Not only had she had to tell Mrs. Hettrick and Wilma goodbye, the only two women in the world who she knew, or who knew her, but her husband had withdrawn so far that he might as well be on the opposite side of the world.
She hadn’t had the courage to ask him to hold her when he returned, because she would only feel worse to be rejected again. Perhaps she hadn’t acted cowardly so much as summoned a little self-respect.
This rejection. She had no way of knowing if it was new to her. New or not, it was not at all pleasant, and the effect was eroding her soul.
She had gone too far. She’d been too forward—even if she was his wife. Wives didn’t talk like that. They didn’t do those things.
And this morning, aside from a few cursory comments as they packed up their chamber, he’d hardly spoken to her, aside from perfunctory comments.
And it was killing her.
The silence. The tension. The not knowing what he was thinking.
It was positively killing her.
The gig barely had enough room for two people. They’d had to tie their luggage to the back with thick ropes, and she kept her reticule and parasol tucked behind her feet.
It was impossible not to be aware of his thick thighs pressing into the folds of her gown.
And yet, if not for Archie curled on her lap, she might as well be alone.
Self-respect, be damned, she couldn’t take it a second longer.
“Have I always been this way?” She didn’t look at him when she broke the heavy silence.
He remained staring forward, focusing on the horse pulling their conveyance as though it required tremendous concentration. Was he going to ignore her completely?
“What way?”
It seemed cruel that he’d make her spell it out to him.
“Forward. Needy.” She inhaled. “Wanton.”
More silence. She hated silence!
“This isn’t fair,” she complained when he failed to answer right away. “You know everything about me, about you—about us! But I’m completely in the dark. Are you angry with me? Are you sorry you married a woman who would do something so improper?” She shook her head, marveling at the confusion in her mind. “I know what is proper. I think I’ve been proper for most of my life. But…”
How could she explain that with him she had felt free to act on her impulses, free to express her emotions? She hated the shame she felt today.
“But…?” In urging her to complete her thought, he expressed more interest than he had all morning long.
“But… When I woke after my fall, I felt so… empty. But you were there. And I experienced… what felt like… unconditional love. I thought I did anyhow. And so I imagined that I could… love without restraint as well. I didn’t feel like I needed to hide any part of myself.”
They rode along in silence, and Tabetha pondered everything she had just told him. She hadn’t realized her feelings until she said them out loud.
“It was foolish. I went too far.” A sob threatened to choke her but she would not cry! She would not!
She turned her head to stare away from him, at a distant cluster of downy birch. The silvery leaves fluttered, looking temporary, while the trunk and branches anchored the meadow. Vivid but then elusive memories taunted her as the small copse drifted with the landscape.
She had been foolish to risk her recovery simply because she wanted to have marital relations with him. But pushing him to risk her recovery was an even greater offense. All he’d asked was to wait three more days. But she’d been too impatient.
She’d thought she knew who she was—who he was—but she’d been wrong. It had been reckless of her to act only on impulses.
But what if everything changed when she regained her memory? What if she didn’t like what she learned about herself? What if she didn’t like what she learned about him?
Did reality consist of the here and now, or was it her past and her future?
Would it all make sense when put together?
