Page 63 of The Work of Art

“I can’t say it feels like much of an obligation to hold you in my arms.”

“You needn’t be so gallant about it. I know you must think me one of those ladies who burst into tears at the slightest provocation.”

“I assure you I don’t.”

“The truth is, I’ve cried more in the last several days than I have in my whole life.”

“A great deal has happened that was worth crying about.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Arthur searched her face, that calm, sweetly serious face that had tilted up to his throughout the entirety of his tale. She’d listened to him with the whole of her being, drawing more out of him with her silence than anyone else had ever done with their probing questions. And she was right. He felt better for having shared it with her.

But Philly clearly didn’t feel better. The knowledge of what he’d suffered was painful to her. And she was tired. How had he not noticed it before? She was pale as marble and there were shadows under her eyes.

“Did you sleep last night when you returned to your room?” he asked abruptly.

“No,” she admitted.

He scowled. It was in his every instinct to read her a lecture on the dangers of making herself ill. But such concern seemed hypocritical after how he himself had treated her.

“You needn’t worry over me,” she said. “I’m not fragile. A night or two without sleep isn’t likely to kill me.”

“Don’t even jest about such things.”

A chill breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, rippling over the surface of the pond. Dash raised his head from the grass and growled low in his throat as the bushes beside him quivered in the wind.

Philly turned to watch her dogs for a while, making sure all was well.

“Perhaps it would be best if we return home now before the weather takes a turn for the worse?” he suggested.

“If you like.”

Arthur retrieved his cane and rose from the stone bench. “You can have a lie-down before dinner.” He helped her to her feet.

“I’m not that tired, Arthur. And I won’t allow you to become one of those husbands who are constantly sending their wives to their room.”

“I shall try my utmost not to succumb to the temptation.” Arthur offered her his arm. She took it as unreservedly as she always did.

The dogs sprang to their feet to escort them back along the path. Fox peered up at Philly, but gave no indication that he wished to be carried. He trotted along with the other dogs, soon leading the way ahead with Jasper as if they intuitively knew the way their mistress was headed.

The way toward home.

The next two weeks went by rapidly, and very soon their days began to fall into a sort of pattern. Every morning when Philly came downstairs to the breakfast room, Arthur was there waiting for her. He didn’t talk much while they ate, but before the end of their meal, he never failed to query her about her plans for the day. She soon learned that, for whatever reason, it was important to him that he know exactly where she was at all times. She indulged him in this for it seemed a harmless fancy, not unlike something a new, rather possessive husband might do.

They had their meals together, they went for walks, and in the evenings, she played to him on the old, out-of-tune pianoforte in the drawing room. There wasn’t a great deal of current sheet music at Heywood House, and after a few antiquated, off-key songs which Arthur didn’t criticize but Philly knew were deplorable, she’d give up the pianoforte and end the evening listening to him read aloud from one of her favorite Greek classics.

Arthur never showed the slightest regret about relinquishing his solitude in order to be with her. In fact, Philly began to suspect he rather preferred her company. There were still many hours of the day that he spent in his library, but more and more, he sought her out. Once he’d even come upon her in the small parlor while she was engaged with her needlework, and instead of withdrawing, he’d joined her there, alternately reading his newspaper and watching her sew until it was time to escort her into luncheon.

As much as he desired to be near her during the day, Arthur never visited her room at night. Philly had come to the conclusion that he’d meant what he said that day in the clearing. They could never again be together as they were on their wedding night. She was sure he feared hurting her and was still punishing himself for what he’d done to her after his nightmare, but she made no effort to broach the subject. In many ways, she didn’t know how she could.

It didn’t seem right to complain when everything else was so wonderful. He’d given her his name, and he’d given her and her dogs a home of their very own. Sometimes she still yearned for her old life in Fox Cross, but her new life didn’t feel so very isolated or confining. Arthur provided more than enough companionship, and when she wasn’t spending time with him, she was well occupied arranging things in the house for their comfort.

She hadn’t managed to win over the servants yet. Not entirely. Though Mrs. Lamb showed signs of gradually warming to her, she still eyed Philly with suspicion on occasion. And Philly had more than once come across the housemaids giggling and gossiping at her expense.

To make matters worse, within a few days of her arrival, the staff had somehow got wind of her previous association with the duke. It was a source of great speculation among them. Only yesterday she’d heard Violet and a young parlor maid whispering about it in the hall outside her bedroom.

“To think she could’ve been a duchess!” Violet had proclaimed. “And she gave it up to run away with Captain Heywood? Don’t sound right, if you ask me.”