March 25, 1899

I have been thinking about Amelia more and more recently, and I decided it was finally time to get past my discomfort and call on her.

As my own happiness has been building, so has my guilt, for I think on what I had done to her happiness. Up until now, I had been so afraid to face her. The shame was just too much. But after leading her on for as long as I did, I knew I owed her an apology, at the very least.

I called on her to inquire if she would like to accompany me for afternoon tea. My assumption was that I would be rejected, if I were to even receive a response. To my surprise, she agreed.

We went to a café near the river that we had often gone to for luncheons and the occasional breakfast outing. In hindsight, perhaps picking a location that was once the setting for our “dates” was risky—a bit awkward, even, but I liked the idea of picking somewhere familiar.

She met me there. It seemed awkward and unnecessary to go to her home and walk with her, though it would have been the polite thing to do.

When she arrived, I was feeling a lot of different things: more guilt, of course; fear for what would come next; and even a little comfort in seeing a familiar face—even if that face belonged to someone who, at the moment, hated me.

We exchanged greetings, a few small niceties, and, once our tea was served, we got right on with it. I had apprehensions about having such a private conversation in public, but everyone in the café was so caught up in their own gossip and goings-on, my concerns were easily dispelled.

“Did you ever really care for me, Thomas?”

“Of course I did.” This was not a lie.

“But you did not love me.”

Saying I did would have been a lie, especially now, knowing what real love feels like. The euphoria it brings about. So I just shook my head, not brave enough to actually speak the word “no.”

“How long would you have continued wasting my time? Both of our time?”

What exactly was I supposed to say to that? For a great deal longer, most likely. In fact, if the love of my life had not shown up, I probably would have married you just to appease my parents. So once again, I retreated into sheepishness, shrugging and murmuring something like, “Who can say?”

She frowned. This was not going well at all. I had to do something.

“I do not have any good reasons for you as to why I did what I did, and I think it is mainly because it was all so unnecessarily foolish. I should have been more forthcoming about my feelings—”

“You should have,” she agreed, crossing her arms.

I nodded, resisting the urge to laugh. That was something I could always count on with Amelia: she was always right and she always knew it.

“Yes. And I feel terrible for any pain I might have caused you. I was being selfish—”

“You were.”

“I was,” I said, restating that which I had already admitted to. “I was not thinking about anyone else, which is why I had not considered how it might affect you. But any harm that was done was unintentional, please believe me. I know you have no reason to, and I know I likely do not deserve it, but I hope that one day, you will be able to forgive me.”

She took a bite out of a shortbread cookie and examined it thoughtfully. “I must admit, it takes courage for a man to admit when he’s done wrong. Especially when you could have easily just continued on about your life, ignoring me and never acknowledging your faults at all.” She took another bite. “I will consider it—forgiveness, I mean.”

I felt lighter, allowing a smile to show itself. “Perhaps we might even become friends, when all is said and done.”

“Do not test the limits of your luck with me, Mr. Pendleton,” she warned, raising a finger. “It is not something your family has a lot of these days.”

Some might think it distasteful to comment on a family’s financial issues. I actually sort of respected her for it. And this time, I let myself laugh.