Harriet pressed her lips together in a way that told him she was not pleased, but she said no more on the subject.
Dinner that evening followed the same pattern as all the previous evenings since they’d left London. He and Harriet carried the conversation while Rose stayed largely silent. Rose dutifully responded to Harriet’s conversational gambits but addressed no comments to Gil, except to respond to his direct questions to her, and even then only in monosyllables. Did she like the soup? Yes. Had she enjoyed exploring the grounds earlier? Yes. She stared at the table for much of the meal and ate very little. She needed feeding up, he thought.
Her gown, a pale blue satin in a dashing style that a fashionable young matron might wear, looked far too old for her. She looked even younger than usual tonight, like a schoolgirl permitted to dine with the grown-ups for the first time. Exhausted too, after the gruelling journey.
As they ate, Gil found himself sneaking glances at her. She didn’t notice him looking. Since the wedding, he’d been trying his hardest to act as though she wasn’t really there, but suddenly it was impossible to banish her from his thoughts. He kept seeing her as he’d left her the night before, a small, despairing figure in a large bed, face turned to the wall.
The wave of resentment that he had been riding since his father had confessed his own foolishness had petered out in that moment. Not that he was happy about his situation—and not that he still didn’t think painfully of Tilly—but it was difficult to maintain the simmering anger when he remembered seeing her like that.
He found himself remembering the Rose of that first meeting in London. At first sight, she’d been quiet and self-conscious, but slowly, cautiously, her petals had unfurled as he’d talked to her. He’d made it his goal to make the sad-looking young girl laugh, and he’d succeeded too. It was second nature to him to draw people out of their shells, and within minutes he had coaxed a smile from her, then a giggle. By the end of the visit, she’d had a little sparkle in her eye and had made him laugh quite genuinely with a sly joke that had sailed over everyone else’s heads. He’d been rather charmed by that, actually. It had almost made him forget that he’d been feeling sorry for her up till then.
Where was that girl now? Since their betrothal, he had only seen this silent mouse. He suspected the real Rose was not this mute, miserable girl. Suspected too that he might have scared the real Rose away. A week ago, that thought might have given him a certain twisted satisfaction. Not now.
Even so, it seemed to him there was no way to make the situation better. Rose must hate him after last night. The thought unsettled him. He had always believed himself to be friendly and likeable. He hadn’t known he’d had it in him to be so angry or so cruel.
He started, realising Harriet had asked a question. Politely, he shifted his gaze from Rose. “My apologies, cousin. What were you saying?”
Harriet smiled at him indulgently. She had noted the direction of his gaze and no doubt thought he had been gazing at his wife out of an excess of romantic devotion.
While Harriet prattled cheerfully, Gil motioned to a footman to refill the wineglasses. He drank deeply, finding it impossible to follow Harriet’s meandering story.
Rose was concentrating on her dinner, moving her cutlery industriously without seeming to actually use it to transfer any food to her mouth. She had that blank, careful expression on again. The one she’d worn in church when they exchanged their vows.
He wondered if she would expect him to come to her tonight? He hoped not. And yet… Part of him wanted a chance to make amends for the evening before. He decided that if she asked him again, he would go to her and do everything in his power to make her feel wanted. He would show her tenderness. He would make it good for her.
He could try at least.
After dinner, Harriet asked Rose if she would play the pianoforte for them.
“I didn’t know you played,” Gil said, attempting a smile in Rose’s direction.
“I told you the first time we met,” she answered in a flat little voice. That made him feel foolish and thoughtless, and he found himself blustering something about how silly it was of him to have forgotten while Rose watched him with an unconvinced sort of look. Harriet interrupted the awkward conversation by suggesting they retire to the music room and asking the footman to arrange for a tea tray to be sent there.
When they reached the music room, Harriet excused herself to fetch her embroidery, leaving Gil and Rose alone. Gil began racking his brains for something to say, but it wasn’t necessary. Rose ignored him, making straight for the piano. She picked up a sheaf of Antonia’s sheet music and started leafing through it. After a dozen pages, her faint frown deepened, and he wondered if she was regretting agreeing to play. Perhaps the music was beyond her. Antonia, he recalled, was considered rather good.