"Miss Bennett. That sounds very formal."
"I am trying not to make assumptions."
A faint smile appeared. "That would be new."
"I have had several excellent teachers." Clara glanced toward Rose, who was across the room speaking with another guest. She was following the conversation easily while the woman opposite her made a visible effort to face her properly. Clara's expression softened. "She looks happy."
"She told me what she wanted."
"And you listened."
"I am attempting to develop the habit."
Clara looked back at him.
Alexander took a breath. "Rose made me understand something I should have seen much earlier: you never wanted anything from me except to be believed."
For the first time, Clara's humor disappeared. "Yes."
"And when believing you became inconvenient, I behaved as though my faith in you existed only when no one challenged it."
She said nothing.
"I was wrong."
Clara studied him carefully. "What do you want from me now?"
Alexander could have asked her to return. Instead, he said, "Permission to know you when you are not employed by my family."
Her eyebrows rose. "And now you wish to court me also."
"Yes."
Clara almost laughed. "You understand why that sounds ridiculous."
"Painfully."
The smile finally escaped her. Alexander felt something loosen inside his chest.
"I'm not asking for an answer today."
"That might be the smartest part of your proposal."
"It wasn't a proposal."
"Good. I'd hate to see what happens when you actually try one."
Clara didn't agree to courtship that afternoon, but she didn't refuse it, either. In the following weeks, Alexander visited Mrs. Ellison's house when invited. He and Clara strolled through the gardens, debated books, and found that talking to each other became much easier once neither employer nor employee stood between them.
Rose never acted as a matchmaker—at least, she denied doing so. Then Clara received a drawing in the mail. It showed Alexander sitting alone in a vast drawing room, looking dramatically miserable beneath a huge chandelier. Underneath the sketch, Rose had written: "He is much quieter without you. Unfortunately, not quiet enough."
Clara laughed so hard that Mrs. Ellison came into the room to ask what had happened.
By the end of summer, Clara accepted Alexander's invitation to return to Whitmore Hall for a dinner. This time, she arrived as a guest. No one mistook her position.
During dessert, a newly arrived lady who had never met Rose turned toward Clara. "Does Lady Rose understand what we are saying?"
Clara didn't answer. She simply looked toward Rose. The woman followed her gaze.
Rose had clearly read the question from her lips. She straightened up. Her speech was less practiced than her signing, but every word was understandable: "You could ask me."
The woman flushed. "I beg your pardon."
Rose smiled. "Accepted."
Conversation resumed. Alexander looked across the table toward Clara; she was already watching him.
Later, he found her alone on the terrace.
"I have been advised that I am very slow."
"Rose?"
"My mother. Rose. Possibly half the household."
"All reliable authorities."
Alexander smiled. Then his expression became serious. "May I ask you something?"
"You may."
He hesitated. Clara noticed.
"You are actually nervous."
"Please enjoy it quietly."
She laughed.
Alexander stepped closer, though he left enough distance for her to choose whether to remain there. "Will you marry me?"
Clara looked at him for a long moment. Then she raised her hands. Alexander watched carefully. Over the months since she left, he had begun learning to sign—not because Clara required it, but because Rose mattered to him, and because he had finally understood that loving someone sometimes meant learning the language in which they were most comfortable being heard.
Clara signed slowly enough to make certain he understood: Yes, but only if you keep listening.
Alexander smiled. Then he answered with his hands. His movements were not perfect, but they were clear: Always.
Clara looked at him with unmistakable amusement. "That sign was slightly wrong."
Alexander sighed. "I was afraid of that."
She corrected his hand. He repeated it. This time, Clara nodded.
Months later, when she returned to Whitmore Hall permanently, it was not as Rose's companion or as the woman Alexander had rescued from gossip. She came as the woman he had finally learned not to speak for.
And when people asked Alexander what first made him fall in love with his wife, he never mentioned beauty or rank, or the afternoon his mother had invited seven suitable women to meet him. He remembered only the woman who crossed a crowded room, sat beside his forgotten sister, and asked with her hands:
May I sit here?