Chapter 19 #4
That seemed somewhat strange, given the time of year, but Roman was more interested in Tamsin’s reaction to that news. Would she still wish to attend the dinner with only him? Surely their disagreement would not amount to more than one evening of strain between them?
“That sounds like a lovely way to pass the evening.” Tamsin’s smile widened and a little lift of her eyebrows made him wonder if she too thought it odd.
“I suppose Roman and I will have to get along without you.” Another brief glance at Roman.
“Would you like to write the acceptance since you received the invitation directly, or shall I?”
“I will take care of it, of course.”
“Thank you.”
Her words were perfectly reasonable. She was perfectly polite.
Roman speared the meat on his plate and wondered how two people who had spent previous evenings communicating perfectly well could have become so thoroughly incapable of clarity in less than a day.
Do you really know anything about me?
The question had followed him into his study. It had followed him through three letters, one of which he’d been forced to read again after discovering he had no notion what the author was describing in extreme detail. He’d thought it was a tenancy disagreement.
It had been a horse.
Her question had followed him upstairs to dress for dinner. Now it had taken a seat at the table.
He knew Tamsin. The accusation implied by the question was most unfair.
He knew she preferred tea to coffee in the morning, though she took either without complaint.
He knew she read pleasant letters with a crooked smile, and with a troubled frown when they contained anything that might cause concern.
He knew she tucked her hands tightly into her lap when she was anxious, beneath a cushion when they were cold.
Sometimes, she rubbed the first finger of her right hand against her thumb when she was trying to recall a thought.
He knew she loved her brothers and sisters.
Of course he knew that.
He knew Henry adored her, and she had indulged the boy’s fascination with Athena despite the very real possibility the child would someday attempt to climb onto the dog’s back again.
He knew Tamsin was more amusing than most people realized, with a quick wit often surprising him. He knew she listened attentively when others spoke. He knew she had a habit of noticing what people needed before they even asked.
He knew she was clever. That evening at the card party—
Roman’s knife stopped against his plate.
At the card party she had crossed a room because she’d heard Danby challenging him. She had listened to an argument Roman had explained once, understood the heart of it, and laid it out calmly to one of his detractors, transformed into something better.
She had understood him.
The warmth he’d carried home from Ellerby Park stirred again at the memory, though it felt different now.
He had been so affected by the discovery that Tamsin comprehended what mattered to him that he’d wanted to cross the room merely to tell her so.
But he had not. He had told himself, he recalled with sharp clarity, that there would be time later.
And he had yet to find that time.
“Tamsin?”
Her glance moved from her plate to his eyes. “Yes?”
Roman realized he had said her name without deciding what he meant to say afterward.
Now was hardly the time to thank her. He could not do it properly—but she was waiting. His mother looked between them.
He ought to say something. He ought to ask about her headache. She had been rubbing her temple during their argument, and had looked tired when he’d returned from Sycamore Lodge.
But he had already made the mistake of deciding what she required. Was asking whether she was well another attempt to manage her? Surely not.
Except he was suddenly less certain than he had been that morning, and Roman disliked uncertainty as much as he disliked discovering he had made an avoidable error.
“Did your headache improve?” he hazarded.
Tamsin’s expression softened. Slightly. “Yes. Thank you. Eliza brought me something for it before dinner.”
“Good.” That was all. He had no idea what else to say in that moment, and Roman always knew what to say.
He was an eloquent speaker. His political allies praised him for it, his opponents cringed every time he rose to address the room.
But at his own dining table, he suddenly found he could think of nothing to say.
It was most annoying.
Roman returned his attention to his plate as his mother began speaking about the rain.
They discussed the weather of last year.
They discussed the roasted vegetables on their plates.
And all the while, Roman was still flailing about in his own mind trying to find something of more consequence to say when Tamsin spoke at last, proving she had more sense than he did in that moment.
“Did Mr. Salmond finish the petition you asked him to write?”
“Quite nearly. That is, he has progressed.” Roman grasped at the topic with a tone he hoped was pleasant rather than strained. “He sent the revised opening this afternoon. I believe it stronger than the first.”
“I am glad.” Her voice held no resentment.
It was somehow worse than if it had. After a moment of waiting for him to make a comment, she simply turned to his mother and changed the topic to the sleeping roses.
Roman would have preferred that she snap at him.
Anger was at least an identifiable thing: it had a cause and, presumably, some action by which it could be answered.
This quiet, polite distance offered him nothing to do.
Which was, he realized with some discomfort, precisely what Tamsin had asked of him.
Please, Roman. Listen to me. Do not attempt to fix this again.
He had said he would not, and he was a man of his word. Therefore…there was nothing more for him to do.
The problem was, Roman did not know what remained when action had been removed from a sincere apology.
He had already admitted his error. He should have spoken to her before going to Sycamore Lodge, that was indisputable. Had he known she would object so strenuously, he would of course not gone. But he could not regret the entirety of what he’d done.
Tamsin had spent the afternoon receiving callers in her new position as Lady Hartwell, an activity he knew left his mother tired, and Tamsin had certainly looked quite exhausted when he’d returned home from Sycamore Lodge.
Her head had hurt. Yet she had still intended to travel outside the city to her family’s home to unravel a problem involving a child with a governess, two parents, several elder siblings, and an entire household of servants.
Because Anne Mayweather had asked her to.
Roman poked at a pea. Except that was not the entirety of it, as she had explained. Tamsin had wanted to go because the child needed her. He had been corrected on that point.
Attempting to watch his wife without her noticing his focus, he studied her from the corner of his eye.
Tamsin was listening to his mother describe some mishap Princessa had caused that morning.
She smiled and bent to glance beneath the table, where the little dog had stationed herself hopefully beside Frances’s chair.
Sometimes I want to be needed by him.
Roman understood wanting to be needed. That was not the difficulty; he understood it perhaps too well. What he did not understand was how one distinguished between being needed and being used, when the same person willingly permitted both.
Apparently Tamsin had felt needed. Not used. According to her pointed question, Roman did not know her well enough to tell the difference on her behalf.
“Roman, you have scarcely touched your dinner.”
He looked at his mother to find her watching him. Tamsin was examining him too. Two pairs of eyes stared, waiting for him to address the reason behind the abundance of food still upon his plate.
He took another bite, even though his appetite had disappeared. “I am eating.”
His mother gave him the look mothers had likely been giving sons since the Vikings occupied York. “Roman. You need to keep up your strength.”
“Mother, I assure you, I am capable of feeding myself.”
Tamsin’s mouth twitched.
There! He had said something that amused her. At last. She had nearly smiled. For one ridiculous instant Roman felt he’d accomplished something significant.
Then she lowered her gaze again, and dinner continued as it had before
His mother excused herself earlier than usual.
Roman suspected treachery immediately when she announced that she was tired after the afternoon’s callers, even though he was quite aware she’d already had a nap.
He could not entirely blame her if all she wanted was to escape the awkwardness between the newlyweds. They all stood when she did.
“Good night, my dears.”
“Good night, Mother.” Tamsin came around the table and kissed her cheek.
Roman did the same. Frances looked at him for half a second longer than necessary, eyebrows arched ever-so-slightly.
Definitely treachery.
She departed with Princessa trotting after her leaving Roman and Tamsin alone, the silence between them reminding him he still needed to say something. That much was obvious. For a moment, he silently watched Tamsin fold her napkin and place it beside her plate.
“Tamsin.”
She looked up with a bland expression.
Again, he had nothing prepared. This was becoming intolerable! He could tell her again that he’d meant to help with the Henry situation, but she knew that. He could apologize once more. He had done so, or near enough to it. Of course, he could tell her she had been right. But about what, precisely?
He still did not believe she should run to Sycamore Lodge whenever her family encountered a trite difficulty they could solve themselves. But that wasn’t what she’d asked him to understand.
I wanted to speak to him.
Roman rubbed his thumb against the edge of his napkin. “I thought I ought to say… That is, you should know I…”
Tamsin waited.