“And Henry agrees?”
He smiles. “You know Henry takes a different view of such matters now.”
“Yes, when he married Evie he had to.”
“He is devoted to her. More than devoted.”
“Yes, he’ll do anything Evie wants.”
“Precisely.”
I page through the manuscript and see that it definitely belongs in the backroom at Willoughby’s.
“And this is all taken from life?”
Alfred nods.
“Largely,” he says, with a smirk. “To hear Evie and Henry tell it, at least. Of course, the best stories contain embellishment.”
“I struggle to believe that Henry told you about—” I point to a passage because, truly, describing it aloud is rather difficult.
Alfred laughs.
“No, it is Evie who gave me that detail. I didn’t know Henry could blush so much.”
“You are all mad. But I look forward to reading it. Although I fear I’ll never look at our friends the same way again.”
“Well, you forget that Evie readourstory.”
“After she snuck into my study! It serves her right if it haunts her.”
“She found it very beautiful, as she always tells me.”
“Will you publish it under your own name?”
He shakes his head.
“It will be anonymous.”
“I would support it, you know. If you wanted it under your name.”
“Our name you mean?”
I smile. “Yes, our name.”
But he shakes his head again.
“No, it is freer this way. I prefer it. This way, I can write anything. And that’s what I want to do. I want to write anything that I want to write.”
I nod, not quite understanding the ways of artists, but accepting his preference.
And, truth be told, while I am amused by Henry and Evie’s wild love story, I am more interested in my own at the moment.
Right now, more than anything, I want to bed my husband.
I have endured an entire evening of watching him look so pretty, so handsome, in his evening wear, without being able toreallytouch him.
Thankfully, the fears that almost led me to throw away the love of the best man in the world were unfounded. He has not tired of me. He loves me just the same when I amtoo tired or foul-humored (from being with child or anything else) or ill to bed him.
