/Oh, Lord, I have lost my brain. I had put up a chapter that was not chapter 6. But then I do not sleep regularly anymore. And checking blood sugars over night means I only look like I am here and aware as I walk about town... or post chapters. In reality, I am down to two brain cells and apparently they were off doing other things this afternoon.
I am chucking this up as an imperfect flare. (I'm here! I'm here!)
Things got me here. Wrestled me to the ground. And I have discovered I lack the strength and stamina for wrestling. Suffice it to say, diabetes sucks. Tell me you are still there and that this short, tense bit of heavy breathing pleases./
After Brighton there was a series of nights out for the members of the foursome – nights out (nights complicated, Henry would say) with occasional and blatantly-single male guests. These events came at least every week now. But when Mrs. Higgins had not arranged an evening at the theater, there were simple dinners - just the four of them - at one of the two Higgins' households.
"She will begin to resent these efforts," the colonel whispered to Elenore when she had proposed yet another outing with a friend of hers and that woman's unmarried son.
"I am wondering if someone else may begin to resent them first," she replied.
Because all through this Henry watched. Waited. Wondering if Eliza would latch on to a likely prospect. But Eliza had seen her attachment to Freddy for what it was. That had ended slowly, but had been completely over for weeks now. None of the men Mrs. Higgins introduced her to seemed to stick. She was content, it seemed, to be as independent as the others in this group.
They each professed independence, yes. But there was a dependency between the four of them and an uneasy dependency especially between Henry and Eliza. There were daytime visits to Wimpole Street when she happily walked about the professor's library, a pencil stuck in her hair as she catalogued something for him.
"You've mislaid it!" he roared, one unremarkable morning.
"You've merely hidden it better than ever before," she replied just as sharply.
Henry turned away to shift another pile at his desk. "Ha! I never," he said.
"You always," she murmured to herself, with a smile.
"I heard that!"
"Oh, atta-boy," the young woman said with a touch of her old twang. "Not deaf yet?"
Not romantic words. But he suddenly felt quite breathless, possessed nonetheless. And in that moment all her dig at him had done was make him think that kissing her soundly was the best retort.
Making love to her here pressed against his bookcase, better still.
Henry had stepped closer to her without meaning to. And then realized the shameful thought that had fueled him.
He would not speak his thoughts. Nor would he lie to her. Would not turn what he felt into a false anger the way he might have months ago.
Any ruse would have failed anyway, he thought. Because the girl looked scandalized and slightly worried over what had just transpired. He reclaimed some steady breaths and ducked his head to back away.
He would not lie to her or himself, his brain echoed. Because, it had taken months to finally see that there was something here, something palpable and frightening, that would not give over.
"We needn't worry about that manuscript, Eliza."
"No," she said quietly.
Suddenly, there was enough else to worry about.