Eleanor swallowed. “And I am your wife.”
“Yes,” he said. “Which is why I will not trap you here.”
“I am not trapped,” she replied. “I chose this. I chose you.”
James’s expression flickered, just briefly. Pain. Regret. Resolve.
“That is precisely the problem,” he said.
Her hands trembled. “Then say it plainly.”
He hesitated.
“Say you no longer want me,” Eleanor pressed.
James closed his eyes for a moment. “That is not true.”
“Then why are you leaving?” she asked.
“Because,” he said quietly, “if I stay, I will not finish what I must. What I have truly come here to do. You are a distraction to progress, Eleanor, and I must see this through. For my father – for my – for my mother.”
The room fell silent again.
Eleanor nodded slowly. “I see.”
He reached for his gloves. “I did not intend to hurt you.”
“That does not absolve you,” she replied.
“No,” he agreed.
She took a breath, steadying herself. “You said I may live as I wish?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will,” Eleanor said.
James inclined his head. “Of course.”
She looked at him then, truly looked, and saw a man tearing himself in two and calling it duty.
The knowledge did not ease the pain.
Eleanor did not cry.
Not while James spoke. Not while he explained that his departure would be temporary, though he offered no timeline. Not while he assured her that arrangements would be made for her comfort.
She nodded. She listened. She remained composed.
It was only when he said, “The carriage is ready,” that something inside her finally broke.
“So you are away,” she said.
“Yes.”
She forced a smile. “Naturally.”
James hesitated. “Eleanor.”
