She almost could not bring herself to speak of it. “I was talking about the rifle.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “What rifle?”
“You were staring into the barrel of a shotgun.”
“You mean the dummy rifle I found in the shed?”
Her jaw dropped. “It was a dummy?”
“Very much. A child’s toy.” He laughed. “Perhaps we should introduce you to some proper firearms, so you can tell the difference next time.”
Her face heated. “This is terribly embarrassing, isn’t it?”
Now that he was sober, his eyes were an unearthly blue. “It is, for me: that I should have behaved in such a way as to cause anyone to doubt my will to live.”
“You’d endured a terrible loss.”
“Nothing others—including yourself—haven’t endured.”
He was inclined to gloss over heartbreak and affliction—again, like her.
The road turned. A gorgeous vista opened before them: a wide, oval lake, as green as the emerald peaks that framed it. All along the banks, late summer flowers bloomed, their reflections, white and mauve, like a string of pearls around the lake. On the distant shore stood a pretty village with ivy-covered cottages, their window boxes still aflame with geraniums and cyclamens.
“Well,” she said, “at least the honeymoon is over.”
“Yes.” He tilted his face to the sky, as if marveling at the sensation of sunlight on his skin. “Thank God.”
CHAPTER 6
1896
Fitz stood outside Isabelle’s house.
The day before, he’d hesitated in front of her door because he’d needed to cope with both an exorbitant hope and an equally strong fear of disappointment. But that was yesterday, before they’d committed themselves to a future together, a future once thought to be lost. Today he should enter her home with a spring in his step and no uncertainties whatsoever.
But last night he had discussed the matter with Millie. And sixteen hours later, he remained unsettled by her burst of panic, her horror at what he’d proposed. She’d agreed in the end, but the sense of rejection had lingered, as if all their years of mutual affection and common purpose counted for nothing.
He rang the bell and was duly admitted. In Isabelle’s sunny parlor, they embraced a long time before taking their seats. She was well; the children were well. She’d taken them for a tour of the British Museum in the morning. Alexander couldn’t get enough of the suits of armor. Hyacinth had been fascinated by the mummies, especially those of animals—and was already plotting to preserve General, their elderly cat, for all eternity, when the latter gave up the ghost.
“I can guess where she might have come by her mischief,” said Fitz.
Isabelle chortled. “I dare say she will quite surpass me as a miscreant.”
The tea tray was brought in. She rose and went to a side cabinet. “Tea is such a silly drink for a man. Can I offer you something stronger?”
He had not touched a drop of “something stronger” since the Lake District. “No, thank you. Tea is fine.”
She looked a little disappointed. There was much she did not know about him—or he her. But they had time for catching up on the past later.
She sat down again and poured tea. “Yesterday you said you needed to speak to your wife. Did the conversation go well?”
If the conversation had gone well, then he ought not feel this strange hollowness inside. Yet he could not report that it had gone ill, since he did obtain what he wanted.
“Well enough,” he said, and gave Isabelle a highly abbreviated version of what he and Millie had agreed between them.
“Six months!” Isabelle exclaimed. “I thought speaking to your wife would be a mere formality.”
“It’s never quite so simple when you are married.” Or so he’d begun to realize.
“But you’ve been married almost eight years. If you haven’t managed to procreate in that much time, how will six more months help?”
He’d anticipated this question. “We have seldom attempted to procreate. I had my needs met elsewhere and Lady Fitzhugh, as far as I could tell, was pleased to be left alone.”
“How seldom?”
“We spent a few nights together during the honeymoon.”
Technically, he was not lying, but he was deliberately creating the wrong impression. He did not want anyone, especially Isabelle, to think that there was anything irregular or incomplete about his marriage. Millie would be mortified.
It surprised him how easily he thought of her as Millie—perhaps he’d done so for a while now, without quite realizing it.