Page 61 of Charlotte

“You’ve read him?”

His hand withdrew from the page. A small thing, but enough to make Lottie wish she had asked with more care.

“Some,” he said.

“Which play?”

He looked toward the window. “Bits of this and that.”

“I like Much Ado About Nothing,” she said. “Beatrice makes Delly seem meek, which I appreciate because it proves my sister could be worse.”

That earned her a quiet huff of laughter. “Miss Odelia is not meek,” Peterson said.

“No. She is a one-woman weather event in worn boots.”

Cornelia laughed from the shelf.

Peterson’s eyes warmed. He glanced toward the door, then back at Lottie. “Simms does not seem troubled by the weather.”

“Mr. Simms looks at Delly as if he enjoys standing in the storm.”

The words came softly, but they were out before she could call them back. Peterson studied her.

Lottie lowered her gaze to the account book. “She does not notice.”

“Your sister?”

“She notices everything except that.” Lottie ran one finger along the edge of Shakespeare’s cover. “When he looks at her, she thinks he is evaluating the argument. He is not. He is pleased by her, and that cannot be checked off in one of her columns.”

“Is that what you want?” Peterson asked.

Her breath caught. The surrounding room was not empty, and she wasn’t sure how much she should say out loud.

Cornelia was still sorting near the shelf.

Mrs. Schulte had taken the little girl outside to show her where to wash flower stains from her hands. Mrs. Beck and Mrs. Hanford left, discussing the hazards of poetry as they went out the door. Still, Peterson’s question seemed to reach Lottie alone.

She could have laughed it off. She could have said something airy about all women wanting to be admired.

Instead, she answered carefully, her voice low.

“I should like to be looked at as if my presence were welcome.”

Peterson’s gaze dropped to the Tennyson beneath his arm. After a moment, he said, “A man would have to be blind not to welcome you.”

The words came rough and low, as though pulled from him before he had decided whether they were safe.

Lottie went quiet.

Peterson looked as if he regretted speaking and was glad he had said it, both at once. He reached for his hat from the table, then stopped because Tennyson was still tucked beneath his arm.

Lottie found her voice. “That is a very kind thing to say.”

“It was not kindness.” Her fingers tightened against the edge of the table as he glanced her way. “It was only true.”

Oh.

The word moved through her without a sound.