He stood by the window, looking out over the bleak, gray morning he had chosen for her departure. His back was to her, the set of his shoulders grimly determined. His complexion this morning was as gray as the clouds lowering over the hills and fields, fatigue etched in every line on his face.
Andrew was suffering. He had stopped trying to antagonize or avoid her, almost as if he had no energy to spare for such pretenses. He truly did want her safe, and that goal was directing this decision. His recent weeks of dodging her and barking at her had taken a toll, one Astrid was not happy to acknowledge.
He does need you, Astrid… The words brought her strength, for they were an admission beyond that niggardly business of simply caring for her.
She took a place beside him. He neither looked down nor made a move to touch her, until she rested her head on his shoulder and slipped an arm around his waist.
“I am as afraid of losing you, Andrew, as I am of losing my own life. I will do as you ask today and go to my sister’s household, but I fear what the future holds for us. I am afraid if I go today, you will believe you have won in your efforts to destroy the hope I have for our marriage.”
His arm came around her shoulders, and his lips brushed against her temple.
“If you go today, you do so simply to respect my need to keep you safe,” he said, relief evident in his voice. “I will visit when I can.”
Oh, what a lot of comfort that wasn’t. He would always find some horse to ride, some pamphlet to read, some ledger to stare at. He’d send her little notes, and she’d try to answer them…
She pulled away, the pain in her heart making her reckless.
“Perhaps you should not visit. You say I am being sent away simply as a function of my safety, but, Andrew, a part of you wants this too, and not because Gareth has the better, more trustworthy staff. You are confused about your reasons for marrying me. Maybe if I am not underfoot, your reasons will become more clear to you.”
He continued to stare out at the bleak, dreary day for a moment, then nodded.
One nod, and yet it was a death knell to Astrid’s hopes. If he’d had any intention of making a real marriage out of their situation, he would have argued with her. He would have put up a fight to see with his own eyes that she fared well; he would have made at least a pretense of remaining in her life.
Was this how it felt to drown, to struggle and struggle as the waves closed black and heavy over one’s head? No air, no light, no hope?
“Come,” he said, steering her toward the door. “The coach will be ready shortly, and we have preparations yet to make.”
The preparations consisted of an elaborate ruse that had short, pot-bellied Ezra sashaying up to the house in Astrid’s good cloak and bonnet, while Andrew, to all appearances, escorted Gwen over to Willowdale. In old breeches, duster, and floppy hat, Astrid took a place on the box between John Coachman and Andrew.
She steadied herself against the rocking of the coach by bracing herself against Andrew as they traveled the five miles to Willowdale. She did not cry, and she did not argue, but instead considered the man who’d made such tender, heartbreaking love to her the previous night.
Andrew had treated her to her second experience with parting sex, good-bye sex. She nearly hated him for it, except in hindsight, she could recognize the wellspring of the tenderness he had shown her. Andrew had been drawing upon anticipated sorrow and regret, and a man did not regret parting from a wife for whom he felt only a duty to protect.
***
Andrew followed his brother into the Willowdale library, feeling an incongruous sense of homecoming. He’d fallen a little in love with his wife in this room more than four years ago, when she’d tried her first sips of brandy, while Andrew, Gareth, and Felicity looked on.
“You are offering libation this early in the day?” Andrew asked as Gareth went to the selfsame decanter and poured them both a couple of fingers of spirits.
“To the health of our wives.” Gareth lifted his glass. Andrew did likewise, and savored the smooth burn of good brandy.
Gareth set his glass down barely touched. “I need fortification, because my wife’s circumstances trouble me. She is so consistently uncomfortable these days, anything I can think of to pass the time, I offer to her. I read to her, rub her back, rub her feet, play the guitar for her, or brush her hair until she falls asleep. I stroll with her morning, noon, and night. I get up in the middle of the night to stroll with her yet more. I have never done so damned much pacing about in my life, and all at the speed of a drunken turtle.”
When was the last time Gareth had confided his woes this way? Not since he and Felicity had faced all manner of difficulty on their road to the altar.