With dreadful timing, Stewart chose that very moment to get into the room with the tea tray. Both of them fell into an awkward silence: Anthony turned his face away, and Edith fixed her gaze on an embroidered pillow next to her. The edges of the fabric were frayed, and she wondered if Anthony ever had any visitors at all. Surely, at least some of his old friends paid him calls? The house looked so shabby, and Anthony was never a shabby man.
The china tinkled and rattled at every step as the elderly manservant slowly walked to the low table: Edith had a fleeting vision of the poor man stumbling, sending cups and saucers flying and tea spilling on the thick carpet.
Anthony stepped forward and helped Stewart lay the tray down on the table, steadying it with his only functioning hand. "Thank you, Stewart. That will do." His tone was gentle, but there was an edge to his voice Edith couldn't not notice.
"Very well, sir." While Stewart made an equally slow retreat. Edith looked at Anthony: his back was stiff and there was a subtle evidence of strain in the tightness of his shoulders.
"I do apologize," he said when he finally turned to look at her. He looked contrite. "I don't know what came upon me a moment ago. The, ah, what happened between us…" he could not bring himself to say the word wedding "That is still quite a difficult subject for me to talk about. And I can't - can't stand you taking any blame for it."
"No need to apology at all. Allow me," Edith got up and set about pouring out the tea, using the old, familiar ritual to geth through the awkward moment.
When she offered the cup to Anthony their hands brushed slightly. Anthony flinched again, as he had done when she stroked his cheek, and immediately tried to explain himself.
"I… I don't see many people those days, as you can imagine, and I'm afraid I have positively forgotten how to behave." He smiled bashfully and put down his cup. "And having you - you, of all people - there in front of me, in this house, is so – so extraordinary, so unexpected, that I'm quite convinced it is all a dream, and poor old Stewart will come to wake me up when dinner is ready. You know," he went on hastily, without looking at her "You know, I dream of you quite often. I sometimes fall asleep on that armchair over there, while I'm reading, and there you are." He made a vague gesture with his hand towards the center of the room. "But I suppose, surprising as it might be, that this must be reality." He paused. "Because you never speak to me in those dreams - you say not a word, ever, however badly I want you to." He blinked and seemed to realize what he had just said. "Oh, dear. Don't know why I told you that." He offered her an apologetic shrug. "But I'm always saying things that shouldn't be said out loud. You know me."
His words left Edith with a lump in her throat. She swallowed hard. Yes, he was always candid like that: saying things people usually keep to themselves, like that time he casually remarked how weddings remind people of their own loneliness.
She swallowed a second time and managed a faint smile. "I always found found that endearing of you."
He smiled coyly. "Did you?"
"I did. I do." She put her tea cup down on the table. Neither of them had taken a single sip. Then, very brusquely, she said: "Since we are both being unbritishly honest today, tell me, Anthony: are you very lonely?"