Tabitha lowered her embroidery to her lap, her expression thoughtful. “Forgive me for saying so, but Lord Warwicke has been particularly attentive to you of late.”
“He has.”
“I do not believe he is as immune to your charm as he claims,” Tabitha continued, a knowing gleam in her eyes.
Dorothea shook her head. “That is not the issue. He’s not avoiding affection because he is indifferent, but he believes he is sparing me. He sees this marriage as a trap… for me.”
“And what do you believe?”
Dorothea closed her book and laid it aside. “I don’t want to lose Dominic,” she confessed.
“Then you must continue the fight,” Tabitha said with conviction.
A frown tugged at Dorothea’s lips. “I’ve tried, but he remains so resolute. I don’t know how to show him that I am better off with him than without him. He is being stubborn to a fault.”
Tabitha regarded her closely. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but may I ask about your brother? It seems evident that you fear him.”
Dorothea nodded. “My brother is not a kind man. He used to strike me. It was always worse when no one was around to intervene. And I cannot go back. I will not live under his roof again.”
“I do not believe Lord Warwicke would ever permit such a thing,” Tabitha said.
Dorothea looked back to the window. “Sometimes, when he’s not thinking, I see a softness in him… something tender flickering behind the walls he’s built. But then he remembers himself, and it vanishes like a candle being snuffed out.”
“War leaves strange shadows behind,” Tabitha murmured. “My husband’s last letters were so dark, and his words grew distant, grim. As though hope itself had been bled from him.”
“I was there,” Dorothea said. “I was never on the battlefield, but I saw the aftermath—the wounded men, the screams in the night, the hollow eyes. I saw what war left behind.”
“Then you saw more than most women ever do,” Tabitha replied. “Some might say that makes you lucky.”
Dorothea gave a humorless laugh. “Lucky?” she repeated. “I lost my father during the war, and now I am losing my husband to it—just in a different way.”
“Give Lord Warwicke time,” Tabitha urged.
“Time is all I ever give him. Dominic walked into my life as if he had always lived there, like my heart had always been his.”
Tabitha’s gaze softened with understanding. “You love him.”
“I do,” Dorothea whispered. “I don’t even know why. There is no logic to it. But my heart is quite decided.”
Tabitha gave a wistful smile. “The heart seldom listens to reason. I loved my husband from the moment we met. We were young and reckless. He promised he’d make his fortune during the war and come back to us. But he never did.”
“I’m so sorry,” Dorothea said, her voice thick with empathy.
Tabitha sighed, her expression a mixture of sorrow and resignation. “It’s all right. I try to focus on the blessings I still have. I have a good job here, and Tristan is thriving under this roof.”
“You’ve raised a good son.”
“I think so,” Tabitha replied. “Though I’m rather biased.”
Dorothea smiled. “That’s the mark of any good mother.”
A firm knock interrupted the moment.
Tabitha set aside her needlework and crossed the room. “Who is there?”
“Molly,” came the muffled reply from the other side. “Wright asked me to inform Lady Warwicke that Lady Westcott and Lady Bedford have come to call.”
Turning towards Dorothea, Tabitha asked, “Do you wish to receive them?”
