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He couldn’t fathom it, these sudden changes in her habits, but he could only account for them by thinking that somehow Marion had become rapidly unhappy. Things had been off-kilter since Marion had returned from her visit to Eleanor yesterday. Last night they had lain together, as was their new custom, but Simon felt like he had been able to sense a slight distancing in Marion. She was not reluctant by any means, but their lovemaking that evening had taken on the quality of passionate oblivion, as if Marion was trying to disconnect from reality in the fervour of their encounter. Afterwards, as they had lain in one another’s arms and Simon was close to falling asleep, he had been jerked awake by Marion pulling away, letting cold air under the quilts as she slid from the bed.
“What is it?” he had asked blearily.
“I - I am feeling a little unsettled,” she had whispered back. “I shall sleep in my own chamber tonight.”
Simon had been too tired question her, exhausted from their lovemaking, and had fallen back into a slumber immediately without concern. After all, sometimes a lady needed her space for a night. He had awoken the following morning feeling a little disconcerted not to have Marion by his side, as he was accustomed, but had no real concern about it. Then he rose from his chamber, expecting to meet her as was customary in the breakfast parlour where they usually shared eggs and coffee over the morning papers, but could not find her anywhere.
“Where is the Countess, Mrs Bolton?” he had asked, after checking for his wife in the empty breakfast parlour. “I had expected to break my fast with her.”
“Why, she has eaten breakfast already, My Lord,” Mrs Bolton had said, frowning slightly. “It was a little odd, now I think of it. She was up with the lark and ate early, and now she has gone to visit the poor tenants with the food parcels, My Lord.”
“Oh.” Simon tried not to appear baffled by this in front of his housekeeper. “Was she scheduled to make the visits?”
“I do not know, My Lord,” Mrs Bolton said. “She did not say so to myself or Hughes, but it did need to be done.”
Simon had tried not to read anything into this—after all, Marion did have duties as the Countess of Reading, and it was right that she committed herself to delivering them in a prompt and appropriate manner. He breakfasted alone, content in the assumption that he would see her in the afternoon as they customarily did, either in the music room or for a walk in the grounds. But when he sought her out after his lunch, the music room was empty and her bedchamber door was closed.
Loretta had whispered to him cautiously that her mistress had gone to lie down, and Loretta looked as confused by the notion as he was. All the household had become familiar with a version of Marion that was active and lively, busy with her work and never idle. The idea that, for two days in a row, she might put herself to bed in the afternoon, was alarming. Simon tried to tell himself that of course, it was more than ordinary for a lady to need time alone, especially at certain times of the month, but when his wife had not even emerged by dinner, he went so far as to question Loretta about it.
“Is the Countess…indisposed?” he asked quietly in the parlour as Loretta came out of Marion’s bedroom to tell him that she would forego formal dinner and simply have a bite of supper that evening when they customarily read together after their meal.
“I - I am unsure, My Lord,” Loretta had whispered, glancing back over her shoulder to the closed door of her mistress’s bedroom. “She was quite well yesterday morning.”
Simon felt a small chill of foreboding at that moment. Loretta’s account matched his own of when Marion’s mood had shifted. He couldn’t shake the idea that something had happened at her meeting with Eleanor. The Countess of Brixton was Marion’s closest friend, as dear as a sister, and Simon knew that if his wife had somehow fallen out with Nathan’s wife, then the both of them would surely be melancholy. He had been wondering all evening how he might broach the topic, but now, as he looked at the empty brandy glass by her elbow, he knew he must try and say something.
“How was your visit with Eleanor and the boys yesterday?” he asked quietly breaking the silence. Immediately, Marion jumped as if she had been caught out, almost dropping the book from her hands. Simon’s stomach plummeted with a heavy sense of something being confirmed. She was definitely preoccupied.
“Oh, it - it was quite lovely,” Marion stammered. “Yes, I enjoyed their company very much.”
Simon felt an immediate jolt of disappointment. Though she had barely said anything, Simon could feel the concealment in her words. Since they had begun their physical relationship, Simon had become attuned to Marion’s body, to how her jaw tightened when she was thinking or how her shoulder muscles loosened under her dress when she was relaxed. Even without touching her, Simon could tell she was as taut as a bowstring, almost vibrating with nervous energy. He couldn’t understand it, how the woman with whom he had shared such intimacies could feel the need to hide things from him. He tried, even though he felt like it might be fruitless, to engage her one more time.
“You seem…distracted of late, Marion,” he said, trying to keep his voice as light as possible. “Is it possible that something troubles you?”
“Not at all.” Her voice was so smooth, so calm, that if they had been speaking at their earliest acquaintance, Simon would have easily believed her, having no reason to suspect otherwise. But now, knowing her as he did, noticing the slight twitch of her wedding finger against the leather binding of her book, he could sense the concealment in her voice.
“You were unwell this afternoon?” he asked as gently as possible.
“I was fatigued,” Marion said, a tinge of rosy flush beginning at the neckline of her pink gown. Simon knew, from their many nights of passion, that her skin only reacted that way when she was a little embarrassed or flustered. Was she embarrassed because she was feeling awkward about a sudden illness, or flustered because she was trying to hide something from him?
“You know you can share any concerns of yours with me, Marion,” he said gently, reaching across the small distance to clasp her hand tightly. He felt a sudden stiffening in her, and for a horrible moment thought she might pull away from his touch. But her hand relaxed, and her fingers entwined with his softly. There was a slight recession of the tension around Simon’s heart—she was not completely shutting him out, at least.
“I understand, Simon.” She squeezed his hand briefly, but then stood up, setting down her book. “I am still tired. I shall retire.”
“Oh. Should I accompany you?”
Simon was nervous to ask her, felt awkward at the sudden distance between the two of them. He longed to reach out, to take her into his arms, but somehow, he felt that he couldn’t. Where had this come from? This feeling that she was pulling away from him?
“No, I - I have a headache.” Marion avoided his eye, ducking her head as she walked to the door. Simon felt like he could not let her walk away without saying something more.
“Marion…”
“Yes, Simon?” She paused in the doorway to her bedchamber. Simon swallowed hard, fumbling for the right words. What did he want to say to her?
What is wrong? Why are you distant? Why do I feel like you are withdrawing from me, even as I reach out my hands to catch you? Why do the women I care for always leave me?
“I…If you need me, I shall only be here,” Simon said, unable to speak the truth of his heart. He bowed to his wife, hoping to hide the panic and sensation of distress that he was sure must be visible in his eyes.
“Thank you. Good night, Simon.”
