Michael tried his best to smile, to be congenial, to pretend as though his entire evening hadn’t been completely upended with one simple misunderstanding. But the truth of the matter was that he was perfectly and acutely aware of every move Charlotte made. Her exact distance from him, every breath she took, the smiles that crossed her face as she settled herself.
He couldn’t bloody recall what Diana was wearing unless he looked at her, because in his mind, he could only see Charlotte.
Dressed in white, she was fully angelic, porcelain in almost every respect. The bodice of her dress was wreathed in pink cords and lace, a pattern of leaves on the fabric itself. Folds and ripples there streamed into the length of the gown, reappearing with the cords and lace again at the hem, more folded pink material waving in a pattern he could have studied for hours in sheer fascination. Flounces, he thought, though he didn’t dare look back to confirm. The sleeves were small, which matched the low bodice, though he couldn’t deny the perfection both captured in Charlotte.
Curls had cupped either side of her face, while the rest of her hair seemed to be almost haphazardly curled and fastened up with combs he had never seen her wear, long ringlets streaming from the crown of her head, yet never quite made it to her neck. She wore a head-dress and flowers, too, though all he could think of were those long curls draping behind.
He knew what Charlotte looked like at any given time and in any given place. For pity’s sake, he had studied her face, figure, and form nearly every day of their friendship until nothing about her looks was a mystery. Yet he had never seen her look thus. Hadn’t felt this pain in so long.
Had time away from her only made his longing worse?
It couldn’t be. He shouldn’t be longing for her at all. He needed a clean break, needed even more distance, needed to drown himself in Diana Palmer or any other woman until it was Charlotte who faded, not them.
Yet he could not act with haste. He had seen all too often what happened when feelings of passion or desperation were indulged. He could not, would not, subject the woman he married to such a future, and to such inelegance of feeling on his part.
No more, he thought. After tonight, no more Charlotte in any form.
It wasn’t for his sake he would do this. It was for Diana. If not her, the woman he courted after her. Whoever she was, wherever she was, the woman who would replace Charlotte in his affections deserved no competition.
He smiled at Diana as he took his seat beside her, turning his form just enough that he could see nothing of Charlotte at all, and she would only see his back, should she have looked. The position brought him closer to Diana as well, which was undoubtedly safer, and better for all concerned.
He exhaled slowly as the overture ended, and the opera began.
Charlotte was dying.
Slowly and without any ado, she was going to die.
Michael was done with her. That was abundantly clear, and she had no time or space to mourn the loss of him. She had just come round to the idea that they would not be as close as they had been previously, but she hadn’t thought they would cease to be friends entirely.
She hadn’t reveled in the thought of sharing the family box with him tonight, particularly when he was clearly courting Miss Palmer, and it would be far more difficult to encourage Jonathan when Michael was around.
It was amusing; she had only just begun to think of Mr. Riley as Jonathan, not that he had given her permission to use his Christian name, and in considering him in such a way, she felt the ties between them tighten. Felt closer to him than they undoubtedly were. Gave her an interesting scene to imagine in her unoccupied hours.
Finding that scene was nearly impossible at the present, though the man who played in it sat beside her, laughing in all the correct parts of the opera.
She forced herself to laugh, though anyone paying attention would notice she was a notch or two delayed in doing so.
She was too focused on whether Michael was laughing. If Miss Palmer was laughing. If they were paying any attention to the opera or if they were more enthralled with each other than in any of the performances.
How many evenings had she and Michael spent in this box, surrounded by other people, but always gravitating towards each other? Enjoying good performances and commenting on them, mocking poor performances and criticizing them, laughing in muffled tones that her mother was constantly scolding them for. Michael had always been there, and she’d never had reason to think that would change.
The memories in this box enveloped her, robbed her lungs of air, and her eyes began to sting with tears.
They hadn’t reached the interval yet, but Charlotte suddenly felt choked by the sensations here.
Michael leaned closer to Miss Palmer to whisper something that made Miss Palmer smile in what had to be the most beautiful smile to ever grace a face.
Whether Michael loved, or would love, Miss Palmer was irrelevant. What was entirely relevant, and entirely evident, was that she was now more to him than Charlotte was.
She could not watch this, could not see him like this with her, could not stand to be confined in this space with him.
She got to her feet and stepped around Jonathan quickly.
“Are you all right?” he whispered quietly, his features wreathed in concern.
Charlotte nodded, forcing a smile. “I only need a bit of air. I won’t be a moment.”
“Shall I come with you?” Georgie asked, beginning to rise.
Charlotte waved her down. “It’s only the fit of my gown. I’ll return presently.”
Fearing
