Sebastian awoke in the cold air of the guest room. Again.
Hope was the damndest thing. All his wife had had to do the night before was allow him one conversation, one evening of mutual peace at the theatre, and now here he was, pining. One single step in the right direction was enough. At the very least, it allowed him to hold onto his ambition of regaining what they’d once had.
In a way, the evening before had been even better. Their conversation, though stilted at first, had come without any of the requisite guilt over things left unsaid. He’d trusted that everything Augusta had said was the truth, and in turn, he believed that she’d trusted the same of himself. It was small. But it was something.
“Something,” he muttered to himself later that morning in his study. Financial papers were set out in front of him, but the words and numbers upon them meant little. Everything was paid off. A few investments were already seeing returns.
All that remained was Augusta.
He wanted to find a way to speak with her today. Something more than the mere bouquets he had been sending to her, each of them with their own pathetic plea for forgiveness. She had not commented on any of them thus far, and he had not inquired. He did not need to be told directly that they meant nothing to her.
Their time at the theatre last night had been a turning point, but it was still not an equal melding of the minds. They’d gone to the restaurant he’d chosen, listened to the music that he’d wanted to listen to. It had all been at his behest. Another thing that meant nothing to her.
He knew what would mean something to her. It had been in the top drawer of his desk since yesterday; an advertisement in the paper for an upcoming speech, to be given at the University of London. Featuring one Leonard Braithwaite. The topic was phrenology, which he was unlikely to understand, but which Augusta would probably love to tell him about. They could speak without a fight. Perhaps life would return to her eyes for more than a few minutes at a time.
It was slated for the very next weekend. As soon as he’d seen it, his heart had leapt in two directions at once. On the one hand, wanting to rush and show it to Augusta, and receive a smile from her in return. On the other hand, to hide it, so that anything regarding alienists might be put out of her mind forever.
He pulled the drawer open, looking down at the advertisement. Today, the former urge was winning. It would certainly make her happy. Maybe even pull her out of her spell completely.
Already, his scheming mind was working to capitalize upon her recent allowance of his attention. He thought up trips to Switzerland for the winter, where they could breathe in the fresh air of the alps and forget about all the terrible things that hadoccurred in the stuffy rooms of London. He thought of taking her north, so that Georgie and his mother could finally see her. They had been so cross with him for marrying too quickly for them to travel for the wedding.
It was somewhere in the depths of these schemes that he made the decision. Grabbing the advertisement, he slammed the drawer shut and went in search of Augusta.
He found her in the drawing room, sitting beside the window. Bathed in warm morning light, she appeared so much like herself again. Her hair was done up, her dress clinging to her curves. When she looked up upon his entrance, there was subtle keenness in her expression. A bit of good humor, even.
It egged him on, so that when he came to stand before her, he’d already decided that he was doing the right thing.
“I…wanted to ask you to join me for something again,” he said, trepidatious.
He thought he saw her expression fall upon hearing that. Not a great deal, but enough that he knew what she expected of him; to invite her to something that he wanted to attend, irrespective of her own interests.
“It is that Braithwaite fellow,” he blurted out, holding out the advertisement. “He is doing a speech. I thought…well, you know…that we could attend together.”
She took it from him, her brow knit in confusion. When her eyes skimmed the page, he watched the confusion turn into disbelief.
“You really mean it?” she breathed, astounded. “You’d let me?”
Let me. She really did sound like a prisoner in his home. He had done that to her, by stripping away all of what had made her the Augusta he’d met, even if he had not known it at the time. Now, seeing some of that mysterious, unfathomable ether seep into her features, he knew that this was the right choice.
“Yes,” he said, lowering himself down to one knee so that he was eye level with her. She did not flinch away from the intimate gesture. “I’d like to understand it all. It might not be my passion, but surely there is some capacity that you could still enjoy it. It was wrong of me to keep it from you entirely.”
As he spoke, her entire countenance eased toward him. Then she looked back down at the advertisement and frowned.
“I would love to, but…the date.”
“The date?”
She nodded, appearing quite devastated. “Yes. I have something on that day.”
The way she said it sparked immediate suspicion. It reminded him of all the times that she had told him she was calling on Ginny, when he now knew that she was sneaking away with Pinkton. His heart sped up.
“What do you have?” he asked steadily.
She pressed her lips together, looking guilty. His suspicion was cemented.
“You are going to be upset.”
“Augusta,” he said, dragging out her name in warning.
