Impulse by Candace Camp

they would just as obviously be here awhile. Angela considered getting herself only toast, so that she could eat quickly and leave. After all, the way her stomach felt right now, she could not eat anything, anyway.
    However, when she got up and went to the breakfront, she found herself filling her plate like a trencherman, just to delay her return to the table. But when she sat down again, she could eat little, and merely toyed with it.
    There was a gaping silence. Finally, Mr. Pettigrew cleared his throat and began, “I find the weather here more pleasant than I had expected. Is it always like this?”
    â€œUsually it rains more this time of year,” Angela replied.
    â€œI see.”
    Again quiet lay upon them like a weight. Pettigrew tried again. “My compliments to your cook, Mi—I mean, my lady. The food is excellent.”
    â€œThank you. I will be sure to let Mrs. Fletcher know.”
    Mr. Pettigrew seemed to have run out of conversational topics, for the silence stretched again. This time it was Angela who was pushed by the awkward atmosphere into attempting to make conversation. “How is your mother, Cam? Does she enjoy living in America?”
    â€œShe died a year and a half ago.”
    â€œOh. I’m so sorry.”
    The last exchange seemed to end all hopes of polite conversation. Pettigrew ate swiftly and silently, and after a few moments, he rose to his feet, saying, “Excuse me, sir, ma’am, uh, my lady. I, ah, I am afraid I must excuse myself from the table. It was most delicious, but I have quite a bit of work to do.”
    â€œOf course.” Angela smiled at him graciously, and Cameron gave him a short nod. Pettigrew left the room, and the servant cleared his plates. At a gesture from Cam, he, too, exited, leaving Cam and Angela alone together.
    Angela pushed her eggs around, keeping her eyes on her plate, but she kept glancing at Cam out of the corner of her eye. He looked different—older, larger, harder— and yet so much the same that it made her heart skip a little in her chest. Over the years, she had forgotten exactly how thick and long his lashes grew, how fiercely dark his eyes were, and how angular his face was.
    â€œHave I changed so much?” Cam asked finally.
    Angela colored, aware of how she had been studying him. “I—I am sorry for staring. No. You have changed but little.” She turned back to her food. She did not expect him to say the same thing about her; she knew if he did, it would not be the truth. She saw herself in the mirror every day, and she knew that though her hair was the same texture and her eyes the same color, though her body was only a little less slender and more rounded, no one could think she looked the same as she had at sixteen. The spark that had once lit her face was gone, and her drabness was only emphasized by the plain, dark gowns she wore and the severe knot into which she wound her hair at the nape of her neck. Her skin, albeit still soft and white, no longer held a glow.
    â€œI cannot say the same about you,” Cam told her bluntly.
    Angela gave him a cool, measured look. “How kind of you to say so.”
    â€œI did not mean,” Cam said stiffly, “that you are not still beautiful.”
    â€œI am well aware what you meant. I have not aged well, shall we say? It does not matter to me.”
    â€œI meant, ” Cam went on stubbornly, “that you did not used to be so quiet. You were never timid.”
    â€œTimid? You make me sound like a mouse.” Angela straightened her shoulders and fixed him with a firm, clear gaze. Once, she had looked at people in that way with ease; in recent years, she had learned to do it again. She could force herself to regard a man with no fear, though inside her stomach might coil. “I am hardly that,
    Mr. Monroe.”
    â€œ Mr. Monroe?” He looked at her quizzically. “I hardly think I am that unfamiliar to