His expression shifted, only slightly but she saw it.
“We agreed,” he repeated.
She felt the conversation closing, not through anger, but through structure.
“Very well, then, I understand,” she said.
He searched her face.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She moved toward the door.
“Margaret.”
She paused but did not turn.
“If there is something you require, you may ask for it.”
Her hand tightened on the handle.
“I did,” she said softly. “Whether or not you heard me is another matter entirely.”
She left before he could answer.
The corridor felt cooler than before. She walked its length with measured steps, refusing to hurry. This was what they had agreed to. She had believed that would be enough.
Now, as she returned to her chamber in the full light of day, she understood something she had not allowed herself to name. Loneliness was not a breach of their agreement at all.
It was the cost of it.
CHAPTER 23
Truth be told, Nathaniel did not leave before dawn to avoid his wife.
He left because dawn was the safest hour. London’s outskirts were quieter then– less traffic, fewer curious eyes, fewer gentlemen with idle time and sharp memories. Mist remained low over the fields as he rode, his collar turned up against the cold.
He preferred the road at that hour.
By the time the sun fully rose, he was already nearing the small house tucked beyond a narrow stand of trees, far enough from the main road to discourage visitors.
A single lamp burned in the front window. He dismounted and knocked once before letting himself inside. His sister looked up from the settee, her expression tightening before easing.
“You are early,” she said.
“It is safer.”
She gave a faint nod. The boy lay asleep beside her, color stronger in his cheeks than it had been weeks ago. Nathaniel crossed the room and rested two fingers lightly against the child’s forehead.
“No fever?” he asked.
“Not for days now,” she replied.
“And the coughing?”
“Lessening with each passing day.”
