“Did you want to marry him?” His voice betrayed no emotion, and she imagined it must be the same he used in court.
“I wanted to avoid society, which meant I needed to marry. So, yes.”
“Did your family approve of the match?”
She flattened her lips, focused her attention on the detached button and the fraying thread hanging limp from the fabric. “They approved b-but worried. Mama feared I was marrying b-b-because I was nervous about the season.”
“She was right, then.”
“She was, b-but they let me make my choice.” Marigold swallowed hard around the lump forming in her throat. “I chose the marquess.”
He hummed, fiddled with the edge of his cuff, and she realized this was the most still she’d ever seen him, as though her simple words were sufficiently compelling—or perhaps infuriating—that he’d ceased fidgeting.
“Was it always terrible?” His question cut deeper than the others, not in what it asked of her, but what it revealed of him. She remembered his father, the subtext beneath the story of the sugar beets, and wondered if he was seeking reassurance for his mother.
“No,” she said, surprised that it was the honest response. “There was no single moment when it b-became horrid. He was never attentive, but not aggressive, especially b-b-before I had the b-boys. Once they were b-born, he stayed in London more often, or went to Scotland to see his friends. I was never invited, b-but I hated socializing, so I thought he was b-b-being courteous.”
“Did he…” Archie paused, looked out towards the aisle, then dropped his voice. “When did he start saying terrible things to you and the children?”
Ah, yes. Silly girl, thinking his questions stemmed from his interest in her when they’d always been about the case. “Once it was clear Reggie couldn’t be the b-b-boy he wanted. Matthew wouldn’t sit st-still long enough to earn the marquess’ approval.” She stopped, realizing tears pressed into the back of her eyes. As anxious as she felt, she would not cause a scene by falling into a tizzy.
What would her sons think of her when they returned? While they’d never shown affection for their father, would they understand why she was throwing their lives into upheaval?
“Tell me about the boys,” he said, his voice soft, and she turned to face him.
She realized, with a moment of gratitude, that the pressure of tears had receded enough for her to speak again. “They’re lovely.”
His smile warmed slowly. “With you as a mother, I’d expect nothing less.”
A glow spread in her chest; she wasn’t about to deny one of the few compliments on her mothering she’d ever received. “Reggie is twelve, and Matthew will be ten in October.”
“Which is the most trouble?”
She couldn’t help her fond sigh. “You and Matthew may be kindred spirits. He should p-play rugby.” Archie’s eyes brightened. “He was born wiggling and has never st-stopped. He’s always leaping off something or taking something apart. Matthew is determined to learn everything by d-doing, never content to read about a trebuchet without b-building one in the garden.”
“Of course,” Archie smirked. “Why bother reading about a trebuchet when you can launch things with one?” She chuckled, and he beamed. “What about Reggie?”
“My Reggie.” She bit her lower lip. “He sees qualities others miss. He recognizes patterns in the weather and tells me when I should go check on the bees because the honey is ready to harvest. His heart…” She swallowed, unsurprised to find the knot in her throat had returned. “Reggie can be difficult, not like Matthew in trying to explode things, but in letting people help him. Understand him.”
“He’s closed off. Not unlike you,” Archie said.
“No, he is far smarter than me, far more capable. Reggie sees and understands everything happening around him, and that can be too much for him. His feelings are more intense than ours, b-but instead of letting them out, he holds them all in. Collects his observations and feelings until he’s ready to manage them, or until they b-burst out all at once.”
“What does he think about the divorce?”
Marigold wrinkled her nose and tugged at the loose end of the thread hanging from her glove. “I haven’t t-t-told them yet.”
“Why not?”
She was startled when she met his gaze; his brows furrowed, and all gentleness had fled his expression. “They’re t-too young.”
Archie scoffed. “When are you planning on telling them? When you’re no longer referred to as ‘my lady’ and they’re the subject of gossip all over town?”
A sickly heat crawled up her back and over her skull. “No, I want t-t-to p-protect them,” she stammered, the sounds sticking on her tongue.
“They are old enough,” he insisted, “and they’ve heard what he says to you, yeah? Don’t they need to be protected from that?”
“Archie, you’re too loud,” she whispered, and he froze.
