She closed her book. “Would you like tea? Mrs. Hargreaves keeps a pot warm.”
“That will not be necessary.”
She rose anyway, crossed the room, and rang for it.
James watched her with an expression she could not interpret.
When the tray arrived and the maid departed, Eleanor poured without comment for them both.
“You waited for me to return,” he said abruptly.
Her hand stilled.
“No.”
“I thought you might be here for a conversation regarding my whereabouts.”
“I considered it.”
“And yet you did not.”
She handed him the cup. Their fingers brushed, just briefly.
“No,” she said evenly.
He took the cup, his jaw tightening. “I asked you not to concern yourself with matters that are mine.” He looked to her. “Do you resent that?”
The question caught her off guard.
“No,” she said, and then, because honesty mattered more in moments like these, “I do not know that I have earned the right to.”
His gaze sharpened. “You are my wife. If anyone has any right, it would be you.”
She met his eyes. “That does not mean the same thing to everyone.”
Silence fell again, thick and uncertain.
“Look, Eleanor –” he began, then stopped.
She waited.
He exhaled slowly. “I did not intend to make you feel excluded.”
“You did not,” she said at once.
That, too, was true. Exclusion required expectation. She had learned not to expect.
James studied her for a long moment.
“You are very disciplined,” he said.
“I have had practice.”
“That was not a compliment.”
She smiled faintly. “I will take it as one anyway,”
He shook his head, clearly dissatisfied with the turn of the conversation.
