Re: The Companion/The Regret-me-not
She believed. She believed in the current of wind and the way it wuthered low overground and cut through long-stemmed grass. She believed in the way the swallows fell through the sky overhead and the way bird-song was sharp and painfully sweet. She believed in the luxury of sensation, of silk drawn slowly over skin and the warmth of heated cotton on bare flesh and the sleepy weight of a full stomach after hours of absence. Did Charlotte Selby believe truthfully in a God above, one who demanded sacrifice and old words and denial? Charlotte Selby's life was conducted in an orderly fashion. In a pious fashion. Charlotte didn't believe in anyone's entitlement to her own, private thoughts.
She heard his feet in the snow. A heavier tread that squeaked over fresh fall as the snow compressed. The wind was broken glass and ice, and Charlotte turned, her skirts twisting around her legs as she looked blindly into the voice. Her hairpins were loosening, and the long strands of dark hair stung her eyes. He looked, however, quite mad to walk into the snow so undressed. He seemed blithely unconcerned, perhaps, Charlotte thought rather wildly, he was inebriated. She had read of its effects.
But she looked at his hand, at the item within it. She had no immediate desire to minister, to make amends, to suggest he retreat indoors. She'd no need to, so she didn't. Small rebellions, and Charlotte indicated the cheroot in her fingers. "You're very kind," she said. Her voice was small. Low but pleasant. She was competing with the wind to be heard.