“I didn’t,” he pointed out, as I knew he would. “I told you to get some sleep.”
I sighed and rolled over again, my dress rustling. Behind me, he put his head to the pillow. We had lain like this for many a night during our marriage, and our bodies fit together; Alex was adept at taking up little space with his long, lean body and leaving me most of the bed.
“Where did you go, then?” I asked. “When you left earlier?”
“Martin was still up,” he replied. “I talked to him for a while.”
“Getting your story just right,” I said.
“I told you, it’s important.”
Such an accomplished liar he’d become. “You can’t sleep here every night.”
“Yes, I can. You’ve been free of my attentions for three years,” he said in a light murmur that held a shiver of deadly seriousness. “You may have enjoyed your little vacation, but it’s at an end.”
“You didn’t come back here for me,” I said.
“Yes, I did.”
“Are you denying that you had other reasons as well?”
He was silent. I was right. I had picked it up without thinking, in watching and listening to him, hidden in the silent code of communication between man and wife. It told me he was thinking of something besides me, that there was something else going on. He had telegraphed it to me unawares. It didn’t even hurt—it was sort of a relief, in a way, an easy exit from my painful confusion and back into numbness. I closed my eyes.
“I have my reasons,” Alex said, “for not telling you my reasons.”
“Then I suppose we’re at a standstill,” I replied. “Go to sleep.”
I did not sleep for a long time, and I didn’t think he did, either. My head throbbed. My eyes ached. And still I lay in the silence, feeling his chest against my back and listening to him breathe.
CHAPTER THIRTY
He was gone when I awoke the next morning. The bedroom was deserted, as were the bathroom and the corridor. It was midmorning, and most of last night’s guests had left as I was still in bed, sleeping. The Staffrons were gone as well, their bedrooms empty.
I took my time washing, running hot water from Dottie’s expensive modern taps, the peacock dress hanging over the rail above me, the steam making headway on the wrinkles in the silk. I sponged myself thoroughly, then returned to the bedroom and dressed in one of my new dresses, a pair of my new stockings, and my new shoes. I wound my hair neatly and tied it into a chignon, fixing it with pins. Something about the slow routine felt strengthening. I wanted to be ready to go downstairs and see what awaited me.
Breakfast had finished—I was quite late—and the dishes were already cleared from the morning room. The only person there was Dottie, standing at the French doors and looking over the terrace. She turned to me.
“It’s about time, Manders,” she said. “There’s no time for breakfast; you’ll have to eat later. Take a cup of tea with you to the library. We’re having a family meeting.”
The very normalcy of her rudeness soothed me. I took a cup of tea and followed her narrow wool-clad back down the corridor to the library.
The family was already in the library. Robert lounged against a bookshelf; Martin sat alone on a sofa, looking pale. Alex sat in the chair opposite Dottie’s desk, as if he were a visitor, wearing a tweed jacket, caramel trousers, and expensive leather oxfords, one long leg crossed over the other and one elbow flung behind him over the back of his chair. He watched me as I came through the door.
Other than Dottie’s, there were no chairs left except the one behind my little typewriter, which had been pulled up next to Alex. I sat in it, my hands in my lap, and waited.
“Well,” Dottie said to the room. She walked briskly to her desk and stood behind it. “Now that the guests are gone, we can have a discussion. Last night was unexpected, but I believe the scandal has temporarily been contained.”
“We’re glad to have you back, old chap,” Robert said.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Alex replied.
“My concern now is the family’s privacy,” Dottie said. “We kept the news from the party guests, but the servants have undoubtedly already begun talking. Stories will spread, and as stories spread they become wilder and more untrue.”
There was no argument from anyone in the room. I thought of Frances, the tales that she had been kept in chains. I wondered if Mrs. Baines, the village postmistress, had heard about Alex already.
“I think gossip is the least of my worries, Aunt Dottie,” Alex said. “I intend to ignore it.”
“That would be foolish of you,” Dottie said. “It’s best if you keep away from the village, at least for now. I don’t want any talk to harm Martin’s engagement.”
“Oh, please, Mother,” Martin protested tiredly. “What does it matter? Alex is alive, and he’s home. What does it matter what anyone thinks?”