HUGH
My entire life was a lie.That much was clear. My marriage was a farce, my viscountcy was a joke, and I was nothing like the man I thought I was.
All this time she hated me.
The portrait of my father in the study… I used to find his smile comforting, approving. Now it was a twisted mockery. Cannot manage an estate. Cannot woo a wife. The title should have gone to Michael. He could have done this. He had done this. Without the benefits and respect the title brought with it, he lifted the estate from poverty. Hell, he managed to make a woman fall in love with him whilst engaged to another man. I could not even convince my own wife to tolerate me.
And Katherine, I had stolen her light. Every forlorn glance, every solemn mood—they were my doing. She was so bright before we wed, airy and free. I had forced her into the mold of viscountess I had in my head. And she had tried, that I knew, it was apparent. She bent and she backed down. Every time I pushed, every time Mother pushed, she sacrificed her own happiness for our convenience. And she did it without asking for anything in return.
It was impossibly late when I finally retired for the evening, well into the early morning hours. The walk to my chambers was quiet and dark, and the only light was my from my singular candle.
My stomach dropped as I approached her door, shut firmly. All was quiet within. She would be asleep, dark hair tumbling across the linens in one of her white nightdresses, innocent and seductive in equal measure.
But they were not intended to seduce. She had no interest in my attentions, they were another sacrifice, another concession my wife made without comment. That fact, more than any other, made my stomach turn. Night after night wrapped in her arms, moving within her, and she loathed me. Did her stomach make a similar protest at the thought of my touch?
Finally, I continued to my chambers, changing for the evening and crawling beneath the covers before dousing the candle. I knew sleep would not come, but the ritual was a familiar comfort.
* * *
Morning came slowly,inevitably. From my bed, I watched the horizon lighten to pink, then turn to orange, and finally yellow as the sun made its appearance. Nothing of my situation looked better in the daylight.
Still, I dressed long before Stevens would typically arrive to assist. Stepping into the corridor, I shut my door and turned, only to find Katherine in the same position, wide-eyed and hand frozen on the handle.
The only certainty I arrived at during the night was that we needed to speak. To forge some sort of path forward.
Unfortunately, she had not reached that conclusion, starting abruptly, returning to her chambers and closing the door firmly behind her.
Two halves of me warred, the desire to give her the privacy she craved, and the need to have some resolution, even if it was only a plan for our remaining time in the country.
I settled on knocking. “Katherine? May I come in?”
A small voice from within asked, “do you have to?”
“No, but we should make a plan at some point. Obviously, avoiding each other seems likely to be ineffective.”
“Fine.”
I was greeted with the sight of my wife, curled into a small ball on the settee. Her feet were up, allowing her chin to rest on her knees while she wrapped her arms around her legs. I had not known an adult could contort themselves into such a small form, but she seemed comfortable. I looked for a seat; bed too intimate, settee too close. I settled on the trunk at the end of her bed.
She eyed me warily from her curled position. Now that I was here, I had no idea what to say. I started, hoping the answer would present itself in time, “Katherine…” She flinched, as though struck by the single word. Best to begin there. “I understand you’re weary of me, that is understandable. But I need you to know, I will never, ever, hit you. No matter what happens, if you take nothing else from this, take that.”
She nodded, head bobbing on her knees. Her expression was unconvinced but at least I said it.
Briefly, her lips parted, as if she wished to speak, before they closed again. The silence dragged before I could take it no longer. “What is it?”
In the same, small, childlike voice from before, she asked, “are you going to throw me out?” She thought—?
“No, of course not! This is your home, and Grayson House is your home. When I married you, I swore to protect you. I would not have you on the street! Do you really? Am I truly that… awful?”
“No,” she paused, a contemplative expression on her face, “no, that was an unkind worry.”
The relief I felt at that answer was palpable.
“Do you wish to be established elsewhere?”
“No.”
“Do you desire to return to London as planned? Or remain here?”
