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By Root 630 0

that Josiah and Lisette cared for each other before that day, she has since seen many small gestures and looks passing between the couple that, had she been more observant, might have helped her to guess earlier. At first, Josiah appeared to be alarmed each time he saw Olympia after the kitchen incident, but then, when it was evident that she would not reveal what she had seen, he seemed grateful for her silence. She wanted to tell him that it was all right and even that she was, in a way she could not explain very well, glad for him; but of course it would have embarrassed them both greatly to speak of this. Olympia has not been able to help, however, regarding Josiah somewhat differently than she always has, and she senses that he must be at least partially aware of that difference. Sometimes she wants to tell him that she, too, has a love of her own. That she, too, understands what it is to have to steal moments to be together.

But, of course, that is unthinkable.

“Thank you, Josiah,” she says, taking the tray from him.

He hesitates and does not leave the doorway. She puts the tray on the dresser. She has the window raised as far as it will go. With the door open, a gust of wind blows all the papers off her desk and causes the curtains to fly up toward the ceiling.

“There is quite a stir in the household,” she says, hastily bending with Josiah to retrieve the papers from the floor. “You must be insanely busy,” she adds.

“We have been up since four, miss. And doubtless, we shall be up at least until four tomorrow morning. But it is a grand occasion, and your father is quite cheerful with all the preparations.”

Wordlessly, she looks at Josiah, and she thinks it is the first time — the first time ever? — their eyes have truly met.

“You are not well,” he says.

“No,” she answers honestly.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

He hands her the papers he has collected and stands with his hands clasped behind his back, his feet apart, anchored.

“Thank you,” she says.

His waistcoat is stained with dark smudges, possibly tarnish from the silver. “Lisette and I . . . ,” he says. “We are to be married. We plan to discuss the matter with your father tomorrow when the event is over.”

“And he will be glad,” she says quickly.

“I did not want you to think . . .”

“I did not think,” she says.

“Shall I call your mother? Or Lisette?”

“No,” Olympia says. “No, I am fine. And I shall be fine this evening. It is only the grippe.”

It is an obvious untruth, but she senses he does not know what to ask or to say further.

“Just leave the tray outside the door, miss, if you do not want to be disturbed.”

“I will do that. Thank you.”

“And I hope you will have some enjoyment in the evening.”

“I will try, Josiah.”

Her limbs are heavy with a lethargy that makes it difficult to raise them to her head to fix her hair. She wonders how she will survive the evening if her energy does not return to her. Lisette has offered to come and make a chignon after she has finished with her mother, but Olympia does not think she can bear to engage in polite chitchat about the night to come with a young woman who has every expectation of imminent happiness whilst she does not.

With some effort, Olympia finishes dressing herself. She stands before the mirror to assess the outcome. She sees a young woman who looks considerably older than she did in June, who is somewhat fuller in her face and limbs, whose bosom is more prominent than it was two months earlier. Her hair has taken on some golden highlights from her reckless exposure to the sun, and there is a spray of freckles on her chest that she has not entirely been able to hide with powder. She has done her hair in a double bun and has secured it with pearl combs. The silk of the dress clings to her figure and is more revealing than anything she has ever worn before.

Altogether, Olympia thinks the sight of herself in the mirror satisfactory, but not beautiful: A smile is missing, a certain light about the eyes. For how very different a woman will look when she has happiness, Olympia knows, when her beauty