“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be polite.
“He married me,” Margaret continued, keeping her tone even, “to secure the estate’s future. That has been accomplished.”
“It has,” Mrs. Hill said carefully.
“Then perhaps this distance is simply efficiency.”
“Have you spoken to him?” Mrs. Hill asked.
“About what?”
“About how you feel.”
Margaret gave a small, almost humorless smile.
“I did not enter this marriage with expectations.”
“That was not my question either,” Mrs. Hill said gently.
Margaret looked away. Loneliness had a quiet way of rooting itself. It settled deeper each day, until it felt like part of the architecture.
“I asked for nothing more,” she said at last.
“And yet?” Mrs. Hill prompted.
Margaret drew a breath she did not quite release.
“And yet I did not anticipate how silent this house would feel at night.”
Mrs. Hill did not answer immediately.
“He does not linger,” Margaret continued. “He thanks me. He praises the management. He ensures I lack nothing.”
“And yet you lack something,” the housekeeper said softly.
Margaret met her eyes.
“Yes.”
The word barely rose above a whisper. Mrs. Hill’s expression shifted, something resolute settling there.
“Then silence will not mend it.”
Margaret straightened slightly.
“I am not certain I wish to disturb what is orderly.”
“Order without warmth grows brittle,” Mrs. Hill replied.
Margaret absorbed that in quiet. Down the corridor, a door closed gently. The house breathed around them.
“I will consider it,” Margaret said at last.
“Do,” Mrs. Hill answered.
That night, Margaret lay awake once more, listening for footsteps she knew would not come. She had told herself she required nothing beyond respect.
