Here we were, then, two people who had had a night of passion, facing each other in the light of day. It was sordid and sad, and it made me angry. I came out of the bedroom, wearing only my chemise, and stood before him. He had removed his hat and gloves, but he still wore the black coat, and he was slouched a little in my uncomfortable chair, his hands in his lap. I ignored the wince of unhappiness on his face.
“Money doesn’t make you better than me,” I said. “Money doesn’t make anyone better than anyone.”
He looked at me, and there was nothing predatory in it. His gaze did not travel my chemise, my bare arms, my hair tumbling over my shoulders. But his features smoothed as he looked at my face, the unhappiness draining away, for all the world as if he were looking at something he liked. I admitted to myself in that moment that I was horribly, hopelessly in love with him, and that the pain of it would be something that could be overcome but would never entirely go away.
“I know it,” he replied, and he stood and shrugged off his coat.
I took a step back as I watched him remove his charcoal suit jacket as well, leaving him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. “What are you doing?” I asked.
He did not reply but strode to my bedroom, and for a moment I wondered if I had read him wrong, if he expected something of me after all. But he only reemerged a moment later, my bathrobe in his hands. “Here,” he said, sliding it over my shoulders.
I put my arms in the sleeves and pulled the robe tight, still watching him. He stood close to me now, and I could smell the scent of his skin that I had come to know so well. I could not speak.
“Where is the bathroom?” he asked.
I pointed vaguely. “Down the hall.”
He nodded and took my hand in his. He pulled me gently toward the door.
I resisted. “What are you doing?” I asked again.
He did not let go of my hand. “You are exhausted,” he explained. “And you are worried. A hot bath will help. Let’s go.”
“We can’t,” I protested, thinking of my neighbor down the hall, a middle-aged lady with a pimply neck and pouchy eyes, who watched everything I did with sour disapproval. “I already can’t have a man here. We can’t go—the both of us—everyone will know.”
He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, for the first time giving me a flirtatious look that melted my knees. “I promise not to get in with you,” he said solemnly. “Come with me.”
He led me down the hall, and when my neighbor popped out of her doorway to stare at us, as she inevitably did, he only nodded politely at her and bade her good evening.
“She cannot have a man here!” the woman shouted at our retreating backs.
Alex only ushered me into the bathroom and turned back to address her briefly. “My good lady, she already does.” Then he closed the door with a soft click.
He let the bathtub fill as I stood frozen in place, unable to move. The bathroom was not large, and he seemed to fill the space, even in his shirtsleeves. He tested the water, then untied the bathrobe and slid it from my shoulders, rearranging my long hair. “You will not be evicted,” he said softly. “I promise.”
I said nothing. I had no words left; I had nothing to say. I stood like a tailor’s mannequin as he raised the hem of my chemise and drew it up my body. I lifted my arms as he pulled it over my head. I had nothing to say even as I stood naked before him. All of my anger had drained away, and all of my worry, and all of my terror, and I was left an empty shell. Alex took my shoulders, turned me, and helped me into the bathtub.
The water was hot, and something of a shock, and I drew in a deep intake of breath. As the heat worked through my limbs, I took another and another. Alex pulled up the bathroom’s small stool behind me without a word and sat. He found a sponge and washed my back, gently, winding my hair out of the way. His hands were adept, his touch sure. I hugged my knees, staring down at the water. He lifted my hair from the back of my neck and ran the sponge there, too, the sensation filling me with warmth. The silence stretched out, settled like an even blanket, free of awkwardness. We seemed to need no words.
He did not try to touch me beyond that. I felt my mind stop spinning, stop scheming. I made a sound, and I realized I was crying, my tears falling into the water.
Alex put the sponge down and slid his arm around me, across the top of my chest, drawing me gently backward. I could feel him behind me, the silk of his waistcoat against my bare shoulder blades. He had not rolled back his sleeves, and his arm, still clad in its white shirtsleeve, dragged in the water, soaked through.
He pressed his lips to the side of my neck in a single passionate kiss, and I felt his breath against me. “Jo,” he said.
And suddenly I stopped fighting. I looked down at his arm, soaked so heedlessly in the water yet still holding me, and something about it cracked me open. The old Jo was gone, and someone new and unknown took her place. Someone who wanted to love Alex Manders more than anything. I lowered my defenses, put down my weapons, and let everything go.
Two weeks later, I married him.
There was no baby; not then and not later. It never mattered. We had each other.
And then he went to war, and he died. And he left me alone to start fighting again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN