Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(83)

“At least take a nap with me,” Beatrix had coaxed one afternoon. “One little nap. It will be lovely. You’ll see. Just lie with me, and—”

“Beatrix,” he had said in barely contained exasperation, “don’t badger. You won’t accomplish anything except to drive me mad.”

“I’m sorry,” she had replied, chastened. “It’s only that I want to be close to you.”

Christopher understood. But the uncompromised closeness she desired would always be impossible for him. The only thing left was to make it up to her in every other way he could think of.

His need for her ran so deep that it seemed to be part of his blood, woven into his bones. He didn’t understand all the reasons for such mysterious alchemy. But did reasons really matter? One could pick apart love, examine every filament of attraction, and still it would never be fully explained.

It simply was.

Upon their return to Stony Cross, Christopher and Beatrix found Phelan House in disorder. The servants were still accustoming themselves to the new residents of the stables and the house, including the cat, hedgehog, goat, birds and rabbits, the mule, and so forth. The main reason for the disarray, however, was that most of the rooms at Phelan House were being closed and their contents stored in preparation for the household to be moved to Riverton.

Neither Audrey nor Christopher’s mother intended to take up residence at Phelan House. Audrey preferred to live in town with her family, who surrounded her with affection and attention. Mrs. Phelan had elected to remain in Hertfordshire with her brother and his family. The servants who were either unable or unwilling to move away from Stony Cross would remain behind to care for Phelan House and its grounds.

Mrs. Clocker gave Christopher a detailed report of what had occurred in his absence. “More wedding gifts have arrived, including some lovely crystal and silver, which I have placed on the long table in the library along with the cards that accompanied them. There is a stack of correspondence and calling cards as well. And sir . . . there was a call paid by an army officer. Not one of those who attended your wedding, but another. He left his card and said he would return soon.”

Christopher’s face was expressionless. “His name?” he asked quietly.

“Colonel Fenwick.”

He gave no response. However, as Beatrix stood beside him, she saw the twitch of the fingers at his side, and the nearly imperceptible double blink of his lashes. Looking grim and distant, Christopher gave the housekeeper a short nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Clocker.”

“Yes, sir.”

Without a word to Beatrix, Christopher left the parlor and strode to the library. She was at his heels immediately.

“Christopher—”

“Not now.”

“What could Colonel Fenwick want?”

“How should I know?” he asked curtly.

“Do you think it has something to do with the Victoria Cross?”

Christopher stopped and turned to face Beatrix with an aggressive swiftness that caused to her fall back on her heels. His eyes were hard, bladelike. She realized that he was overwhelmed with one of the rages that happened when his nerves had been stretched to the breaking point. The mere mention of Colonel Fenwick had overset him completely. To his credit, Christopher took a few deep breaths and managed to control his raging emotions. “I can’t talk now,” he muttered. “I need a reprieve, Beatrix.” And he turned and strode away.

“From me?” Beatrix asked, frowning after him.

The coolness between them persisted for the rest of the day. Christopher was monosyllabic at dinner, which made Beatrix miserable and resentful. In the Hathaway family, whenever there was conflict, there was always someone else in the house to talk to. When one was married and childless, however, quarreling with one’s husband meant one was, for all purposes, friendless. Should she apologize to him? No, something in her balked at the idea. She had done nothing wrong, she had only asked a question.

Just before bedtime, Beatrix recalled something Amelia had advised: never go to bed angry with your husband. Dressed in nightgown and robe, she went through the house until she found him in the library, sitting by the hearth.

“This isn’t fair,” she said, standing at the threshold.

Christopher looked at her. Firelight slid over his face in washes of yellow and red, gleaming in the amber layers of his hair. His hands were joined together neatly, like a folding knife. Albert was stretched on the floor beside the chair, resting his chin between his paws.

“What have I done?” Beatrix continued. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Her husband’s face was expressionless. “I have been talking to you.”

“Yes, as a stranger would. Completely without affection.”

“Beatrix,” he said, looking weary, “I’m sorry. Go to bed. Everything will be back to rights tomorrow, after I go to see Fenwick.”

“But what have I—”

“It’s nothing you’ve done. Let me deal with this on my own.”

“Why must I be shut out? Why can’t you trust me?”

Christopher’s expression altered, softening. He regarded her with a hint of something like compassion. Standing, he came to her slowly, his form large and dark against the glow of the hearth. Beatrix set her spine against the doorjamb, her heartbeat quickening as he reached her.