become a bluestocking, any more than they choose to become a wallflower.”
“Nobody?”
She stared at him as if she’d never considered the idea before. Perhaps she hadn’t. She chewed her lower lip. “I suppose I did . Choose to be a bluestocking, I mean. Not a wallflower. I have tried so hard to make an—but that wasn’t the question. Bluestockings. My mother was one. And I wanted to be just like her. She and Aunt Montagu were my heroes.”
His elbow slipped off its armrest. “Elizabeth Montagu was your aunt? How could you not have become a bluestocking? She fairly invented the practice!”
Miss Downing gazed at the fire. “I think she was perhaps a second or third cousin, several times removed. A fair percentage of the volumes in my private library came from her. I was far too young to attend the literary assemblies, but my mother had done, and she could quote to me from memory.”
He couldn’t even imagine. “How did your father feel about that?”
“Papa? He was a respected scholar and had once held an advisory position of some renown with the war office. Neither Isaac nor I can recall a time when we weren’t surrounded by books and actively reading. In fact, I memorized the Odyssey to compete with my brother.” She smiled at the memory. “In my family, knowledge was the highest goal one could pursue. ‘Bluestocking’ wasn’t a slur, but rather a term of pride.”
In her family. An empty feeling gathered in the pit of his stomach. “When did you realize that wasn’t true in all families?”
Her mouth tightened. “The day I made my curtsey. Novels weren’t shunned in my home any more than periodicals, so between scandal sheets and gothic serials, I was convinced that no matter what happened on the night of my come-out, for better or for worse, it would be absolutely memorable.”
“And what happened?”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing.”
He frowned. “How could nothing happen? If you had a come-out, then certainly something —”
“I believe we’re overdue for my turn at question-asking.” Her voice trembled, then pushed on. “When you first came home from war, you were a hairsbreadth away from vegetative. It took months for you to show any awareness or interest in the world around you.”
His spine stiffened. “Is that a question?”
“I’ll rephrase.” Her stare turned piercing. “Why did you retreat into your own mind?”
He glared at her. “It was safer.”
She didn’t look away.
Neither did he.
She sighed and held up her palms. “Care to elaborate?”
Not particularly. But nor did he wish to owe her a boon. “No one returns from war the same man he was when he started.” He, more than anyone. “I didn’t like who I had become. And I couldn’t make myself forget.”
“Who did you become?”
He shook his head. “That’s a different question.”
“You lost your innocence,” she guessed.
His lips twisted. “I lost that years before.”
“I don’t mean your virginity. I mean your innocence . You thought the world was one way, and it turned out to be another.”
“That’s… an understatement.” It had turned out to be a living hell.
“Earlier, you mentioned that once one loses one’s innocence, it cannot be regained.” She tilted her head. “That’s true. But it’s not the whole story.”
He stared down at his boots. “Nothing is ever the whole story.”
“I mean, as people, we’re always losing our innocence about something, aren’t we? That doesn’t negate or even minimize it, but it does mean we have to keep moving forward.” Her lips pursed as she considered him. “You didn’t like who you had become. That’s fair. But you’re no longer that person. That was the old you. This is the new you.”
He snorted. “How do you know who or how I am?”
“Because you’re not on the battlefield anymore.” Her words sped faster. “You say war changes a man. I believe you. But it’s not the only thing that changes
“Nobody?”
She stared at him as if she’d never considered the idea before. Perhaps she hadn’t. She chewed her lower lip. “I suppose I did . Choose to be a bluestocking, I mean. Not a wallflower. I have tried so hard to make an—but that wasn’t the question. Bluestockings. My mother was one. And I wanted to be just like her. She and Aunt Montagu were my heroes.”
His elbow slipped off its armrest. “Elizabeth Montagu was your aunt? How could you not have become a bluestocking? She fairly invented the practice!”
Miss Downing gazed at the fire. “I think she was perhaps a second or third cousin, several times removed. A fair percentage of the volumes in my private library came from her. I was far too young to attend the literary assemblies, but my mother had done, and she could quote to me from memory.”
He couldn’t even imagine. “How did your father feel about that?”
“Papa? He was a respected scholar and had once held an advisory position of some renown with the war office. Neither Isaac nor I can recall a time when we weren’t surrounded by books and actively reading. In fact, I memorized the Odyssey to compete with my brother.” She smiled at the memory. “In my family, knowledge was the highest goal one could pursue. ‘Bluestocking’ wasn’t a slur, but rather a term of pride.”
In her family. An empty feeling gathered in the pit of his stomach. “When did you realize that wasn’t true in all families?”
Her mouth tightened. “The day I made my curtsey. Novels weren’t shunned in my home any more than periodicals, so between scandal sheets and gothic serials, I was convinced that no matter what happened on the night of my come-out, for better or for worse, it would be absolutely memorable.”
“And what happened?”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing.”
He frowned. “How could nothing happen? If you had a come-out, then certainly something —”
“I believe we’re overdue for my turn at question-asking.” Her voice trembled, then pushed on. “When you first came home from war, you were a hairsbreadth away from vegetative. It took months for you to show any awareness or interest in the world around you.”
His spine stiffened. “Is that a question?”
“I’ll rephrase.” Her stare turned piercing. “Why did you retreat into your own mind?”
He glared at her. “It was safer.”
She didn’t look away.
Neither did he.
She sighed and held up her palms. “Care to elaborate?”
Not particularly. But nor did he wish to owe her a boon. “No one returns from war the same man he was when he started.” He, more than anyone. “I didn’t like who I had become. And I couldn’t make myself forget.”
“Who did you become?”
He shook his head. “That’s a different question.”
“You lost your innocence,” she guessed.
His lips twisted. “I lost that years before.”
“I don’t mean your virginity. I mean your innocence . You thought the world was one way, and it turned out to be another.”
“That’s… an understatement.” It had turned out to be a living hell.
“Earlier, you mentioned that once one loses one’s innocence, it cannot be regained.” She tilted her head. “That’s true. But it’s not the whole story.”
He stared down at his boots. “Nothing is ever the whole story.”
“I mean, as people, we’re always losing our innocence about something, aren’t we? That doesn’t negate or even minimize it, but it does mean we have to keep moving forward.” Her lips pursed as she considered him. “You didn’t like who you had become. That’s fair. But you’re no longer that person. That was the old you. This is the new you.”
He snorted. “How do you know who or how I am?”
“Because you’re not on the battlefield anymore.” Her words sped faster. “You say war changes a man. I believe you. But it’s not the only thing that changes
Similar Books
