“For now.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is only tedious.”
She smiled faintly.
“You have a talent for making disputes sound dull.”
“They often are. They are not half as interesting as you might be led to believe.”
A quiet stretch of silence followed.
“I will not keep you,” he said after a moment.
“I was not kept.”
Another small pause.
“Thank you,” he added. “For everything you have taken on.”
“You need not thank me.”
“I would like to.”
She inclined her head. He did not rise. He did not ask her to stay. She left the library with the echo of paper shifting behind her.
On other nights, he did not return at all.
“His Grace sent word,” Mrs. Hill informed her one evening. “He will remain at the eastern property until morning.”
“I see.”
“He asked that you not wait up.”
“I had not planned to.”
That was not entirely true. Sometimes, though she told herself not to, she did wait to hear the door.
Margaret adjusted the accounts by lamplight long after the household had quieted. The numbers blurred. The ink smudged faintly beneath her hand.
She had asked for stability. She had asked for respect. She had never asked for affection, and she told herself that that meant it was her own fault.
The arrangement had been clear from the beginning. She reminded herself of that often. Still, something tightened each time she passed the unused chair beside hers at dinner.
One afternoon, she encountered him in the entry hall as he prepared to leave again.
“You are riding out?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“For long?”
“I cannot say.”
She nodded.
“The tenants at Millbrook sent their thanks for the grain.”
