually gone by now.”
Evan lifted his coffee cup, his dark eyes meeting hers briefly before a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I usually am,” he agreed. “But I thought I might take the time today.”
The simplicity of his answer caught her off guard. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of asking why—why today, why now—but the words caught in her throat.
The storm the previous night lingered in Emma’s thoughts as she sat across from Evan at breakfast. The uncharacteristic ease between them emboldened her to speak, though she hesitated at first. Finally, as they sipped their tea, she admitted softly, “About last night... I hope you don’t think me foolish.”
Evan looked up, his brows drawing together. “Foolish? Why would I think that?”
Her fingers traced the edge of her teacup. “Being afraid of thunder at my age—it seems childish, doesn’t it?” She tried to keep her tone light, but the embarrassment was plain in her voice. “It’s hardly the demeanor of a duchess.”
Evan set his cup down, his gaze steady but free of judgment. “Fears don’t have to make sense, Emma,” he said gently. “They’re rarely rational.”
“But you are not afflicted with such a fear, I take it? Or do you speak from experience?”
A faint, humorless smile tugged at his lips. “I certainly do have such a fear. Pray, if you tell me where yours stems from, I will tell you the details of mine.”
She nodded. “I suppose mine stems from when I was little. My father used to travel often, and during one particularly bad storm, the wind tore a branch through the window of the nursery. It shattered glass everywhere.” She shuddered slightly, the memory vivid even now. “I thought the house itself was going to come apart. I’ve never forgotten it.”
Evan’s expression softened, his usual reserve giving way to something warmer. “That doesn’t seem childish to me. You were scared. Anyone would be.”
Emma looked at him, surprised by his easy acceptance. “And you? I told you of mine. Surely you’ve never been afraid of something so silly.”
His smile turned wry, a rare self-deprecating glint in his eyes. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
She tilted her head, intrigued. “Go on, then. What is it?”
Evan hesitated, a faint color rising to his cheeks, but her curiosity seemed to disarm him. He sighed. “Mice.”
Emma blinked. “Mice?”
“Yes.” He leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck as though the admission physically pained him. “I can face down a charging stallion without flinching, but put a mouse in the room, and I’d sooner sleep outside.”
Emma tried to stifle her laugh, but it bubbled out despite her best efforts. “A mouse? Truly?”
“Truly.” His tone was resigned, though his lips twitched with reluctant amusement. “It’s not the creature itself so much as how quickly they dart about. It’s unnerving.”
She giggled, then caught herself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. That’s... unexpected.”
“Unexpected,” he echoed dryly, shaking his head. “And, according to my father, a mark of weakness. He found it endlessly amusing.”
Her laughter faded at his shift in tone, the shadow that passed over his expression. “Your father teased you for it?” she asked, her voice cautious.
“Teased would be the kindest interpretation,” he said flatly, picking up his cup again but not drinking. “He wasn’t the sort of man to tolerate fear—or any vulnerability, really. He saw it as something to be beaten out of a person.”
Emma’s heart ached at the words, and Mrs. Havisham’s voice echoed in her memory.‘He adored his mother, but his father...well, that’s a story I cannot tell.’She studied Evan now, seeing more than just the polished exterior he presented to the world. There were cracks in the armor, hints of a boy who had grown up under the weight of a harsh and unyielding figure.
“You know,” she said softly, her earlier mirth replaced with sincerity, “there’s nothing wrong with being afraid of something, no matter what it is. It’s part of being human.”
