His grip on her hand is tighter than she expects it to be, almost uncomfortably so, but she doesn't pull away. It's too late for that -- it was too late for that before he even began.
If he'd told her all of this on their first date, that might have been the end of it. His excuses would have sounded feeble compared to his advantages: as if a titled, unwed man had any business being trapped under his sister's thumb. Even now, despite her feelings for him, and despite not wanting to make this harder or more miserable, she's sorely tempted to point out that Lucille couldn't have suffered a fate worse than the ones she meted out. 'What would become of her' is a question with a less certain answer than what would become of anyone Thomas chose to marry (to the extent that it was Thomas's choice at all). Perhaps that unknown path is the one that should have been explored.
But apparently it was his choice, at least the fourth time. His hand is beginning to feel like a shackle, pinning her to the table, forcing her to sit this through. But her other hand is still her own, and with a quiet sigh, she pours herself a measure of gin. She needs it. "Edith is the one who was here?" she asks, wanting the confirmation that the last one had lived, at least for a time.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2018-03-11 05:37 am (UTC)If he'd told her all of this on their first date, that might have been the end of it. His excuses would have sounded feeble compared to his advantages: as if a titled, unwed man had any business being trapped under his sister's thumb. Even now, despite her feelings for him, and despite not wanting to make this harder or more miserable, she's sorely tempted to point out that Lucille couldn't have suffered a fate worse than the ones she meted out. 'What would become of her' is a question with a less certain answer than what would become of anyone Thomas chose to marry (to the extent that it was Thomas's choice at all). Perhaps that unknown path is the one that should have been explored.
But apparently it was his choice, at least the fourth time. His hand is beginning to feel like a shackle, pinning her to the table, forcing her to sit this through. But her other hand is still her own, and with a quiet sigh, she pours herself a measure of gin. She needs it. "Edith is the one who was here?" she asks, wanting the confirmation that the last one had lived, at least for a time.