“Yes. I am surrounded by memories, and not all of them are pleasant. In truth, Hettie, much of what she said or did tried my patience beyond measure.”
“Thomas, are you burdened by guilt?”
He drew his handkerchief across his face. “I am. Once I came to know my wife, I did not like her. Yet I love my daughters and am thankful that I married and had a family. Still, I mocked Frances throughout the three-and-twenty years of our marriage. I showed her little respect and spent most of my time in my study with the door closed. It was a shield against her shrill voice and endless complaints and reproaches.”
She rose from her chair and moved to sit beside him. Taking his hand, she pressed it within her own.
“You were faithful to her in the ways that mattered. You provided for her. You kept your vows. I never heard that you strayed or sought comfort elsewhere.”
He sighed. “No. She unmanned me. I had no inclination to seek another.”
She regarded him with concern. “What brought you to my door today, Thomas?”
“My daughters departed this morning, and the house has become still. It is silent in a manner that unsettles me. I had no desire to remain there. I felt compelled to leave.”
“Have you been to see Lydia?” she asked.
He lifted his eyes. “No. She resides on the Isle of Wight. It is more than one hundred miles to the south.”
“Perhaps, after Jane is married, you might travel to see her. Removing yourself from that house may bring you relief.”
“How did you endure the loss of your husband?”
“My granddaughter was my salvation. I devoted all my time and affection to Mary, and we have been happy.”
She pressed his hand. “Thomas, you must have known. You must have perceived that my marriage was not a happy one.”
He looked at her but said nothing.
“Now that they are both gone, I desire to confess what I have long carried in my heart. I am sorry that I left you. We have both suffered on account of it.” She sighed.
“Matthew was a man of seven and twenty, and when he paid me his attentions, I began to regard you as a mere, inexperienced boy. You were only seventeen. He captivated me. Yet within a few weeks of our marriage, I perceived that we were ill-suited. We found little to say to one another. He did not like to read anything, nor did he care to discuss the classics or any ancient author, not even a newspaper. He would not discuss current affairs or local happenings. He was reticent by nature, and I did not come to understand that until we had already been married some months.”
Her brows drew together, and her eyes saddened. “I recall the first occasion upon which I questioned him concerning Cicero. I was reading De Republica and asked him a question about morality. He took offense at the idea that I should be engaged in such a work. In truth, he was displeased that I could read Latin at all. It was then that I understood that he believed women ought not to be educated in matters he considered the province of men. From that moment, I knew we were incompatible.”
Bennet glanced toward the shelves that lined the room. “And these volumes?”
She followed his gesture. “They belonged to my father. As Simon had no interest in them, Papa left them to me. When I informed my husband that many were ancient and of value, some being first editions, he had the glass cabinets constructed to preserve them. I could read them only in his absence, and during our marriage, he was seldom away.”
Her expression altered.
“And then there was the accident.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I felt guilt for every moment in which I had harbored resentment toward him, for every time Ihad wished I had not married him. I was unsettled for nearly two years. Then, one day, I understood that it had all been beyond my control. The accident, the loss of my husband, the loss of my daughter, none of it lay within my power. I accepted the life before me and resolved to live it as fully as I could.”
She reached to the small table between them and took up a volume. “I am reading this at present. Sophocles.”
He smiled. “I am engaged with The Aeneid.”
“Virgil,” she said, laughing. “I read his works two years ago, but I remember arguing with you over Virgil when we were young... and innocent.”
They spoke then of their preferred passages and authors until Bennet observed that the light had altered and shadows lay long across the room. He consulted his pocket watch.
“Hettie, it grows late. I have been here three hours.”
She regarded him frankly. “And what of it? There is no one awaiting you at home, nor any here who would object. Will you dine with Mary and me? You need not return to change. If you remain, we shall forgo formal dress, that you may feel entirely at ease.”
He smiled. “Very well. I shall be honored to dine at your table, Hettie. Yet before I lose this opportunity, you must answer me this. Why did you leave me? Was it only because I was young and the attentions of an older man prevailed upon you, or did I weary you with my devotion to the classics?”
