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She led him to the table, where she had left the house plans. Her hands were clumsy as she smoothed them out, and her mouth was dry and confused. To think that when they first met, she did not care what he thought and said whatever she pleased!
Somehow, she untangled her tongue to speak.
“I am proposing a few changes to the house to reflect the changes to the family.” She pointed with one finger and hoped he did not notice it shaking. “This wing here; we don’t use it much. I thought to convert a few of the rooms into an apartment for Mama. It is near the kitchen garden and her distillery, so she can grow herbs and have a patch of garden all of her own. We have no dower house, but this way she can have her own privacy and space, but also be part of us.”
He said nothing, studying the paper, his lips pursed in thought.
“And here, well, I’m doing less with the estate now, so Papa’s study—I mean, the main study—it’s not being used, I mean, except…So…”
No need to say it. He could read the label she had written: “Mr. DeWitt’s study,” with the room next to it designated “Mrs. DeWitt’s workroom,” and she liked the idea that they would be working side by side.
She glanced at him.
He said nothing.
She slid away the top page to reveal the plans for the bedchambers on the first floor.
“With Mama in her own apartments, we can move into the main suites.”
She smoothed her hand over the plans: “Mr. DeWitt’s bedchamber,” and, next to it, “Mrs. DeWitt’s bedchamber.” Not that they ever slept apart now; he used his own room for washing and dressing only. She curled her fingers into her skirts. Still he said nothing. He had gone horribly still.
“Of course, I shall redecorate them extensively, to make them our own, so you must let me know what colors you prefer, or let me choose and…”
Her words trailed away as he touched a finger to the ink.
“Why?” he said, so quietly she barely heard. “Why did you do this?”
She could not understand his question, and his profile gave no clues. “You said I should claim the space, so this is what I’m doing. But our marriage gave you this house too, whatever you say, and you should feel comfortable. ”
“Ever the dutiful wife.”
“I’m trying to do what’s right.”
And we are right, she wanted to scream.We are right. Together, here or Birmingham or anywhere, I’m stronger and happier for knowing you, you’re calmer and happier for knowing me.
And then she recalled his words in London, when he said he wanted her to be honest, not dutiful and polite. Honest was hard, because if he didn’t like her honesty, she had nowhere to hide.
Besides, she was nursing a much bigger lie than this.
She waited, hoping that he would burst out with something like “No, this is how I want it” or “Yes, that’ll work,” and Birmingham would be gone.
Instead, he said nothing. He picked up the pages and leaned back against the table, staring at them, although she did not know what he saw.
“I want you here,” she said unsteadily, to his profile. “I know your life is in Birmingham, and I’ll go there with you happily if you want. But this is your home too.”
Every inch of him was as taut as a rope about to snap. She had no breath and she had no skin and she still had to tell him the rest.
But then he shuffled to the third page. The one she hadn’t been brave enough to reveal: the upper floors, with the nursery and schoolroom. And the little sketches of animals and flowers drawn by her friend and neighbor Juno Bell, as ideas for painting the walls.
He lowered the plans and stared across the room, at nothing, perhaps, or at the window through which he had leaped. He understood; of course he did.
She waited, her hands clammy, her mouth dry.
His brows drew into a frown, and she realized his gaze had sharpened on something: her workbasket, with its jumble of fabric. His eyes hardened. Whatever he was feeling, it was not joy.
It is your child, not mine, he had said.I want nothing to do with it.
Her heart fell and shattered.
