"You don't have to say it. It's in every look, every careful distance you maintain, every reminder that I'm a Coleridge and therefore suspect."
"You are a Coleridge."
"Yes, but I'm also a person. Ophelia. Just Ophelia. Not a representative of my family's sins or ambitions. Just a woman trying to make the best of an impossible situation."
He set down his teacup carefully. "I don't know how to see you as just Ophelia."
"Why not?"
"Because every time I try, something reminds me of who you are, where you come from. Finding you in the servants' hall, it was like seeing my worst suspicions confirmed."
"Your suspicion that I'm secretly kind?"
"My suspicion that you're winning them over. Making them yours."
"They're not possessions to be won. They're people."
"They're my people. My responsibility."
"Our people now."
"Are they?"
The question hung between them, loaded with implications neither wanted to examine too closely.
"This is exhausting," she said finally. "This constant circling, suspecting, analyzing every word and gesture for hidden meanings."
"Welcome to society."
"This isn't society. This is just us. Two people who have to live together for the rest of our lives. Couldn't we at least try to make it bearable?"
"I thought that's what we were doing."
"No, we're maintaining a cold war with occasional tea breaks."
"You want more?"
"I want not to feel like an enemy in my own home. Is that too much to ask?"
"This isn't..." He stopped, reconsidered. "This is your home. You're right about that."
"But?"
"But I don't know how to share it. I've been alone here for so long, had complete control for so long, that having someone else—especially a Coleridge—suddenly here, changing things..."
"I haven't changed anything significant."
"Haven't you? There are flowers everywhere now. The servants smile more. There's music in the evenings. The house feels... different."
"Warmer?"
"Different," he repeated, not willing to concede the point.
"Is different necessarily bad?"
"It's unsettling."
"Like my brothers' visit will be?"