Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The following evening, Tamsin found her husband where he so often was; in his study.
She had considered speaking to him at breakfast, but breakfast came with servants and newspapers and the ordinary business of beginning a day.
Roman had gone out before she could catch him alone, and Tamsin had spent the intervening hours discovering that resolve did not become easier simply because one had several hours in which to practice.
By dinner, she had nearly convinced herself another day would make no difference. That thought frightened her enough to act.
She waited until the meal was finished and Roman had risen from the table. He came around to her chair as he had taken to doing, bent, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I have some correspondence I ought to finish.”
A familiar line at this point, but she did not respond with her usual mild understanding. Instead, Tamsin put a hand on his arm before he stepped away. “Roman?”
He froze in place, eyes growing wider.
“I would like to speak with you before you go.”
His attention sharpened immediately. “Of course.”
There was nothing reluctant in the answer, which made it worse. The dining room suddenly seemed much too large for a conversation between two people. “Not in here, though.”
Roman studied her face, then offered his hand to help her rise.
They went to the drawing room, where tea waited for them.
Athena and Apollo appeared from somewhere in the corridor and followed too, which Tamsin might ordinarily have found amusing.
Tonight she was grateful for the dogs’ quiet presence.
Roman waited until she chose a chair before taking the one opposite her.
Not beside her, Tamsin noticed. She wished she had not. But then, perhaps he wished only to give her his full focus by facing her directly. She could take heart in that.
The dogs settled on the carpet between them, heads on paws, long bodies stretched out. Their ears stayed perked up as they sensed the tension in the room.
“What is it, Tamsin?” her husband asked quietly. “Is something the matter?”
She had rehearsed several beginnings during the day, trying for something eloquent to spare his feelings. All of them disappeared now as he looked directly into her husband’s beautiful blue eyes. “I am unhappy.”
Roman went completely still, his brows drawing together. He leaned forward, gaze intent upon hers. Tamsin had expected questions. Instead there was silence.
She continued. “I do not mean I am unhappy with everything—or that you have been unkind to me. You have not.” She looked down at her hands and made herself unfold them. “That is part of what has made this so difficult to understand.”
He drew in a hasty breath. “Tamsin, I have not intended—”
“Please, let me finish.” She would need to get it all out at once or risk leaving something important unsaid.
Roman stopped. That respect, given with simple quiet was somehow the hardest part. He always listened when she asked him to. It would have been easier to speak hard things if he were a worse husband.
“I know the vote hurt you,” Tamsin said quietly.
“I know how much the walls, the bars, and all of York matter to you. You spent weeks thinking of little else, telling me all the history and legends you know, showing me stone by stone why it mattered. You made me care about it too.” His forehead smoothed as his head lifted at that, but she continued.
“And then you lost it, and you shut the door.”
Roman raised his eyebrows but did not speak, respecting her request.
“The door between our rooms,” she clarified, though she did not think he needed it. “I thought you needed time, so I gave it to you. I told myself you needed quiet, or rest, or simply an evening free of my questions. Each reason seemed perfectly sensible, on its own.”
Wincing with distress, Roman spoke with urgency. “Tamsin, I never meant for you to—”
“I know.”
He fell silent again, pressing his lips together before nodding once for her to continue.
“I know you did not mean to hurt me. I know you were not punishing me, and you have simply been keeping yourself busy with matters truly needing your attention.” Tamsin drew in a breath. “I know all that, Roman. I have spent my life knowing other people cannot give me something.”
He flinched. It was very small, but she saw it.
“My father forgets because his mind is elsewhere. Anne needs help because she is overwhelmed. My brothers need things because no one has ever required them to manage those things for themselves. There has always been a reason, Roman. Most of the reasons are good ones.” She had not meant to speak of the Mayweathers, yet now she had, the truth seemed embarrassingly simple.
“I know what it is to live in a house full of people and still be alone.”
Roman’s face turned pale. Apollo picked up his head to stare first at Roman then at Tamsin.
Tamsin looked directly at her husband. “I will not do that here. So I am telling you exactly how I feel, and I hope, exactly what it is I need from you.”
The words settled between them. Roman said nothing still, though he had not regained his color and his gaze had dropped to the carpet.
Her heart was beating terribly hard, the silence painful. She pressed her palms against her skirts. “I did not agree to be alone inside a marriage.”
“Tamsin.” His voice was so rough she nearly stopped.
But the floodgates had opened. “I do not need every moment of your time. Nor do I expect you to tell me every thought you have or abandon your work because I want your attention. But I cannot be your wife only when things are going well enough for you to let me near you.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“You let me care about Micklegate when you thought you might save it. You spoke to me about it. You showed me your letters. You told me what you hoped to accomplish.” Her throat tightened. “Then when you lost, you decided that part belonged only to you—”
“I did not want to burden you with my disappointment.” There was no defensiveness in the words. If anything, Roman sounded tired.
Tamsin stared. As he looked back at her, she saw at once he believed it would have burdened her. That softened something.
It did not change what needed saying, though. “You do not get to make that choice for me. I know what it is to have other people deciding what I ought to carry,” she said, tone softer. “I would rather you not make that decision for me.”
“I thought—” Her husband stopped.
After all her talking, she was at last certain she had said what needed saying. Tamsin nodded for him to continue, forcing her hands to stay open and flat upon her lap.
Roman looked toward the fire. “You have spent your entire life responsible for other people’s difficulties. I knew there was nothing you could do about the vote, there was nothing anyone could do. I could not see the purpose in sharing it with you merely because I was disappointed. Because I lost.”
“The purpose would have been to share in that disappointment. You are my husband.”
His gaze came back to hers. Tamsin’s breath caught; she had not planned those words.
“I could not fix it,” she said slowly. “I know that—I did not want to fix it. I wanted to know you were hurting. I wanted you to spend time with me during the day, to share my evenings, to come to bed, to trust me enough to be unhappy beside me rather than alone.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Roman’s voice was hoarse as he said, “I am sorry.”
Tamsin believed him. It still was not enough, but great ground had been covered. She rose.
Roman mirrored her immediately. “Tamsin.”
Her pulse fluttered. “I am not asking you to reform yourself overnight.”
His lips pressed together. How often Roman must have heard a difficulty as a request for a solution!
“I doubt it is as simple as that.” She examined him, and despite everything, despite the ache growing inside her for weeks, she loved the concern in his face. “But I needed you to know I am not content.”
He swallowed. “I understand…but I am not certain what you want from me.”
And she was not sure she could make that decision for him. “I want more from my marriage than this. I need more from you.”
Roman looked at her for a long time. Then he nodded.
Not the brisk nod with which he received information he intended to act upon immediately. Not the decisive movement that meant a problem had been understood and a course selected. Just a slow acknowledgement that he had heard her.
“I understand.”
But did he?
Tamsin did not think so. Not completely. But perhaps, for tonight, listening to her was enough. She turned toward the door.
There was a soft footstep on the carpet as he said, “My lady?”
Her hand stopped on the handle.
Behind her, Roman’s voice was soft. “I did miss you.”
She closed her eyes. For two weeks, those words would have been enough to bring her across the room. Tonight, they were not. “I wish you had told me before.”