“And it does not?” Margaret asked.
“It protects him,” Anne said quietly.
Her friends filled the room with warmth, with familiar voices, with unfiltered affection. For the first time in weeks, the house did not feel so large, and as the evening stretched on, and her friends returned home, Margaret allowed herself to admit what she had tried to dismiss. She did not want a practical marriage.
She wanted him.
Dinner ended that night as it always did. Nathaniel set his napkin beside his plate, clearing his throat in preparation for their short conversation.
“You handled the tenant correspondence well,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“The adjustments were sensible.”
“I thought so.”
A pause came, and then he rose from his chair. Margaret watched him move toward the door as he had done each evening since their wedding.
Tonight, she stood.
“Nathaniel.”
He stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.
“Yes?”
“Do not leave.”
The request hung between them. He turned slowly.
“Is something required?”
“Yes.”
The word was steady. The servants had already withdrawn. The door stood closed. The room felt smaller without witnesses. He studied her carefully.
“What is it?”
Margaret moved from her place at the table and came to stand opposite him.
“I did not agree to be invisible in my own marriage,” she said.
He blinked once, clearly unprepared.
“You are not invisible.”
“I am,” she replied calmly. “You dine with me. You commend my efforts, then you leave.”
“I have obligations.”
“I do not dispute that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I am saying,” she continued, lifting her chin, “that while I accepted a practical arrangement, I did not agree to solitude. I did not agree to silence, nor did I agree to feel like a guest beneath your roof.”
“You are not a guest,” he said.
