“I have made it clear to my family that I would never marry,” she said. “They’re not happy about it at all, even though they understand my reasoning. To suddenly announce my feelings for you would cause confusion and upset. Also . . .” She looked down again, and he’d come to recognize that she avoided his eyes when she needed to say something especially difficult. “If it doesn’t work out . . . I don’t want people speculating or ridiculing you for having any romantic association with me at all.” She looked up at him again, apparently having said the worst of it. She must have known he would protest because she put her fingers over his lips. “You haven’t lived in England for nine years. Please trust me when I tell you that it’s better if we keep it a secret . . . for now . . . until we know for certain.”

Henry still wanted to protest, but she didn’t move her fingers. A smile broke her solemn countenance and filled him with fresh hope even before she said, “You can make a nuisance of yourself by coming to tea and supper, and my parents will love every minute of your company. And you and I can take long walks in the garden and lounge about in the library while my family believes we’re talking about India. And if one day we announce that our friendship has become something more, we will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Henry was feeling better about her condition, except for one thing. He moved her fingers from over his lips and kept hold of them. “And what if it doesn’t work out between the two of us? Will any friendship gained with you and your family suddenly become awkward and I’ll have to stay away without explanations, making myself a fool?”

“No,” she said firmly and with compassion. “Whatever friendship you find among us will be forever. It is only the possibility of marriage that must be carefully considered. I believe we are both mature and sensible enough to move forward appropriately—either way.”