“I need air,” he muttered. “Before I do something we’ll both regret. Like standing up and requesting they stop.”
Sybil bit her lip, clearly torn between loyalty to her friend and sympathy for her husband’s suffering. “It’s only been twenty minutes, Hugo.”
“Twenty minutes? It feels like twenty years.” He stood abruptly, offering his arm. “Come. A brief walk in the garden. For my health.”
“Your health?”
“My sanity, then.”
“Very well,” Sybil whispered, gathering her shawl. “But we can’t be gone long. People will notice.”
They slipped out through the French doors at the back of the music room, escaping into the blessed quiet of the Burrow’s garden. The contrast was so stark that Hugo actually groaned with relief.
“Good God,” he breathed, loosening his cravat slightly. “I thought I was going to suffocate in there.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sybil protested though her voice lacked conviction.
“Isn’t it? That last piece… what was that supposed to be?”
“Haydn’sString Quartet in D minor.”
“Haydn’s probably spinning in his grave.” Hugo guided them down a gravel path lined with roses. “How long have they been inflicting this on London society?”
“Hugo!” But she was laughing now, the sound bright in the evening air. “You’re being terrible.”
“I’m being honest. There’s a difference.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “How do you stand it? Year after year?”
“Well…” Sybil looked around to make sure they were truly alone. “I usually sit near the back. And I’ve become quite good at making mental lists during the performances.”
“Lists of what?”
“Household supplies we need. Letters I should write. Ways to improve the orphanage curriculum.” She grinned up at him. “Tonight, I planned next week’s menus three times over.”
Hugo stared at her for a moment then threw back his head and laughed—a real laugh, the kind that came from his belly and made his shoulders shake.
“You devious woman. And here I thought you were genuinely enjoying the music.”
“I enjoy Cassandra’s playing. The rest…” She shrugged delicately. “Well, friendship requires certain sacrifices.”
“Certain sacrifices,” Hugo repeated. “Is that what you call this marriage? A sacrifice?”
The question came out more serious than he’d intended, and Sybil’s laughter faded. She looked at him with those perceptive blue eyes, as though trying to read his thoughts.
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t.”
Thank God for that.
“What do you call it, then?”
“An adventure.” The word surprised them both. “I know that sounds silly, but?—”
“It doesn’t sound silly.”
“Doesn’t it? A spinster of twenty-eight calling marriage an adventure?”
“A spinster of twenty-eight who rescued children from burning buildings and challenged London society’s most formidable matrons.” Hugo reached out to touch her cheek. “I think you’re entitled to a few adventures.”
More than a few. I want to give you all the adventures you’ve missed.
