She let me in her bed when she believed I held her in such little regard. Was she remembering those words when I… The metallic tang arrived just as my stomach gave a lurch, but I managed to swallow it back down.
It was a strange thing, having thousands, millions, months of memories rewrite themselves in an instant. Every touch now took on a sinister tint. Every abrupt subject change, every slipped smile, every unexplained uneasy moment made a horrifying sense.
My eyes had not left her form since she entered. That was how I knew before the first tear fell that they were coming. They pooled just above her bottom lashes for a few seconds before making their escape. My legs reacted before my mind, lurching a single step forward. And then, even worse than everything that came before, she broke me. Her answering flinch was instinctive. My body froze at the sight.
My wife was afraid of me. She believed I would hit her.
My step back was slow, deliberate, until I hit the edge of the desk. Leaving as much space between us as possible. This, at least, I could do.
She was the one to break the silence. “I’m sorry—I—excuse me.” She all but ran from the room. If her footsteps in the hall were any indication, she did run there. Racing away from the monster that was her husband. I certainly could not blame her.
Thirty
THORNTON HALL, KENT - JUNE 4, 1814
KATE
What have I done?Oh good lord, what have I done?I was sure to wear a hole straight through the floor with my pacing. I didn’t say those things. It was a horrible dream. It had to be. I was not the kind of person who said things like that. A person who said such deliberately hurtful things. And I took pleasure in it, that look of horror as it crossed his face—almost sick. It was fuel to the bonfire.
I had to live with that man for the rest of my life. And I just—oh I couldn’t even remember what I said. Did I call my husband spineless? Everything in me wanted to flee, flee this house, flee this country. I heard the journey to America was nice enough this time of year.
At some point, he would lose that sick, sorrowful expression and it would twist into anger and hatred, it was inevitable. And what will become of me then? What did thetondo with hateful wives? Could he throw me out? Beat me? I didn’t think he would. Not truly. He had been disinterested, condescending, and prideful but never violent.
The worst part of it all was that, objectively, Hugh was right to send Michael away. Juliet was engaged. Their relationship was inappropriate. She was under his protection. Even when I was hissing hateful things at my husband, I knew he was right. It smarted all the worse for that understanding.
It was just so lovely to see her budding happiness, knowing that she could possibly still have that even if I could not. I felt her loss more keenly than I had felt my own. Her dreams were more tangible perhaps, where my dreams of a love match were amorphous, nameless, faceless. But Jules… He was right there, to be seen, to be touched. And the way Michael looked at her… The same way Sydney looks at my sister. The way Father looks at Mother. It was everything I wanted. And no one was more deserving of that look.
Their love was everything my own marriage was not. Even before their arrival in the country, Michael hung on every mention of her. Selecting books he thought she might enjoy and leaving them for her to find. He did it with no hope of acknowledgement or appreciation. And when they were in the same room, even when his eyes were not upon her, he was turned toward her, his body seeking hers even without his knowledge. It was beautiful. So unlike my own marriage.
Hugh took little if any interest in me. He hid from me in his study, day after day. His interest in me seemed to begin and end in the bedroom. And he was not overly attentive there either. Hugh’s eyes did not follow me, and his body did not turn toward mine. There was nothing like love in his expression when he looked toward me. I was more likely to receive the steely gaze and stern slash of a mouth than a smile. He had never once glanced at me with his heart in his eyes.
And now he never would. Any progress I had made in inserting myself into his home and his life lay in pieces on the study floor. All because I could not hold my tongue—would not.
* * *
Dinner was stone silent,marked only by the plink of raindrops against the window. Hugh remained in his office, citing a headache. Jules was red-eyed and downturned. Tom seemed to lack the energy to deal with either of our foul moods. And, for once in her life, Agatha timed her megrim well.
Neither Jules nor I had much of an appetite. Tom too, ate little, instead preferring to drink his supper. Had he spoken to Hugh? Did he know what had happened? What I had said? Did he hate me now too?
With little interest in supper and even less interest in entertainment afterward, there was a mutual agreement to go to bed afterward.
It was only after—when I was in my night shift once more, that I realized I had no idea what to expect. Would he come? He had come nearly every night before, but now…
Instead of finding sleep, I curled up in the wingback chair near the window. Staring as the rain outside grew steadily stronger, heavier. First it dripped, eventually it poured in straight sheets. As the wind grew angrier, the sheets angled to the left. The thunder had begun so gradually, with nearly inaudible rumblings that reached a crescendo so slowly that I did not notice it. Not until the first flash of lightning slashed through the sky, followed by the deafening crack.
It was impossible to miss now, the rain that threatened to flood the world, the thunder that threatened to crumble the house beneath its rage, the lightning burning the very sky. Eventually my candle burned down, extinguishing itself in a brief whisper of smoke.
And still I waited. And still the storm raged.
Midnight. One. Two. Nature extracted its toll. Finally, at nearly two thirty, the time between lightning and thunder began to lengthen again. The winds cried instead of howling, and the rain once again straightened, slowed. Only when it stopped entirely did I hear the footsteps down the hall.
The flickering glow of a candle grew underneath the door. The light reached its peak, and the silhouette of two feet paused before my door. I waited, breath trapped in my chest, but a moment later they continued down the hall, the door next to mine opened and closed. The candlelight, now gone from the hall, found its way through the crack underneath the adjoining door. The padded thunk of heavy boots on carpet, the brush of cloth against skin, the sounds of undressing echoed painfully loud in the absence of the storm. The music of domesticity in the room beside mine, tonight the innocent sounds were ominous, threatening.
Instead of a knock, or worse the turning of a handle, I heard the groan of the wooden bed as it accommodated the weight of my husband. And then, accompanied by little more than a breath, the candlelight went out.
My vigil continued. I sat, unmoving. Watching as the clouds dissipated and the silver sliver of the moon made an appearance, gliding across the sky before sinking beneath the horizon. Not long after that when the black of night transitioned seamlessly to a dusky purple. I rose, slipping beneath the covers of my bed, falling into a fitful, exhausted sleep.
* * *
