“I understand.” His grip tightened gently. “I do not blame you. I blame myself—for creating the doubt that made you hesitate. For allowing my own wife to feel her presence might be unwelcome.”
“It was cruel,” she whispered. “I lay awake and listened to you suffer. I have despised myself for it ever since.”
“It was not cruelty. It was defence.” His dark eyes held only compassion. “You were doing what you have always doneto survive. I would never condemn the very armour that has preserved you.”
His kindness undid her.
She had braced for disappointment—perhaps even censure. Had expected him to reckon her absence among her failings.
Instead, he offered understanding. Unasked-for absolution.
“I do not deserve that,” she said brokenly.
“Yes, you do.” His voice was fierce with conviction. “You deserve that—and far more. You deserve a husband who makes you feel secure enough to cross any distance without fear. And I intend to become that husband, Eleanor—if you will permit me.”
They remained thus for some time in the study, their hands clasped, the weight of all that had been spoken—and all that had not—settling about them like a quiet fall of snow.
Eleanor did not know what ought to follow. She did not know whether they were meant to embrace, or withdraw to separate corners, or simply stand until the world intruded and demanded they resume their accustomed roles.
“I am very tired,” she confessed at last. “I have not slept properly in a week. I have been so occupied in erecting walls that I neglected to rest behind them.”
“Then you must rest.” Benjamin released her hands, though he did not retreat from her. “We are not required to mendeverything this evening. We are not required to mend anything beyond what we have already begun. We need only… begin.”
“Begin,” she echoed.
“The work of rebuilding.” He made a small, uncertain gesture between them. “Trust does not return in a night. Nor do wounds close at once. But we have taken the first step. We have spoken plainly. We have uncovered the misunderstandings that were dividing us. That is more than we possessed an hour ago.”
It was true. An hour earlier, she had believed he repented of their marriage. An hour earlier, she had been convinced she was no more than a convenient solution. An hour earlier, she had been prepared to retreat behind walls so high that no one would ever reach her again.
And now—
Now she stood before a man who had called her remarkable. Who had spoken of happiness in connection with her name. Who had asked for nothing but the chance to prove himself, and had pledged patience without limit.
It was not resolution. It was not the tidy ending of a tale in which every hurt is erased and every fear dissolved.
But it was something.
It was hope.
And for the first time in seven years, Eleanor allowed herself to consider that hope might not be a snare.
“I should retire,” she said quietly. “Sleep, as you advise.”
“Yes.” He inclined his head, yet something flickered across his features—hesitation, perhaps, or uncertainty. “Eleanor—before you go.”
“Yes?”
He hesitated, plainly wrestling with himself. When he spoke, his voice was roughened by vulnerability.
“I know I have not earned the right to request this. But if the nightmares return tonight—if you hear me—”
He faltered.
“Will you come?” he finished, very softly.
The question lingered between them, heavy with all that had passed. Eleanor thought of the week she had lain wakeful and unmoving while he suffered. Thought of the promise she had made and failed to keep. Thought of all the ways she had protected herself by leaving him alone in the dark.
“Yes,” she said. “If you need me, I will come.”
