It just hurt, all of it, damnably much.
Elizabeth did her best to behave as a good wife should and must, but she was desperate for delivery from this impasse. She’d called twice on Annabelle already, but though Bella claimed all was fine, her sister did not seem happy in her marriage to Mr. Harris. Not that Elizabeth had strength to dwell on Annabelle; she could barely bring herself to read, let alone write—the two pursuits she had always depended on for comfort in bleak times.
She’d received a response from Milton’s tutor, Mr. Kilpert, in the midst of her distress, though she’d nearly forgotten that she’d written to the man. He’d replied in such a perfectly polite manner, happy to instruct the Baron in dance, that she’d been taken aback by how normal his words read—in contrast to her husband’s continued, confounding behavior.
She’d written back at once, explaining the Baron was presently unwell but would inform Mr. Kilpert himself when he wished to begin instruction. And then her mind had turned again to Milton. Would he deign to speak to her today, or invite her to his room, to his bed again? Perhaps he would shun her now indefinitely. She could not know, for she knew nothing of her husband anymore. Nothing!
She had only Gerald’s words for comfort:He’s healin’ fine, ma’am. He’ll see yer when he’s ready. Yes, he saw Miss Li again today. Don’t worry yerself, Lady Milton.
Butof course she worried. At length.
Did Gerald think her so unfeeling?Did everyone think her immune to her husband’s pain?
He’d not face her. He couldn’t.
Milton remained in a dark spiral of hurt, allowing only those who’d known him longest—known Finch themselves—entry to his chamber. He was desperate to avoid his wife, whose very presence brought on panic. The fact that she had witnessed him in such degraded state, chained naked like a beast—that she and her goddamned sister had been the ones to rescue him for fuck’s sake!—filled him with such self-loathing, he could not bear to look at her, converse with her, let alone make love to her.
He was a shell of his former self. Unworthy of her respect.
Milton had warned Gerald that if Elizabeth were let into his room again he would dismiss the entire household. And he meant it. Both Li and his mother had pleaded otherwise, but theirs were the arguments of women; he could not forgive himself for needing saving. He’d not even been able to save his wife’s sister, for God’s sake, bloody Arty had. His thoughts spun in circles, his dreams, both waking and sleeping, wracked by tortures recent and those buried deep in his past. His body might well be healing, but his mind remained a wretched morass.
Again and again he returned to that moment in Finch’s dungeon when Lizzie’s voice had washed over him like a gentlespring rain—the smell of her, the heat of her soft, womanly self brushing his ravaged, flayed flesh…
It had been a punishment worse than death.
When you hear men talking … all they ever do is speak ill of women. ... And I don't quite know … who exactly it was who gave them a greater license to sin than is allowed to us; and if the fault is common to both sexes (as they can hardly deny), why should the blame not be as well? What makes them think they can boast of the same thing that in women brings only shame?
“Lady Milton, have you shared this passage with your husband?”
“I have not, Mr. Kilpert,” she answered. “I doubt very much Fonte’s work would interest the Baron.”
“Oh I should think the very opposite, ma’am.” Kilpert smiled. “Fonte is precisely the sort of writer Jasper likes to sink his teeth into. Your husband relishes thorny ideas. We do not always agree, of course, in our interpretations, but he is always open to debate. In fact, he consistently approaches our discussions with sound reason, rather than mount ineffectual, emotional arguments.”
Mr. Kilpert could not possibly be describing Elizabeth’s husband. Milton’s tutor had unexpectedly stopped by to enquire after the Baron’s health, and as Elizabeth had been reading the Duchess’s book to distract herself from her woes, she’d taken the opportunity to ask his opinion on a passage.
Not only had the gentleman’s answer not disappointed, he seemed to welcome, and even respect, her thoughts.
“Perhaps the Baron is open to masculinedebate, sir, but I assure you any reasoning I, his wife, engage in is met with derision. I should never be so bold as to hand my husband this book.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Lady Milton.” Kilpert frowned. “I admit, I took you for more courageous.”
Heat rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks as she flipped to a different passage to hide her embarrassment. She cleared her throat:
And when it's said that women must be subject to men, the phrase should be understood in the same sense as when we say we are subject to natural disasters, diseases, and all the other accidents of this life: it's not a case of being subjected in the sense of obeying, but rather of suffering an imposition, not a case of serving them fearfully, but rather of tolerating them in a spirit of Christian charity, since they have been given to us by God as a spiritual trial.
“Ah yes.” Kilpert nodded enthusiastically. “I recall that passage well, Lady Milton, for its indictment not just of man but of God.”
Elizabeth’s heart beat faster. “I believe Fonte describes woman’s plight with absolute precision, sir.”
Kilpert leaned forward. “So you agree men are a spiritual trial? You do not think Fonte’s words contain, perhaps, a hint of humor?”
“Mr. Kilpert, men are without doubt woman’s greatest trial.”
“Greater even than the perils of childbirth?”
“Are they not the same peril?” she countered. “Without man, woman does not suffer birth—neither its pain nor risk. Man subjugates woman physically by impregnating her, just as hesubjugates her morally and intellectually by imposing his will upon her.”
“And yet without both sexes humanity ceases to exist, their joining required to perpetuate our species. Without man, woman, too, ceases to exist.”
