Chapter 24 #2
“Walk beside me in this house,” she continued. “Dine with me and remain. Sit with me in the evenings without a ledger between us. Speak to me as your wife, not as your steward.”
He swallowed.
“I do not want grand gestures,” she added. “I want consistency.”
The room seemed to narrow to the space between them. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
She waited. He looked down briefly, then back at her.
“I thought distance would preserve clarity,” he admitted.
“It has only created more distance.”
He absorbed that.
“I have been wrong,” he said quietly.
She studied him, searching for dismissal. There was none.
“I will join you,” he said then. “More often. Intentionally.”
Her shoulders stilled.
“I will walk beside you in this house,” he continued. “I will dine with you and remain. I will not treat you as a figurehead. You are right. You are my wife, and you deserve to be seen.”
The tightness in her chest eased, not entirely, but enough to breathe.
“I am not asking you to abandon your responsibilities,” she said.
“I know.”
“I am asking you to remember that I am one of them.”
His gaze softened at that.
“You are not a responsibility,” he said.
“Then act like it.”
A faint huff of breath escaped him, almost a laugh though quieter.
“I will,” he said.
She held his eyes a moment longer.
“Not tonight only.”
“Not tonight only,” he agreed.
The fire crackled softly behind them. For the first time in weeks, he did not reach for the door. Instead, he pulled out the chair he had vacated earlier.
“Will you sit?” he asked.
It was a small gesture. Margaret allowed herself a small nod and returned to her place at the table. He sat opposite her, and suddenly the room did not feel so vast. Silence settled, but it was no longer sharp.
“You said the house feels large at night,” he said after a moment.
“It does.”
“It always has,” he replied.
She looked up at him.
“Even when you were a child?”
“Especially then.”
The answer surprised her.
“You grew up here,” she said. “Did you not?”
“Yes.”
“And it felt empty?”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze drifting toward the darkened windows.
“My father was often away,” he said. “When he was present, he preferred order to conversation.”
Margaret listened, not interrupting.
“My mother filled the rooms when she could,” he continued. “But she was ill for many years.”
“I did not know that,” Margaret said softly.
“It was not discussed. The topic was forbidden entirely, and I suppose that has remained with me.”
He rested his forearms on the table now, posture less guarded than before. Margaret could not believe what she was hearing. She had defended him, and she was pleased to have done so, for the moment she had asked for more, the moment she told him she wanted him to unfold himself, he had done so.
“As a boy,” he said, “I learned that silence kept things steady. Noise unsettled them. Disagreement exhausted them. It was easier to simply do what was necessary and leave matters there.”
The word carried weight. Margaret watched him carefully.
“And that efficiency followed you.”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
“Did anyone sit with you in the evenings?”
He glanced at her, faint surprise in his expression.
“My tutor,” he said after a moment. “Sometimes.”
“And was he good company?”
Nathaniel’s mouth curved slightly.
“He was relentless, but it did do wonders for my intellect.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“He was consistent,” he amended.
She smiled faintly.
“Consistency can be comforting.”
“It can.”
A quiet understanding passed between them. That was precisely what she was asking of him, after all.
“My childhood was loud,” Margaret offered after a moment.
He looked at her with interest.
“Loud?”
“With two sisters,” she said. “As well as a mother who believed in loud conversation and a father who read aloud whether we wished it or not.”
“That sounds crowded.”
“It was.”
“And you enjoyed it?”
“Yes. Perhaps not at the time, but I do miss it now.”
He studied her face as she spoke, as though assembling a new picture.
“We shared everything,” she continued. “Nothing belonged to one person for long.”
“And now?” he asked.
“And now I dine at the end of a table meant for twelve.”
The honesty of it did not carry accusation this time. Only contrast. He absorbed that quietly.
“I did not consider the difference,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “You would not have.”
A faint exhale left him.
“I suppose I assumed solitude was what everyone preferred.”
“It is not,” she said gently.
He nodded slowly, understanding settling.
“My father believed distance built strength,” he said after a pause.
“And do you?”
“I believed it did.”
“And now?”
He looked at her directly.
“I am reconsidering.”
Something softened in her expression at that. The candles burned lower, wax pooling at their bases. The house beyond the dining room had quieted entirely.
“Did you ever wish to leave Ravensmere as a boy?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
“And did you?”
“I did, yes.” He paused. “To travel, and then to spend the season in London. But I always returned.”
“Why?”
“Because it is mine,” he said. “And because it needed me.”
She regarded him thoughtfully.
“Perhaps it needs more than management.”
He met her gaze.
“Perhaps.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“And you?” he asked. “Did you ever wish to leave your loud house?”
“Frequently,” she said.
He arched a brow.
“Usually after an argument over ribbons,” she added dryly. “But I never wished to leave permanently.”
“Why not?”
“Because even when we disagreed, we remained.” She paused. “No one withdrew.”
The word lingered between them. Nathaniel did not look away this time.
“I see,” he said quietly.
They sat in that understanding for a moment longer. Outside, the wind brushed lightly against the windows. The fire had burned low, but the room no longer felt cavernous.
“I do not want this house to feel empty for you,” he said.
“And I do not want it to feel burdensome for you,” she replied.
He nodded once. The conversation did not resolve everything. It did not untangle weeks of distance. But he remained seated, and when at last they rose from the table, it was together.
And it was a change that Margaret so desperately needed.