“You will be in the library until six,” she said, dryly.
“Yes.”
“And tomorrow you go to town.”
“Yes.”
“We will not see each other much.”
“That is likely,” he said.
“By design,” she pressed.
“Yes,” he said.
She held his eyes. “Cowardice in a handsome suit is still cowardice.”
“I have been called worse,” he said in a low voice, “You will have my schedule by breakfast.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “I shall try to slot you in accordingly.”
“As you please,” something that resembled a smile ghosted his lips, but he was quick to cover it up. He turned to go, then paused with his hand on the latch. “Maria?”
“What?” she asked. She hated it now that her heart started to beat faster whenever he said her name.
“If you decide you want new paper, do not ask. Order it,” he said simply.
“That is your last word?” She stared.
“For today,” he said, and left.
CHAPTER 11
Stephen kept to a schedule, religiously. He woke early, shaved, and went down to breakfast as he had promised each morning.
And he kept his interactions with her proper and without argument. He nodded to Maria if she was already there, or stood when she entered if he was, and did his duty by civility, nothing more.
It was a simple way to conduct himself.
“Good morning,” he would say in the morning.
“Good morning,” she would answer.
“How do you find the breakfast?” he might add, eyes on a column about grain.
“Agreeable,” she would say, testing if he would look up.
“It should be.” And then he would read in silence.
He would eat quickly, thank no one, offend no one, and vanish into letters. From ten until noon, he met the steward or the agent for the northern property. After luncheon, if the weather allowed, he rode the south fields and let the miles run a temper down to something livable. If it rained, he walked the galleries and did not see anything he passed.
He was not cruel. Rather, he was absent. Maria refused to be.
Rather, she wanted to take up some space.
On the first morning, she sent for the upholsterer and stood with him in the east corridor. She chose none of the small, sad patterns that houses pick when they are afraid of color. She chose a pale green for the corridor that faced the orchard and a softer blue for the morning room where light would treat it kindly. The upholsterer blinked at the speed and said, “Very good, Your Grace,” and left counting under his breath in a way that suggested he had already penciled the sums twice.
On the second morning, she went through the pantry with the housekeeper and pointed at everything that made the household run and should not be silent.