"And you?" she asked, her voice dropping to a softer register that barely carried over the noise of the room. "Do you truly intend to return to the continent?"
"I always do," he answered automatically.
Eliza looked at him for a second longer than social politeness required. Neither of them knew exactly why his answer suddenly felt so hollow. For years, the ability to leave had been his greatest comfort, the ultimate proof that his life belonged only to himself. But standing here, looking at the quiet, intelligent woman who was entirely prepared to let him walk away, the concept of leaving no longer felt like a victory.
Andrew opened his mouth. He was a breath away from asking if he might call upon her when he passed through Bath. It would be a simple request, easily granted, but asking to visit meant acknowledging that his future was no longer entirely his own. It meant admitting that his next destination would be chosen, not out of a desire to wander, but out of a desire to return to her.
He stopped himself. The words remained unspoken.
Eliza watched the hesitation cross his features. She saw him draw back, pulling the walls of his independence firmly into place. Her heart gave a slow, painful ache, but her expression remained perfectly composed. It did not help to know he had almost asked; "almost" did not change the fact that visits ended.
As the evening wore on, the truth settled heavily between them. The Scottish loch was gone, the coincidences were gone, and whatever was growing between them would not simply fade into a pleasant memory when they finally turned their carriages in opposite directions.
The evening air in Edinburgh held the distinct, biting chill of an impending departure. Standing on the steps of the Braemar town residence, the sounds of the evening's farewell dinner fading behind them, Andrew accompanied Mrs. Ellison and Eliza down to their waiting carriage. The street was lined with glowing lanterns casting long, flickering shadows over the cobblestones.
Everything was perfectly public, entirely correct, and completely unbearable.
Tomorrow, the fragile proximity they had shared over the last few weeks would shatter. He knew she would take the southern road to Bath. She knew he would accompany his brother to London before securing passage to Dover, and from there to the continent. The geography of their futures had been mapped out long before they ever spoke under the willow.
As the footmen opened the carriage door, a heavy, suffocating silence settled between Andrew and Eliza. It was a silence neither of them knew how to treat as normal social convention.
Looking up at him, Eliza desperately wished he would say something—anything that would transform the quiet magic of the past few weeks into a promise that could survive the distance. She wanted him to give her a reason to look forward to tomorrow. But her own hard-won experience stood firmly in the way. She had learned the cost of turning a pleasant season into an expectation. She would not humiliate herself by asking for a permanence he was not freely offering.