Once again, he looked at her in surprise. Anna wondered if he expected her to be simple, given that he hardly gave her any credit for her plan.
“As far as they know,” he explained, “I was taken ill. I had a letter sent to you, and in the man’s broken English, he wrote that it was an accident instead of a sickness. I then recovered and made my way home.”
“And what was the sickness?”
“I did not name one. I did not want to make a mistake.”
“We shall have to decide upon one. It is not believable to say you had a mysterious illness that miraculously was cured once you sent a letter.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Then we can say it was typhoid fever. It was seemingly grave, but then I began to recover.”
“And you left as you were recovering,” she continued, “for you could not stomach the thought of me receiving the letter.”
“It is an incredible tale,” he laughed.
“We have rather active imaginations. Do you suppose they will accept it?”
“They shall have to. It is not as though they know where I truly was.”
She nodded, but she could clearly tell that he knew what he had suggested. Nobody knew where he was, not even her, and he had no inclination to tell the truth about it.
“Might you be able to tell me, at least?” she asked tentatively.
“I cannot,” he replied bluntly. “You cannot know where I was, only that it is not what you think. I have done nothing untoward, but if I tell you, then terrible things could come of it.”
His shoulders were stiff, his face stern, and Anna knew the matter was closed. She would not convince him, and so she would not try. It felt like a warning, and though eventually she wanted to know the truth, if it was not the time, then that was that.
“What do you think of the household?” she asked instead. “It was a labor of love, I must say.”
“It is certainly… womanly. The house has not had a woman’s touch in years, and it has needed it.”
“Is that to say you like it?”
“It is. I think it is far brighter than before, and I am pleased to see that it was done. I suppose that I should look at the finances of it soon, so that I can ensure it is all in order.”
“It is.”
He raised an eyebrow in clear disbelief.
“Did you find someone to handle matters?”
“No, I did it myself.”
He laughed at that—really laughed, as though he did not believe her at all.
“It is true!” she continued. “Evelina has been doing it herself for seven years now, and she showed me how to do it too. It was easier that way, as if I knew it was done, it would not be a concern to me. I did not have to constantly fear that something was wrong.”
Except there was something wrong, and there was only so long that she could avoid it for before they were in deep trouble.
“You are capable, then,” her husband said quietly. “You have handled things all along.”
“I have, and easily so,” she agreed. “But there is a difference between living and coping.”
He abandoned his plate, going to her side and placing his hand under her chin, tilting her up to look at him.
“And which have you been doing?” he asked, as if he did not already know.
