Respect was present. So was absence, and with each passing day, the space between those two realities grew harder to ignore.
Restless, she did the one thing she had been avoiding. She left her room and went to him, knowing that he was there as alone as she was.
Nathaniel was in his study when she arrived, the door half-open, lamplight still burning though daylight had long since risen. Papers were stacked in careful columns. His coat hung neatly over the back of his chair.
He looked up when she knocked.
“Margaret.”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I hope I am not interrupting,” she said.
“You are not.” He set down his pen. “Is something required?”
“Yes.”
He gestured to the chair opposite his desk.
“Please.”
She remained standing. His gaze sharpened slightly.
“I wished to speak plainly,” she said.
“Very well.”
There was no irritation in his tone. Only readiness.
“You leave before dawn,” she began. “You return long after dark. Sometimes not at all.”
“Yes.”
“When we do meet, our conversations are brief.”
“They are.”
“You thank me,” she continued, keeping her voice level. “You commend the household. You ensure everything is in order.”
“I do.”
“And then you depart.”
He did not immediately respond. Margaret clasped her hands together to keep them still. Otherwise, she knew she would tremble.
“I would like to understand whether this is temporary.”
Nathaniel leaned back in his chair.
“Temporary?”
“Or permanent.”
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
“This is what we agreed to,” he said. “A practical union. Mutual respect. Stability. No demands beyond what is necessary.”
“And is this what you consider necessary?”
