Lady Keats studied her daughter’s face. “And that’s not what you wanted to be?”
“I wanted to be his partner. His equal. I was foolish enough to think that’s what we were becoming.”
Her mother settled across from her. “What exactly happened between you and your husband?”
The story poured out—Hugo’s reaction to her hopes for a child, his dismissal of her feelings, the scene with Rosalie, and his willingness to destroy his daughter’s happiness rather than bend.
“I see,” Lady Keats said when Sybil finished. “And you believe Hugo’s behavior proves he never cared for you?”
“Doesn’t it? He made it clear that children with me would be an inconvenience. That my role is to support his decisions without question.”
“Men can be remarkably obtuse about expressing their feelings. Particularly men who’ve been hurt before.”
“That doesn’t give him the right to treat me like a servant.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it might explain why he’s so determined to maintain control.” Lady Keats reached across to take Sybil’s hand. “My dear, I think you might be making the same mistake your father and I made all those years ago.”
“What mistake?”
“Assuming the worst about someone’s motivations instead of trying to understand them.”
Sybil pulled her hand away. “I understand Hugo perfectly. He wants a convenient wife who won’t challenge him.”
“Does he? Or does he want a wife he can trust not to manipulate him like his first wife did?”
The suggestion was unwelcome in its implications.
“If he trusted me, he would have listened to me about Rosalie. He wouldn’t have dismissed my feelings about wanting children.”
“Perhaps he was frightened by the intensity of his feelings for you. Perhaps he retreated into familiar patterns.”
“Mama, Hugo told me explicitly that children would complicate things.”
“And that surprised you? A man suddenly faced with the possibility of genuine happiness after years of managing grief over a loveless marriage?”
The words hit closer to home than Sybil wanted to admit, but it didn’t change the fundamental problem.
“Even if that were true, it doesn’t change what he’s doing to Rosalie.”
Lady Keats rose, moving to the window. In the afternoon light, she looked older, worn by years of regret.
“Your father was a good man. Stubborn, proud, often wrong—but good. He loved Emmie desperately, and his fear drove him to make terrible choices.”
“Choices that killed her.”
“Yes. But the fear came from love, even if he expressed it badly.”
“Are you suggesting I should forgive Hugo for being willing to kill Lord Pemberton?”
“I’m suggesting you might consider that his willingness to fight comes from the same place as your father’s mistakes—desperate need to protect the people he loves, even when his methods are wrong.”
The question hung unanswered. Outside, London continued its existence, indifferent to human drama.
“Even if that were true, it doesn’t change the fact that he made it clear I’m not a partner. I’m a convenience.”
“Did he say that explicitly?”
“He didn’t need to. His actions spoke clearly enough.”
