What Happened at Midnight(17)

“For…for friendship?”

He nodded. Not quite the truth. Not quite a lie. She’d hurt him, and he couldn’t let himself forget it, no matter what she smelled like. He couldn’t forget the role she’d played in her father’s scheme—whatever that had been. But she smiled, and when she did, some tense, hard center deep inside his soul seemed to ease.

“Then yes,” she said. “I’d like that. Good-bye, then, for now.” She turned to go. But she took only a few steps before she turned around and paced back to him, stopping square in front of him. She lifted her hand to his face, touching his nose ever so lightly. Her fingers brushed his cheek, his lips, as if she were committing the feel of him to memory. He stood in place, not daring to move.

Her touch made full-truth of his half-lies. It made him want to gather her up and pull her close, to forget what she’d done and forgive what she had said. His skin sang with her nearness.

She smiled, a little sadly. “I missed you, too,” she whispered.

And then she turned and fled.

MARY’S BREAKFASTS OVER THE NEXT MORNINGS became an increasingly strange affair.

The experience put her in mind of a book she’d read as a small child—her very favorite book, one that her nurse had read to her twice daily until Mary had been able to recite it alongside her. She’d loved that book so much. But when she read it again at fifteen, she’d been utterly unable to understand the fascination that it had held. The words were still the same; it was she who had altered beyond recognition.

The breakfasts did not change, either, but Mary felt herself shifting, day by day, evening meeting by evening meeting. Sir Walter always read his paper; his wife always perused the fashion page. Tea, crumpets, and preserves were present at all times alongside the rotating fare of kippers and liver. And yet, somehow, over the course of the week, the tableau altered.

Sir Walter seemed smaller. His wife’s discussion of fashion stopped irritating her. The world became less stark, more forgiving.

When Mary was eight, she’d attempted one of her father’s books of poetry—dry, dull, inexplicable stuff, she had thought. But at nineteen, the words had captivated her.

That was the difference having a friend made. It didn’t change any of the underlying facts. Sir Walter was still a monster. He still held her salary; his wife still retreated into fashion. But Mary no longer dreaded waking on the mornings and that made everything better.

Today, a few scudding clouds overhead saved her from having to move the screen. Today, she noticed that the roses in the garden, almost past the prime of their bloom, still imparted a faint fragrance to the air. Today she could bear the endless monotony of Lady Patsworth’s lengthy commentary…

“An overskirt of black lace,” she was saying. “And underneath, pink satin. Black and pink.” She frowned. “That seems an unusual combination of color. But appealing, don’t you think?”

“It sounds a lovely mix of feminine and strong,” Mary agreed.

“What!?”

That shriek of outrage hadn’t come from Lady Patsworth. It had come from Sir Walter, who was slamming the paper down in a fury.

Lady Patsworth froze, her eyes wide with terror.

“Not black and pink,” she said hastily. “If it’s so objectionable. Surely I meant—”

“Is nothing sacred anymore?” Sir Walter ripped his section of newsprint in half and then reached across the table and yanked his wife’s section from her hands. He tore that in two as well.

“—I meant pink and white,” she was saying. “Feminine and virtuous, not feminine and strong. If that will make it better. Please. Don’t.”

Sir Walter stared wildly at her and then looked about him. His fists were full of paper; a maid had rushed from the house at his tirade. She drew up a few feet distant, as if unsure how to proceed.

He took a deep breath and made a ball of the shreds. “That’s it,” he announced crisply. “We are done with the paper in the mornings. I am canceling the subscription this very afternoon.”

Lady Patsworth swallowed. “But—”

He glared at her. “I won’t have my wife exposed to such rubbish.” He motioned the maid over and handed her the pieces. “Burn this,” he commanded. “Burn it immediately.”

She ducked her head and disappeared. After a long moment, Sir Walter followed her into the house.

Lady Patsworth stared after him in stunned silence. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t do this without something to take my mind…” Her hands were shaking.

Lady Patsworth was not the sort of person who encouraged her companions to share her confidences. She kept her distance.

Still… “Lady Patsworth,” Mary said, “is there not something that can be done?”

The other woman shook her head slowly. “That is what it means to be married. There is no escape. Even if I could send word to my brother…what could he do? I’m married to Sir Walter. I’m his responsibility, his charge. Legally. And there’s nothing anyone else can do about it.”

“Can that not be changed? He’s not…not faithful, is he?”

They’d never talked of anything so intimate. Lady Patsworth stared straight ahead and then shook her head.

“So you have cause for divorce.”