Work Text:
George hates travelling at the best of times - and this is certainly not the best of times.
It’s mid-December, or perhaps approaching late-December. It’s mid-afternoon, too, at a time of year when there’s no such thing as late afternoon at all. It’ll be dark soon, because it’s always dark soon, in this season - that’s how it seems to George.
He’s in a spot of bother, as well. It’s snowing lightly, and it has settled in places, and the carriage lately hit a rut which was half-hidden by the snow. So now he has a broken wheel, a badly lamed horse, and his footman riding off on another horse in search of the closest coaching inn.
George is worried about that horse. He prides himself on being a chap who cares about his horses. He prides himself on being a chap who cares about his staff, too, but at least he knows his footman will recover from a bit of cold air. He’s less convinced that this lame horse will recover. The poor creature is in quite a bit of pain, and George fears the injury might be a serious one, that perhaps there’s nothing to be done.
He’s in a bit of a pickle, frankly.
He supposes it’s not the worst of times, either. He must in all honesty admit that. It’s not as bad as his wife leaving him, not as bad as that time his son was terribly ill as a child. At least this snowy misadventure has not inconvenienced anyone except himself and a couple of his more intrepid staff. At least none of his precious little family is currently shivering in the carriage.
He’s still right to have set out this morning, on balance. He’s convinced of that much. This is only a minor disaster, as travelling disasters go, and his purpose in setting out was a noble one. He’s en route to buy a horse for his son, James, with a mind to give him the creature for a new year gift. George hopes that might encourage the lad to come for a visit in January or February, if the weather is mild. James loves his sport, and George loves his son, and doesn’t see him even a quarter so often as he would like. Buying a new year’s horse to bribe him home seems a sensible way of proceeding. And this promises to be a horse worth travelling for - a good gentleman’s hunter, up for sale from a chap George has purchased horses from quite often before now.
So it’s not the worst of times, and not the best of times, and George is standing by the roadside, waiting for it to pass. He’s holding that injured horse by the harness, whispering daft, soothing nonsense, wondering how long his footman will take to return with help.
It does occur to him that he’s not a million miles from town, here. London is only an hour or two away in fair weather - and perhaps twice that in foul. When the carriage is moving again, George might do better to have himself driven to town rather than pursuing this horse for purchase just now. It’ll be dark when this situation is resolved, most likely, so he might do better to take the well-travelled road back up to London, and then fling himself on his estranged wife’s hospitality at Argyll House.
Hmm. It’s a tempting thought, but he had best not. He’ll be in no humour to be a gentlemanly guest after all this bother.
It’d be a poor idea in every way. She likes her privacy. She doesn’t like him. He’ll only get himself in a tizzy if he gives in to temptation, shows up at her door, and then is all bedraggled and ill-tempered while he’s there.
Jolly good. That’s that decided, then. He mustn’t use this bit of bother as an excuse to throw himself at his wife - much though he might like to.
A chap had much better see to his horses and wait out the storm.
…….
It’s his coachman who notices the carriage first.
George is much occupied with soothing that injured horse and pretending that he’s not growing cold. The light is just beginning to fade, now - or perhaps this time of year is always that sad twilight-grey.
Suddenly, all at once, his coachman is calling his attention.
“Your Grace - isn’t that -?”
It’s already too late. That is indeed a familiar carriage - a neat, black-painted, well-maintained one, with the Argyll crest adorning its side, and it’s rolling to a halt just next to them.
George is still grappling to comprehend that when his wife peers out of the window at him.
“George? Whatever is the matter?” She cries, as well she might.
Or rather - that’s what any other wife might cry, if she saw her husband in a spot of bother at the roadside. But George finds himself rather taken aback at it, for she left him over twenty years ago, now, and he didn’t expect her to take such a vocal interest in his concerns - not ever, ever again.
He’s a tad flustered, he finds, as he makes haste to reply to her.
“Nothing of consequence. Don’t you go upsetting yourself about it, wife. I’ve a bit of bother with the weather and the horses, but it is what it is. What the devil are you doing here?”
“I’m going to visit with my sister for Christmas and the new year. Her husband has lately bought an estate a couple of hours from here to have a country home at a convenient distance from town.” She tells him, as if perhaps she were the letting agent.
“Jolly good.”
“Here - you must come inside.”
“Inside?” He asks, suddenly confused as to what that word might mean.
“You must come into the carriage out of the snow. You’ll be much warmer - and I would rather not shout out the window like a fishwife all afternoon.”
“Jolly good.”
He rushes to oblige her, leaves the coachman with that injured horse while he leaps into his Bella’s carriage. He’s so rarely able to oblige her that it does seem wise to oblige her swiftly when he can.
She’s terribly hospitable, once he’s in the carriage. She offers him a blanket and pushes a hot brick nearer to his feet, and it’s almost more consideration than he can bear. She used to fuss over him and James like that all the time, when they all lived together. Her fussing like a caring wife should was the only thing which made travel bearable, in fact.
Funny how a chap misses a thing like that all the more when he has a little taste of it again, just for a few fleeting seconds in the snow.
“Much obliged.” He mutters, flushed, as she straightens the blanket over his knees.
“Will you want another brick?”
“Ahm - no need. This is plenty, thank you. I truly wasn’t overly chilled. I was content to do my part - I don’t like to think of leaving the coachman in the cold alone.”
“He’s rather younger than you, George. We must think of your health.”
Hmm.
She thinks of him as an elderly chap, these days?
He oughtn’t be surprised.
“Why are you on the road in these parts?” She asks now. She does seem to have become more one for saying words and asking questions, since she left him. He noticed that when he last visited her in town, some nine years ago now, but this afternoon he finds it very remarkable indeed.
All the same, he doesn’t mind answering her. It is pleasant to have a little conversation with his wife after all these years.
So -
“I’m out to buy a horse for our James from a chap not far from here. He breeds good stock - a very respectable tradesman, that’s what I’d call him - and I’ve bought his horses before. I thought to myself that I had better buy our James a good hunter, for then I might call it a gift for the new year, and he might come to visit in January or February if the weather is mild. He might make an extra visit this year if I buy him a new horse for his particular use. But then the weather got the better of us on our travels and we broke a wheel - and one of my good carriage horses has gone lame amidst the bother - and so you found us standing about waiting for the footman to return with help.”
“Goodness - what a tale.”
“Jolly good.”
“I shall take you to the next inn at least.”
“What?”
“I must take you to the next inn. I believe there’s one just a little way up the road. I don’t like to think of you out by the roadside in this weather.”
“I don’t like to think of you travelling in this weather.” He argues, as an ill-tempered chap with a recent bit of carriage bother might argue.
“Indeed. I mean to stop for the night at that inn.”
“Jolly good.”
“I hope you will do likewise. Let’s set to it.” She says, and knocks on the roof for her coachman to drive on.
“Ahm - stop a moment, Bella. Stop there. Ahm - there’s no need. Come, now. There’s no need to…”
She ignores him.
She ignores him, and the carriage picks up speed.
He doesn’t know how to feel about it. He’s not at all pleased that she has driven off while he was still mulling over the situation, while his coachman is still standing by the roadside. He could be quite angry about all that, he thinks. And he’s certain he ought to feel humiliated at being rescued by his wife - his estranged wife, at that.
And yet somehow he quite likes it.
He quite likes her fussing over him. He quite likes the delicate frown around her eyes. He quite likes to see her again, after all these years, and to have her concern herself with such things as his health and circumstances.
Mostly he just likes to be in a carriage with her and looking at her much-missed face.
So -
“I’m much obliged to you for your assistance.” He mutters, flushed. “I’m certain there’s no need to make such a fuss, but all the same - ahm - much obliged.”
She nods. She smiles perhaps the faintest fragment of a smile, then simply sits silently in her seat a while.
She does look awfully fetching, he decides. She’s all wrapped up in blankets and winter coats, as a lady of sense should be whilst travelling at this time of year, but her face is as fine as ever, and she makes quite a sweet image with that muffler around her hands and that blanket tucked around her shoulders.
He ought to feel shy about staring at her, perhaps - and yet he’s helpless to do otherwise.
It suddenly occurs to him that there’s a question he had better ask.
“How’s our boy?”
She frowns at him. “I thought to ask you the same question. You’re much closer with him than I am.”
“But you live in town.” He argues, gruff.
“And I never see him there. You must know that - he never visits me at all, although we live so close. You and he have that regular habit of corresponding, and you see him every summer at the big house, but I haven’t seen him all year.”
“Ah.”
He nods a moment, wonders what to say. She said all that as if it’s a cause of some distress to her - as if she would wish to see their son more often, as if this is yet another way in which this family George gave her has disappointed her.
He never knows what to do about that.
And then -
“How is he, would you say?” She asks, sudden, quiet.
“He’s in good health.” George rushes to offer. “He had a sore shoulder in the spring but he’s much recovered. I wrote you about it, if you recall. As for the rest, he’s still busy with his sport and his chums and so on.”
“Indeed. How lovely.”
“I do begin to worry that he’ll never marry.”
“I see.”
“He had much better get on and do it. A chap at his time of life needs to take a wife and have children.”
“Indeed. Heirs.”
“It’s not quite that.” George argues - although he does recall that arguing with Bella never helps. Somehow, all the same, he always ends up doing it anyway.
“No?”
“If I only wanted him to have an heir, he might easily wait another decade or so before taking a wife. I think he had much better marry sooner rather than later because I always fear he’s… unsettled. He was ever so restless when he had that sore shoulder, and I fear he’s not much better in that regard now. He would be a good deal happier and steadier if he took a wife and had his own family. To have a wife and family gives a chap something to think of. He would give his attention to the arrangements and financials and whatnot. He would wake up in a morning and have a reason to think of his wife’s allowance or his sons’ education. Why - every morning, as I sit down to breakfast, I think first of all that I must add something to my next letter to my son or check that I have settled all your accounts. It gives a chap a reason to press on with his day.” He concludes, firm.
“You truly think of that at breakfast?” His wife asks him. “I rather presumed you thought only of ham and eggs. You do like your food.”
“I think of my wife and son first, then of ham and eggs. It’s good for the appetite to plan how I must give the two of you my attention that day.”
“Indeed.” She says, as she so often does, in his experience.
Silence falls again.
He doesn’t mind that. He expects he’ll fill it sooner or later. He’s often one to witter on and bore her, and somehow he finds that it can’t be helped. But in the meantime, he does like to sit quietly and enjoy sharing a bit of space with her.
It’s as he said - a wife can help a chap to feel a good deal more settled.
He’s surprised by her next question - both that she is so much one for asking questions, today, but also by the content of what she asks.
“How are you, George?”
“I’m in good health. I can’t complain. I’m glad that you and our James are well enough.”
“I think I meant to ask… how are your spirits? To hear the way you spoke of me and James, just then, I suddenly wonder whether perhaps you are a little lonely?”
“Of course I’m lonely. My wife left me.” He snaps.
He regrets it at once. Of all the daft things he has ever said to upset her, this must be the daftest of the lot.
She’s gone white as a sheet, silent as the grave. She’s suddenly turned to the window, staring out at the gathering darkness, and although he has always been hopeless at reading her face, he’s convinced that’s an expression of horror.
He curses himself. She must be horrified at his manners, and he doesn’t blame her. They were getting along civil enough there - more civil than they have been together in decades - and he just had to go and ruin it with that nasty burst of temper.
It’ll serve him right when they ride the rest of the way in silence.
…….
It takes them almost an hour to arrive at the inn which was supposedly so close. By the time they do, Bella still hasn’t spoken - hasn’t moved away from that gaze at the window - and the weather is very much worse indeed.
George sets to doing what must be done, as a husband should.
“We’ll both have to spend the night here - no question about it. I shall go on ahead and see to the arrangements, wife. By the time you’re inside I expect they’ll have your room waiting for you.”
He flees, then. He leaps from the carriage almost before it has stopped moving, dashes into the inn and leaves the footman to hand his wife down to the ground.
He’s not running away. Truly, he isn’t. It’s only that he thinks a chap had much better run on ahead and have everything waiting for his wife’s convenience in such a situation.
It doesn’t turn out like that, unfortunately. It doesn’t go quite exactly to plan. For when George asks for two rooms, preferably next door to one another, for himself and his wife, the innkeep insists that there is only one spare room to be had.
George finds himself in a bit of a tizzy at that. He was worried enough about asking for a room near to Bella’s, since she does like her privacy, and doesn’t like him. But he thought it might perhaps be acceptable to her on the grounds that he is her husband and this is a strange inn, and he might naturally like to be able to look in on her from time to time in a spirit of protectiveness.
But now that’s not possible. The plan he had so carefully reconciled himself to has flown clear out of the window.
How can this chap have only one room to spare? That’s a daft bit of nonsense and no mistake.
So -
“I’m certain you have a second room available.” George insists.
“No, sir - we’ve only the one. The weather has driven folks inside.”
“There must be a second which you can make available. I’ll pay good money for it. Whatever your usual rate is, I shall gladly double it, or - or even more, if only you will find that second room.”
“Pardon me, sir, but all the money in the world can’t build more rooms in the snow.”
“Here, now, my good man - perhaps you don’t realise who I am. I tell you, you shall want to find me that second room. I’m -”
“George?”
Ah.
Devil take it.
That’s Bella, her hand on his arm, leaning over the dirty bar at this godforsaken too-small inn.
“What seems to be the problem, George?”
“This chap swears that he has only the one room available for the night, but that won’t do in the slightest. Why - a lady of your rank had much better have her own room, not to mention the matter of - you know - of your privacy.”
This is mortifying. It’s mortifying in the extreme. Here he is, losing his temper and airing his dirty laundry in a crowded public inn. Why - he might as well cry aloud for all the world to hear that his wife left him, that she can’t share a room with him, not ever, since she doesn’t even share a household with him these last twenty years.
Only then -
“We’ll share your last room, then, sir. Thank you. How kind. Yes - my husband will settle our account in the morning.”
“This way, ma’am.”
“Your Grace.” George snaps, instinctive. He won’t have anyone speaking so informally to his Bella, thank you very much. She must be afforded the respect she deserves.
“Your Graces.” The innkeep agrees, with a stiff little bow - and then begins to show them up the stairs without further ado.
He chatters far too much as he leads the way - daft, unhelpful nonsense about luggage and supper and whatnot. George finds it terribly rude of him, frankly. But Bella seems set on replying, all serene and cheery as is her way - she’s asking for a few basic necessities to be brought in from the carriage, sensible arrangements like that.
At last it’s done. They arrive at the room. George and Bella are standing in it, alone together, the door closing behind them.
The moment it clicks shut, George blurts out the obvious.
“We can’t do it. We can’t possibly share this room. I don’t see how we could even think of it. You need your privacy, and I’m ill-tempered when travelling, and it’s sure to be a disaster. There’s nothing for it - I shall simply have to ride on to the next inn. I don’t like the thought of leaving you to fend for yourself in such a place, to be sure, but there’s no other -”
“George?”
“Hmm?”
“I think we’ll manage well enough.”
He turns to stare at her, eyes wide, jaw slack with shock.
She can’t possibly have said that. It’s simply not an option.
Only -
“Indeed - I am confident we’ll manage well enough. I certainly prefer to think of us managing together here than you riding out into the snow. Or - well - if you were more concerned that you might be unhappy trapped in a room with me, then I must at least ask you to sleep in the taproom here rather than ride out in this weather.”
He frowns at her. That’s one of the dafter things she’s ever said, he decides. “Daft business, wife. Daft business. You think that I might be unhappy to have your company? What nonsense. I only fear that you’ll be terribly upset and - and -”
He trails off.
He can’t tell her what else he fears, when it’s actually the moment to say it out loud.
He can’t tell her that he fears watching her weep again, that he fears becoming even more a monster in her eyes, that he fears driving an even larger wedge between himself and his tiny, precious, distant family.
Bella, on the other hand, seems to fear nothing of the sort.
“If that is your concern, George, then you must certainly stay here for the night. That is my feeling on the matter. I thought we were quite civil in the carriage together, by the by. It was good of you to tell me a bit about our son.”
He nods a moment, struck silent, tries to think on that and drink it all in.
She calls that civil? He supposes he has been a damn sight more civil this afternoon than he was those last few years she lived in his household. Nasty business, that. But all the same, when he thinks of her staring out the window for the last hour or so, he finds that he can’t entirely call it civility.
It’s daft how civility so often slips away from him, even when he means to be gentlemanly towards his wife.
He swallows hard, nods a bit more, wonders how he might go about making the most of this fortunate opportunity, of his wife’s poor definition of civility. If she means to put up with him for the remainder of the day, he damn well intends to enjoy it, intends to relish her company while he can.
He thinks, too, that he had best press on with some conversation and take his mind off the looming spectre of sharing that one bed for the night.
So -
“I could tell you a bit more about our boy, if you like, while we’re here.”
“Indeed.” She says, and nods a little.
“I’m determined to tell you whatever you’d like to hear. Perhaps - ahm - you know. We could make an afternoon of it. We could have a pot of tea, and sit by the fire to warm through, and I could tell you all our boy’s news. We could try that for a way of getting along in civil fashion.”
“I’d like that.”
Good God.
There’s a stroke of good luck.
Not just indeed, or a bit of quiet nodding - but she’d even like it?
He rushes to make the arrangements without further ado. He sends for tea - and then Bella’s overnight things are brought into the room - and then there’s a bit of to-ing and fro-ing for some few precious minutes.
George is tense with anticipation all the while, frankly. He can’t imagine anything more perfect than the prospect of drinking tea with his wife and discussing their son’s news.
Within some ten minutes or so, all is ready for them. The tea tray has arrived, and a few indifferent biscuits too, even. George is sitting down at the small table their room boasts, now dragged near the fire, with just a pair of chairs placed opposite one another at it.
It might look like a pleasant, firelit evening for a happier couple, he thinks. Even for this wretched couple, he still thinks it likely to be much the most pleasant evening they’ve managed in several decades.
He spends a second or two simply watching Bella, when he first sits down. The firelight plays prettily across her face, he finds, and makes her all distracting and fetching and fine.
Now she’s pouring him a cup of tea and apologising about the state of the teacups.
That snaps him out of his reverie and no mistake.
“Daft business, that. You can’t be apologising about the teacups in a place like this, wife. They can’t be expected to have good china. I know you keep a very fine household, and I don’t hold it against you that this teacup is not what you would choose at home. Indeed - I’m determined to think well of any teacup you place into my hand.”
She smiles a little at that, and it makes her more fetching than ever.
“I must tell you all our boy’s news.” He offers now, all eager and leaning forward in his chair.
“Indeed.”
“Here, then - I know where I must begin. He won a fencing tournament, not two months ago. I wrote you a little about that, I believe?”
“You did.”
“Well, now - I must tell you every last detail. Some sort of exhibition tournament, it was. Daft business, if you ask me. I’m not at all sure how I feel about a young chap of his station exhibiting like that - competing alongside fencing masters and commoners and whatnot - but he was jolly pleased with himself when he won. A strong field - that’s what he said.”
“Goodness - how lovely for him.”
“He beat a Colonel Warton in the first round - or a retired colonel, perhaps. I forget. But Warton - or Warden - that was the chap’s name. A great tall chap, he was. Our James told me that most particularly. In the first round, he beat a military man who was rather tall.”
“How impressive.”
“Then came Jenkins, and next Jackson. That Jenkins was no good - a tradesman of some sort, if I recall - and Jackson, no relation of Gentleman Jackson. I recall that they came in exactly that order.”
“I see.”
“Then there came a baronet - but only a baronet, you know, and one of those new titles. A Sir Jacob Freeman - and I said to our James, if the chap has become a particular friend from all this fencing, we must invite him to the big house one summer. If he’s a baronet and a friend of our son, then I am determined to be hospitable to him and not mind the disparity in rank - nor the age of his title, neither - but then our James said to me that he doesn’t like the chap. They’re not chums at all, it turns out. They know each other a little from their fencing, but James finds this other fellow daft and rude - can you believe it?”
“I see.”
“He didn’t call him daft, of course. You know our James - he’s far too sweet-natured for that - he only said that the chap never liked to speak with him of books or news or what have you. They never have anything to say to one another. They only fence together from time to time, but he’d feel awkward about inviting him for the summer, he said.”
“Indeed.”
“I thought it a shame.” George tells her now, just in case he hasn’t made that clear. “I might like for him to have a wider circle of particular friends. A chum can make a chap steadier, as well - although not half so well as a wife and family, to be sure.”
“Indeed.”
“So we shan’t be inviting this Sir Jacob Freeman to the big house at all.” George concludes, sips a little at his tea.
“And the next round? Who did James face in the next round?” Bella prompts him, for she’s terribly helpful like that.
“Ah - of course. The next round was the final, and he faced that Thompson who is a fencing master at his club, and our boy won, he did. He won fair and square.”
“Such happy news.” She says, and smiles a bit over her teacup.
“Well said, wife. Well said indeed. I am glad to see him doing well with his sport. I was worried for him, when he had all that nasty business with his shoulder in the spring. It still wasn’t right when he came to see me in the summer - he wasn’t half so happy on horseback as usual. A father knows these things. So we went fishing instead of riding for a change - a fine day, that was. The sixteenth of July, I believe - yes, the sixteenth. Very fine weather and we had a pleasant time fishing.”
“Fishing. How lovely.”
“Well said. A very pleasant excursion indeed, that was. I could speak about it all day but I fear boring you.” He realises - and realises all at once that he should perhaps have realised it sooner.
“Goodness - you need not fear that. I would happily discuss family news all day.” She says.
But she says it as if she means it. She’s smiling the prettiest smile she’s worn all afternoon, and she’s pouring a bit more tea into his cup, and although he’s perhaps not confident in his manners in her company, he does at least know that a lady doesn’t pour more tea if she wants the conversation to be over.
So -
“Jolly good.” He says, with a firm, hearty nod. “Shall I tell you a bit about what I’ve bought him for the library lately, then?”
“Yes, please.”
He sets to it without further ado.
…….
Two hours later, the tea is all gone, the pot long since cold - and yet still George is leaning across his empty teacup to describe every dish he and James had at dinner last August.
He hopes that will be of some interest to Bella, as a topic of conversation. She’s an excellent duchess and a wonderful hostess. She’ll like to know what is being served at the big house these days.
It’s only when he catches himself grumbling about the declining quality of the dinner rolls that he decides he perhaps risks testing her patience too far.
“George? You were saying something about Cook’s dinner rolls?”
“Beg pardon. I oughtn’t occupy your attention all night. You’ll want a bit of quiet time to yourself, since you do like your privacy. Or you’ll want supper - it must be past time for supper.”
“Perhaps we might stay at this table and have some supper brought up. I’m loath to interrupt you while you’ve so much to tell me about our son.”
“Jolly good. Ahm - supper it is, then.” He tries.
“How pleasant.”
He sits there a moment, nodding, trying for a smile to match hers.
He does like to see her smiling. He can’t recall the last time he saw her smile even half so much as all this. She must like to hear news about James - that must be the cause of it. He simply can’t comprehend any other reason why a chap’s estranged wife should sit there and smile like that on a snowy afternoon. A bit of mild civility can be no excuse for such a smile.
A sudden thought occurs to him.
“I say, wife - how will you get along with your supper in a place like this? It’s sure to be some heavy meat pie or something of that sort, and you always were fussy about your food. I shouldn’t like you to feel poorly or unhappy. We must send a man to the next village if you prefer something else.”
“In this weather, George?” She asks, brows raised.
“We might at least try. I’ll not have you feeling poorly.”
“I’ll manage perfectly well. My health is not so delicate as all that, these days. I shall at least try whatever they send up.”
“Ahm - how is your health these days, would you say? I do often wonder it. I hear reports from your household of course, but I do often wish I could ask you - but then of course I never know how to ask you, even when we find ourselves in a carriage together.” He manages - then fears he sounded daft, finds his mouth forming into a frown.
“How considerate.” She tells him, eyes wide.
“Much obliged.”
“I’m very well, as it happens - especially in recent years since I passed childbearing age and so on. Some ladies simply do have better health in their later years than when they’re young, perhaps.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.” He says, and means it.
He means it even though he says it quickly, instinctively. He says it without thinking, and yet the more he thinks on it, the more he finds it’s the honest truth.
He always did worry about her health. She always had a sickly constitution whilst they were trying for children, and then she lost all those babies besides. He’s beyond glad to hear that she’s feeling more the thing lately.
He’s oddly relieved to hear her say outright that she’s past childbearing age, too. He presumes she means to say that her courses have ceased and so on. It’s daft to be relieved about that - he’s convinced it is. He ought instead to feel grief that this news means once and for all they’ll never have that second child now. She wanted more children, and tried ever so hard to have them, so this ought to be sad news.
Instead he’s so utterly and thoroughly relieved he can scarcely breathe.
It’s like the moment a chap safely lands on horseback after a high fence, he decides. It’s that sudden moment of feeling solid ground and charging safely onwards. He knows where he is, now, and knows which way is up. If she’s past childbearing years, then the two of them can’t even be expected to try. He can’t be letting her down, if his seed doesn’t take. The matter is simply out of their hands.
They’ve one perfect, perfect son, and they must press on and make the best of life.
“I mean it, Bella. I’m ever so glad to hear that your health is better since you passed your childbearing years.” He therefore tells her once more for good measure.
He nods a bit, too, tries for a stiff smile. He always wanted her healthy and happy more than he wanted anything in the world.
He’s not convinced she’s happy - but he’s pleased to think of her healthy, at least.
“Thank you, George. That’s kind.”
“Shall I send for a bit of supper, then?” He asks plainly.
“In a minute, perhaps. You might tell me just one more tale of your summers with James first?”
He blinks at her, stunned.
He never thought he’d see the day when she asked him for anything, not ever again - or at least, not for anything personal. Not for any part of himself or fragment of his conversation. She does occasionally ask him for money or for instructions about the townhouse roof, but this feels entirely different.
“I must tell you why I mean to buy him this horse.” He tries. “It’s a grey like old Comet - do you recall he had a favourite horse called Comet? He spent a good deal of time with the creature last summer, fussing over how elderly he’s getting - that horse is certain to die within the next year or two, I’m afraid. So - ahm - I can’t do anything about that, but I thought I might at least have a new horse ready for him to grow close with.”
It’s what he did all those years she lost babies, perhaps.
He never realised the before now, before a conversation about the horse and her health so close in succession. But he sees it, now. He sees how he immediately rushed to try to replace each lost baby with the next - and he can see that, looking back, it perhaps didn’t do them any good.
He doesn’t mention that, though. He only nods and tries for a bit more of a smile.
And then -
“I might like to come and join you, this summer, if you wouldn’t think it an imposition. I might make a short visit and see you both at your adventures - if you don't mind the idea, of course.”
He feels his eyes widen in shock as he rushes to babble a bit of encouragement for that idea. “You’d be ever so welcome. I’m resolved to be civil and gentlemanly company if ever you do come and visit. I shall arrange everything for your convenience. You could stay in the guest wing, if you prefer to maintain your privacy - or the dower house, even. You could keep an entirely separate establishment if you’d be more comfortable.”
“I think I would rather stay in my proper room and make a family visit of it.”
“I’d like that more than anything, pet.”
Pet is not a word made to echo - but somehow, now, it does. It echoes right off the too-small walls, or at least that's the way it seems to him.
He’s immediately horrified. He can’t believe he just said it. He can’t believe that after all these years - after months and months spent guarding his daft heart - he’s gone and made himself look so sentimental as that to the wife who left him.
“What did you just call me?” She asks, because of course she does. Any lass of sense would, under the circumstances, and his Bella always did have a wise head.
“Nothing. An accident. A slip of the tongue.” He mutters. “Daft business. Ahm - pardon me - it won’t happen again. I don’t mean to ruin this pleasant afternoon we’ve accidentally spent together, and -”
“George?”
“Mmm?”
“I didn’t ask that in censure. It’s a pleasant surprise to hear you speaking sweetly to me again after all these years. I thought I’d go to my grave without ever hearing you say such a thing again.”
“I thought I’d go to my grave without saying it again.” He mutters, all overheated and confused, scarcely knowing which way is up.
She liked that? She still likes to hear him fuss over her with daft sweet words and whatnot?
How very peculiar.
Somehow, of all things, she’s still speaking - and speaking rather prettily, too.
“Goodness - I am glad we bumped into one another on the road this afternoon, George. It has been such a lovely surprise. I’m sorry on your account, because I know you do hate to travel and stay at strange inns and -”
“Bella?”
“Mmm?”
“It’s worth it for an afternoon spent pleasantly with you.”
“Indeed.” She says, as she often does.
But she’s nodding hard all the while, smiling a slightly shaky smile, and he thinks her eyes look a little damp.
He never did like to see her in tears. He never has a clue what to do when she weeps. But somehow, this evening, he’s not that frightened. What’s the worse she can do? Leave him again?
Well - she can’t do that while it’s snowing. He has at least a few hours to try to set it right if he does get her all in a tizzy.
He hands her his handkerchief. He thinks that must be best. She takes it, presses his fingers briefly, wipes a little at her eyes.
And then -
“Thank you, George. Thank you ever so much. You’ve been such a gentleman this afternoon and such good company and - pardon me - but your temper has been rather easier than I recall and - and - I’m grateful to you.”
“Much obliged.” He clears his throat. “I - ahm - I was ill-tempered earlier, I believe. At the roadside before you came along I was not at my best. But the joy of seeing you has put all that quite out of my mind. It’s a fine treat to spend a bit of pleasant time with you in this fashion.”
“How charming.”
“I’m hoping I might charm you into going ahead with that visit you lately suggested.” He offers, grinning slightly.
She laughs at that.
It’s only a little laugh. In fact - it might not count as a laugh at all. Another chap might call it a giggle, he supposes, more than a true, hearty laugh.
But it’s the first time he has heard her laugh in so many years that he’s determined to call it a victory either way.
He simply sits there and listens to her a moment. He likes the sound of her laughing. He likes the sight of her laughing, too, likes her pretty smile and her eyes just glancing against his gaze, as if she’s not sure whether the two of them are allowed to look one another right in the eye at a moment like this - whether sharing joy and laughter so directly might be beyond them, perhaps.
He’s not sure about that either. He thinks it might be tempting fate, if they tried to share a laugh eye-to-eye.
He huffs out half a chuckle, dares to lean across the little table and pat just once at her hand.
Then he stirs himself to do something useful - and tries to trust that she might still giggle in an hour or two, if he takes great care to be civil.
“Come along, then. Come along. I’ll see about supper, shall I?” He asks, getting to his feet.
“I’d like that.”
“You’re certain you won’t have me send a man up the road? You’ve no particular requests?”
“I don’t greatly care what they put on my plate. I only want to sit here and share it with you.”
“Much obliged, pet. Much obliged. That’s a fine sentiment and no mistake. Let’s have a pleasant evening, shall we?”
“Yes, please.”
“Jolly good. A chap had much better oblige his wife when he can. I’ll see about that supper, then. I’ll go and send for two plates. Is there a bell in here? A maid in the hall, do we think? I don’t think much of the place. An inn had much better put a bell in the -”
“George?”
“Yes, pet?”
“I’m determined to think well of the place, just so long as you are pleasant company.”
“Jolly good. Much obliged. I’m much obliged to you for reminding me, pet. I had best not bore you about the matter of the bell. I’ll pop out and see to some supper.”
He’s smiling to himself all the way down the hall.
……..
Sure enough, the supper at this inn is a robust meat pie which takes a fair bit of chewing.
Bella eats half of hers before handing George the rest. He’s pleasantly surprised by even that much, frankly. Why - when she was a young lass and James was a babe in arms, she couldn’t touch pastry in an evening at all. He remembers that he used to fret about her something awful.
He tells her that, in between shovelling down mouthfuls of her discarded dinner. It’s just one fragment of the odd, disjointed but rather cheery conversation they manage while they eat. He keeps trying to remember to ask about her news and relations and so on - trying to charm her into making that visit, perhaps, or trying to earn another laugh - but he’s more the talker, out of the two of them, and he keeps catching himself telling her great long stories about life at the big house. Sometimes they’re not even about James, but only about footstools or turnip crops or which of the servants has lately taken a wife.
Then a bit of his overnight luggage is brought in, and a few hurried messages about that broken wheel and the repairs to his carriage, and he rather loses the thread of things.
Thread. Thread.
There’s an idea and no mistake.
“How’s your sewing? I hope you do still like your sewing?” He asks her at one point - a little desperately, perhaps.
“Certainly I do. I once made a cushion for that room we were lately discussing - do you recall it?”
Ah. Yes.
Was he halfway through an anecdote about the second study? Curtains, perhaps?
That does ring a bell.
Answering his Bella does sound more interesting than picking up where he left off, though. “I know that cushion very well indeed. It’s still there, of course. I see it often and recall that you sewed it.”
She nods again, reaches for that handkerchief he lent her. He thinks he’s coming to recognise a sort of tearful, smiling nod as one she wears often, today, for some reason.
“I’ve a few projects underway at present.” She tells him now, quiet.
“Come along, then. Come along. You must tell me all about them.”
“Goodness - I’m not sure there’s much to tell. They’re the usual bits and pieces for the townhouse. I will make sure to bring something interesting to sew with me when I make that visit in the summer so you can see my work for yourself.”
“I’d like that ever so much.”
“How charming. Well - ahm - perhaps I’ll bring something to make for the big house. If you’d not think it odd, I could certainly put a new cushion or two around the study while I’m there.”
“That’s a very fine idea, pet. You must do that, if it pleases you. A new cushion or two could be just the thing. I do like to have your work in the house still. I - ahm - I like to look at a sampler of yours on the wall and recall that I watched you sew it. A wife makes a chap steadier and gives him something to think of - it’s just exactly as I said earlier.”
“Indeed.”
“I’d like a new cushion or two, if it wouldn’t trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble at all, George. I’m only glad to hear that you still like to look at my work.”
“Well - ahm - you know. You’re still my wife.”
“Indeed.”
Silence falls a moment. It’s not like that fragment of half-shared laughter earlier, perhaps, but all the same he likes it very well. He has that comfortable feeling of sharing space and a bit of understanding with his wife.
She has always, always made him feel more comfortable than any other person on this earth. It’s daft that she still does that now, even though she left him - but somehow, it’s the honest truth. That’s why he still craves her so badly after all these years, perhaps.
He chews on another bite of her discarded supper, wonders what he might ask next. She’s not a great talker, but if he asked her whether she had more cushions or table runners half-sewn at present, he presumes that she would at least give him an answer. They seem to be getting along quite pleasantly with the asking and answering of questions tonight.
He’s just wondering that when she takes him by surprise.
“You were saying something about the curtains in the second study?” She asks him, for all the world as if she actually cares.
“Yes - the moths. I’ve had a spot of bother with the moths. So I mean to replace those curtains this year, and I wonder if you’ve any thoughts on the matter. Would you have me match them to the exact same colour or try something different? I must take care that they’re still a good fit for your fine cushion, to be sure. Some of the furniture might go too, I think. I’ve been having trouble with the leg of that small chair by the window - do you recall the one?”
“How unfortunate. I recall that you liked that chair.”
“I only liked it because the window overlooked the flowerbeds where you used to choose flowers to arrange in the drawing room - do you recall that part, too?”
“Only in high summer.” She argues, yet mildly, as is her way. “That bed was planted for interest in quite a short season, I remember.”
“Mmm. Perhaps so. It’s still planted much the same, I believe.”
That’s fairly typical of their conversation, as the evening draws on, as he works his way through the remains of her supper - details of a home she no longer lives in, occasional attempts to be a courteous husband which he always, always expects to fall flat - and which somehow never do.
The pie isn’t bad here, actually. It’s a little on the chewy side, to be sure, but it’s tasty enough. He’s damn pleased his Bella managed to eat half a portion. That’s encouraging and no mistake. It’s quite the happiest event he has witnessed in months, now he comes to think of it - or perhaps even years.
He likes to think of her having better health in her later life. She deserves a bit of good luck like that.
…….
It’s Bella who suggests that it might be bedtime, some several hours later, and George who rushes to agree with her because he fears boring her with all these tedious tales of the big house and the aging furniture and the estate she no longer calls home.
He’s worried that the business of being ready for bed will prove awkward, but it’s not uncomfortable in the slightest. She simply takes herself behind a small screen to undress. He changes swiftly while she’s occupied. And he doesn’t look at her undergarments being thrown over the top of the screen - truly, he doesn’t.
He doesn’t think of his wife taking her clothes off. He doesn’t fixate upon it in the slightest.
He makes a point of averting his gaze when she emerges from behind the screen, presumably in a nightdress, and walks over to the bed. He stares very pointedly at the threadbare rug instead, for he wouldn’t like to be caught ogling his own estranged wife like a lovesick fool. That’d be daft business and no mistake.
Once she’s situated in the bed, he follows along behind her, goes to the other side of the bed and pulls the covers up around himself as swiftly as ever he can. The less time either of them spend wandering around the place in their nightclothes, the better, as far as he is concerned. He’s convinced that’s the only way the two of them can possibly get along in such an uncomfortable situation as this.
It’s fine. Fine. They’ve coped well enough so far. They had a pleasant afternoon and evening, and she means to visit him next summer, and now he must only endure some eight hours or so sleeping chastely at her side.
“Shall I get the lamp?” He asks, when they’re both lying side-by-side beneath the sheets.
“As you like.” She says, quiet.
He puts out the lamp. He presumes that’s what she expects him to do.
Then he lies there, a careful foot or so away from her in a bed which is rather too small for such distance, and fails to fall asleep.
He stares up at the ceiling. He can’t truly see the ceiling, since it’s dark. He can feel his elbow falling over the edge of the mattress. He can hear Bella breathing by his side, can almost feel the warmth of her amidst the chilly sheets, but he’s determined not to shuffle so much as an inch closer and risk imposing upon her privacy.
She likes her privacy. She likes her privacy a good deal more than she likes him.
He wonders whether she feels even half so stiff and tense as he does, in this moment. No - that’s putting it too mildly. He might more accurately say that he’s in agony. The awkwardness of this situation strikes him so acutely and intensely that he does feel an almost physical sort of pain.
He simply can’t imagine a moment more uncomfortable. He’s convinced that he’s doing something wrong by even being here - convinced that he stands to undo all the good work of this afternoon, that she won’t want to visit next summer, that she -
“George?” She asks, sudden and yet soft.
“Mmm?”
“Have I done something to displease you?”
“What a daft question. Certainly not.” He snaps at her, too sharp, too loud in the frosty darkness.
“You’re sure? You’re not displeased with me at all? For I rather expected that you might want to bed me. You always did want to bed me when you visited the townhouse. I realise I must look older these days - and we’ve no chance of that second son, to be sure - but I thought you might want to do the act for its own sake. You do like bedsport.” She offers, all shaky and rushing through the words as if the hounds of hell were on her tail.
“I thought you only welcomed me to your bed in the townhouse because you wanted children.” He argues, for it’s the solemn truth. “Besides - I’m certain we couldn’t do that now, when… when I think we’ve been getting along fairly well today. It’d be daft to risk ruining it. I do want you to visit me one summer soon as you suggested.”
“I truly don’t mind if you do wish to bed me.” She insists, shakier than ever.
“Certainly I wish to. I always wish to - but I’m determined not to do it. This simply isn’t the moment. It’d be daft to risk it. I’m not at all sure I’d perform at my best, since I don’t travel well - and since I’m - ahm - you know. I’m a bit overexcited that we’ve had a pleasant afternoon together, perhaps. I'm overexcited that you've spoken of visiting. You know how it is.”
“Perhaps that’s for the best.” She says at last, a little more solid. “I’m not sure how I’d get along with you bedding me at my age. I haven’t tried it in years - not since you last had me, of course - and I’ve scarcely even tried to pleasure myself in that time.”
“Mmm. I’m about the same.” He agrees, before he can think about it too hard.
“Truly?”
“I do - ahm - you know. I do pleasure myself from time to time - but - ahm - there’s nothing odd about that. I don’t do it often, not lately.”
She rolls over - towards him, as if to look right at him, although it is dark.
He lies there, still on his back, still staring at the ceiling he can’t see, and wonders what is happening.
“You haven’t had a bedmate in the last nine years?” She asks, oddly high-pitched. “You truly mean to say you haven’t coupled with anybody since you last had me?”
“I haven’t laid a finger on another woman since the year after you left me.” He mutters, utterly mortified.
“Goodness. I didn’t know that.”
“It’s not as if you ever asked.” He snaps, before he can stop himself.
“You could have told me. You tell me so much else in your letters that I find it unfathomable you never happened to mention that. Truly, George - it’s infuriating that you always hide the best of yourself and so often persist in showing me the worst.”
He hasn’t a clue what to say to that.
He simply doesn’t see how a chap might usefully reply to such a sentiment.
He lies there, lonely, less than a foot away from the wife he loves so very much - and stares at the ceiling more resolutely than ever.
The silence stretches out to several seconds before Bella breaks it.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” She mumbles, quiet. “You’ve been ever so charming tonight.”
“Daft business, you being sorry. A chap had much better apologise when he gives his wife cause to say such things.”
“You didn’t cause me to say it, George.”
“I must insist that I did, and I’m sorry for it.”
“I’m only sorry that we’ve ended up at odds again.” She says, and he thinks she sounds tired. He’s not at all good at understanding such things, but he does think it.
“Daft business.” He tries.
“Trust us to upset each other even when we’re speaking of being faithful in marriage.” She sighs loudly. “I am sorry, George. I’d take it back, if I could. We’ve been having such a pleasant evening and I didn’t mean to ruin it.”
“Come now, pet. You can’t be saying things like that. You haven’t ruined anything. I’m still damn pleased you bumped into me this afternoon, and that’s final.”
“Thank you.” She says, quiet.
He hums a little. She shuffles a fraction closer, he thinks, although it’s difficult to tell which way she’s shuffling in the dark.
Then she makes one of her fabulous suggestions. She has a habit of having good ideas, does his Bella.
“We might make a project of practising bedsport again during this summer visit, if you like.” She suggests.
“I’d like that very much.” He rushes to agree. “I daresay I’d like it almost as much as I’d like having you to visit in the first place. I - ahm - you know. I do like the idea of visiting your bed. It’s daft, what you lately said about your age. I’m still convinced you’re the most beautiful lady I ever saw.”
“George.”
“What? You needn’t take that tone with me. It’s simply the truth.” He argues, gruff.
Suddenly her hand is on his upper arm, squeezing lightly through his nightshirt. She’s touching him, all fond and perhaps even a little possessive, reaching out to claim him, at least in this one small way.
So he does as any chap must, in such a situation. He turns towards her, rolls onto his side and faces her head-on.
Hmm. It’s difficult to get a proper look at her in the low light. She’s still quite the sight, though, somehow. He can still see her eyes shining, can just pick out the line of her pretty jaw and cheek and ear in the darkness.
Good God. She’s very close to him indeed.
So -
“Could I kiss you?” He asks her, gruffer than ever.
“Yes, please.”
He reaches in without wasting a moment longer.
She’s reaching for him, too. She’s shuffling closer towards him, reaching in to claim his lips. She meets him more than half way, even, her hand still curled around his arm all sweetly possessive, as a good wife should be.
His lips meet hers, and he feels himself sigh in relief.
It’s the single most exquisite moment of his entire life. He’s absolutely convinced of that. It’s better even than their wedding night, for all that he recalls that as a night filled with hope and love and youthful optimism. For tonight has a feeling of victory snatched from the jaws of defeat about it. Tonight he knows she still likes to kiss him, even now, even after so much has gone awry.
He curls his arm around her, cuddles her close as he deepens the kiss. She giggles lightly against his lips as she tries to extract her arm, as she reaches around him in turn. She has her hand splayed between his shoulder blades, her fingers just kneading lightly at the base of his neck and now sweeping over his upper back.
She’s touching him like she missed him, and it makes him want to weep.
That’s something he’s often thought of, over the years. He’s often thought of the unfairness of missing her, of being convinced that she couldn’t possibly miss him in turn. But here and now, tonight, she’s touching him like she has.
He kisses her a fraction deeper, at that thought, and sweeps his hand down over her waist to press lightly at her hip.
She hums in contentment, breaks away from the kiss a moment to press her lips to his cheek, then down the line of his jaw.
“Mmmm. Thank you, pet. This is quite the treat.” He whispers, presses a kiss to her cheek in turn.
She only whines a little and holds him tighter.
“There, now, pet. You like it when I speak sweetly to you, hmm?”
“Mmm.”
“Come along, now. Come here. Let me cuddle you close and kiss you a while, hmm? We’ll have a kiss and a cuddle and keep warm, and I’ll tell you a few times how lucky I am, and then in the summer I’ll visit you in your bed properly and we’ll see how we get along.”
“I’d like that.”
“I am a lucky chap.” He tells her, presses his cheek against her hair a moment and tries to freeze the moment in his memory.
“Mmm.”
“There now, pet. Just you be easy and let me fuss over you, hmm?”
“Mmhmm.”
“I’ve missed this.” He even goes so far as to admit, while he squeezes softly at her hip.
She nods, whines a little, reaches in for another kiss.
They kiss for a very long time, in the end. They do nothing but kiss, by any sensible definition - and yet he thinks he must call it a very remarkable kiss indeed. They’re cuddling and petting and kissing for half the night, it feels like, and every so often he’ll break away to whisper a bit of fond sweetness in her ear, to remind her how lucky he is, how lovely she is, how much he likes to hold her close.
She curls up on his chest when it’s over. When at last kissing gives way to only cuddling, she stays in his arms, her head resting somewhere near his heart, as she breathes softly and begins to fall asleep, presumably.
He lies there, and holds her, and thinks far, far too hard.
There’s rather too much on his mind, at present. He certainly can’t imagine he’ll ever fall asleep. He’s all caught up in the excitement of the moment, and yet all caught up in wondering about the future, too. He’s wondering whether there’s anything he might do to secure a bit more pleasant time spent with his wife in all the years ahead of him, fretting over what he ought to do and say in the morning to be absolutely sure of having her visit in the summer.
He’s wondering whether he should have bedded her while he had the chance, too. It must be daft that he turned down her offer. Why - that might be the last time she ever invites him to do the deed, if she does change her mind about the summer and stay away from him as she is accustomed to do. And he hopes he hasn’t offended her with his rejection - it’s only that he fears he’d have made a muddle if he had tried to bed her, and then they’d be no further along at all.
He thinks a long bit of kissing was perhaps more to his tastes, anyway. He can chase a burst of fleeting pleasure with his own right hand when he’s back at home, whereas a bit of soft closeness with his Bella is something very special indeed.
He’s thinking of that when she suddenly speaks up.
“Why did you never beg me to come home?” She asks.
“I thought you were asleep.” He says, for it’s the truth.
“I can’t sleep.” She tells him, squeezes her arm around his chest. “I have decided that I don’t understand it in the slightest. You’re lonely - you said that yourself - and you’re evidently still somewhat fond of me. We’re capable of getting along very pleasantly some of the time at least. And yet you never once asked me to come back to you.” She says, reasons through it all carefully as their son would do.
“You said you needed to leave for your health. Your health is important to me, so I wasn’t likely to argue with you.”
“You were trying to protect me? That is why you never asked me to return? I always thought you must be relieved to be rid of me.”
“Not that. Certainly not that.” He tells her, holds her a fraction tighter. “I was perhaps trying to protect you, or perhaps I didn’t ask out of hopelessness. Begging never seemed worth doing. You were so set on going, when you left. And - I couldn’t bear to hurt you any more, or hurt myself any worse. What if I’d made a fuss about asking you to stay, got us both even more upset, and then you left anyway? What if I’d written some awfully sentimental letter begging you to come back, and you said no?”
“Mmm. I never thought about it like that.”
There’s a short pause. She’s rubbing her hand over his chest atop his nightshirt, and he finds it a little irritating, but he’s rather too fond of her to ask her not to do it. He’s thrilled that she wants to be the sort of wife who sometimes rubs at his chest, and he’s irritated by the actual sensation of the rubbing, and yet somehow, those two feelings coexist.
She speaks once more, as if simply carrying on from her previous thought. “I suppose I never needed to think about it like that. It was perhaps simpler for me. But - George - I would certainly have visited if you’d asked, at the very least.”
“You would? You’d still have seen me from time to time? You - ahm - you might have come to see your family at home for a little while each summer, perhaps?” He dares to dream.
“I’d have done at least that, if you’d asked me to - and likely a good deal more. I’ve often thought over the years that I’d like you to ask me to come home, odd though that might sound. I suppose perhaps I wanted you to still want me, even after all the trouble I’d caused you.”
He nods, presses a kiss to the crown of her head, mulls that over for a moment.
And then -
“Bella, pet?”
“Mmm?”
“I still want you.” He tells her, fervent as anything.
She makes a sobbing sound against his chest, hugs him very hard indeed.
“George, darling?”
“Mmm?”
“I’ve missed you. I’ve truly, deeply missed you.”
It’s his turn to feel a wave of emotion crash in, now. He can scarcely breathe, he finds, as he wrestles with the scale of it.
She’s missed him.
His wife - Arabella Fife, the woman who broke his heart - has missed him.
That’s perhaps even better news than all that cheery business about her health and her managing half a portion of meat pie.
No. He’s being selfish. Her health must be more important than her missing him. But all the same, he calls it damn good news indeed.
He thinks he might sleep a good deal better, now.
He presses a few more kisses to her hair, tries to gather together some words.
“Might we make our plans for this summer visit in the morning, pet? Might we seriously look at some dates and arrangements and whatnot before we go our separate ways from this inn? I’m determined that this evening won’t be the last evening we ever spend pleasantly in company together. We must have a settled plan as to when we’ll see each other next.”
“I’d like that.”
“Jolly good.”
“Sleep well, darling.”
“Same to you, pet.”
He can feel sleep creeping up on him already, now all that’s settled, now they have resolved absolutely that they do mean to see one another again, that there’s still some fondness here to cherish. He feels very much calmer indeed.
That’s a shame, perhaps. He almost doesn’t want to fall asleep, so as not to waste a moment of this precious, perfect night. He wants to bottle this joy and excitement and steady, constant comfort, wants to take it home to him with the big house in a jar.
He knows he can’t do that. All he can do is beg her to come home a bit more often, make it pleasant for her when she does.
He’s determined that he’ll be the perfect host this summer. They'll have the very best of times, and that’s final.
…….
He wakes up the following morning feeling very well-rested indeed.
He thinks his wife is still asleep. He doesn’t know the signs of her sleeping very well at all, to be sure, but he does think it. So he’s determined not to disturb her at her rest, as he lies there peacefully, holds her softly, and wills his morning wood to subside.
He’s determined that he and his Bella will salvage something lasting from this chance meeting in the snow. He means to invite her to the big house from perhaps late July, he decides. Buckinghamshire is a fine county in the summer. James often visits for the duration of August.
He intends to ask her if they might spend a good deal more time together besides - that’s what he decides, this morning. He might ask her if he can visit town in the spring, perhaps. That might not be too overbearing. That might be a way of respecting her privacy whilst living up to the fact that she has missed him, both at once.
He’s still thinking on that when she stirs lightly in his arms.
“Morning, husband.” She murmurs, and presses a kiss to his forearm for no apparent reason.
“Morning, wife.” He tells her, and decides to match her with a kiss to her hair.
“Did you sleep passably well? I know you do hate to travel.”
“I slept very well indeed.” He tells her, smug. “I must thank you for that, pet. It must be all your doing.”
“Goodness - how charming.”
“Now then - I’ve been thinking about what you said last night. You know - the matter of me not begging you to come home before now. I’m sorry to start the day on a serious note, but I think I must say a bit about that before I lose my nerve. I think I must beg you to come home as often as you can bear it, in future. And I hope you won’t mind me asking if I might visit you from time to time in town. I know you do like your privacy, but I’m determined to see you as often as you’ll allow it.” He concludes, once and for all.
“George, darling?”
“Mmm?”
“I gave the matter a little thought at around one in the morning, I believe. I think I have a reasonable plan in mind, if it suits you. I hope I might invite myself to accompany you to buy this horse, and then we might go together to see my sister’s family, or we might go back to the big house or to town - whichever you prefer. I think we had better visit together until the New Year at least, and then we can decide whether we’d like our privacy for a little while until our next visit, or whether we’re able to continue together under one roof.”
“You’re in earnest?” He asks her, utterly stunned. “You don’t mean for us to only plan a few future visits? You mean to simply… take me home with you? You think we might be rid of all that separate households nonsense?”
“Yes.”
“We must pick town.” He decides at once. “You like town.”
“You hate town.”
“I’ll endure. I’ll have a considerable incentive in the form of your fine company. And besides - if we spend the New Year in town, we might invite James over for dinner. We could enjoy the season as a whole family. He’s in town at present, so it’d be no great inconvenience to him to dine with us once or twice. We could make a family party of it.”
“I’d like that.” She tells him, all soft and warm and cheerful.
“I daresay I’d like it more. You’re in earnest, pet? You truly mean to invite me to come home with you?” He asks once more for good measure.
“Yes. I expect we’ll have the very best of times - a merry Christmas, and a family dinner for the New Year, and the two of us having a sort of second honeymoon after this chance meeting. I’m all over-excited about the idea.” She admits, on a stiff little laugh.
“Not half so excited as I am. It sounds perfect, Bella. Truly - I can’t imagine a finer way to spend a few weeks.”
“Well, now - I hope you’re not too excited, for we might not be able to leave today, if the snow is still causing trouble. We might be trapped here a day or two longer, and I wouldn’t like you to be irritated.”
“I won’t be.” He says - and indeed he finds it easy to say, even though he is a chap who is easily irritated. “I could never be unhappy about being trapped in a room with you.”
“You could tell me a bit more about the big house, if we are stuck here - or else during the carriage ride. I might like to know more about the place if I’m to spend more time there again. Or - well - in all honesty - I do like to listen to you speak. I simply like to sit with you and hear you speak cheerfully about the place.”
“Mmm. I believe I can understand that. I like nothing more than to sit and watch you at your sewing, or listen to you speak, or gaze at your figure. I like to be in your company more than anything.” He admits, presses a kiss to her hair along the way.
“Then I expect we’ll do very well spending a good deal more time together in future. As long as I like to be with you, and you like to be with me, we can’t go far wrong.”
“Well said.”
He knows that’s not the end of the matter. He knows two decades apart and three children lost can’t be swept under the rug like last week’s dust. He knows that he had better try whispering his regrets to her, offering his apologies, explaining how relieved he is that they can no longer be expected to try for children.
But that can wait for later, because they have a later, now. They have a future ahead of them for setting such things to rights. They have hope and a bit of faith in one another as they begin anew.
So his immediate priority, in this moment, had much better be kissing her good morning. A chap must always show his wife a bit of fondness, when he can.