The Ambassador's Daughter. Pam Jenoff
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don’t mind,” he replies, surprising me. Quiet and order seem better suited to him. “I would have liked children.”
“You talk like you’re eighty!” I exclaim. “You can still have them.”
“I’m twenty-five,” Georg replies. “I will be twenty-six, tomorrow, in fact.” There is something grave and imposing about his demeanor that makes him appear more than just a few years older.
“There’s still plenty of time.” Though it is not at all hot in the room, my skin feels suddenly moist.
“I suppose. And you?”
“I do want children,” I reply with more certainty than I’d planned. It was not something I’d thought about on a conscious level until now.
“No, I was asking about your family. Are there many of you?”
“Oh.” For the second time in an hour, I feel myself blush. “A small family, also. Just Papa and me.” I do not count Tante Celia or our other extended relations. “My mother died of flu when I was younger.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice is full with the empathy of shared loss.
“Growing up an only child, Papa working all of the time, was sometimes a lonely existence. That’s why I’d like to have children. How many, I don’t know, but definitely more than one.” I feel myself talking too fast and saying too much. I have not felt this comfortable speaking with anyone since Krysia. “With siblings you always have each other …” I stop, realizing my error. Georg had his brother until he died at war, in front of his very eyes.
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