Sophia almost forgot about the sketch. She was busy with a new doctor’s ordinary load of patients and surgery hours in addition to the research she was doing with Claire.
But when she opened her wardrobe to take out a shirtwaist and wool skirt and jacket one morning, she spied one of the half-dozen fashionable dresses Eden had bought for her in Paris and felt a slight turn of guilt in her stomach. She had only worn one of them and that only once, when Eden had taken her dancing soon after their return to Boston.
Since that evening there had been no occasion to wear such things. They nearly always dined at home, quietly and alone, and Sophia nearly always ran in just in time to eat, after late evenings at the hospital.
Eden had been working hard all winter too, but Sophia worried that she was bored. Perhaps she missed the frivolity of Eleanor’s London friends. She must certainly miss her studio in Paris—in Boston she painted in Eleanor’s small day room. Perhaps she even missed Madame Vielle’s fetes where the girls always flirted and smiled at Eden, whether Sophia was on her arm or not.
Sophia supposed Eden would never complain, would never admit it if asked. But she must miss it all. Boston would never be Paris.