Page 123 of A Wicked Kind of Husband

“Not yet. It’s still warm enough and it’s peaceful here with you. Let’s stay a little bit longer.”

He did have things to do. Lots. But the sun was warm, and the bees were buzzing, and her weight was comforting, and his limbs and eyes were heavy. He was suddenly more weary than he had ever been in his life, and it wouldn’t do any harm, if for a moment, for the first time in fourteen years, he stopped and took a rest.

Chapter 29

For a man who claimed to have a lot of work, Cassandra thought several times over the following days, Joshua did not seem to do much, although he still bounded about with more than the usual amount of energy, firing off ideas and getting excited at the slightest thing. Every day he had some part of the household in an uproar, and they all adored him anyway.

He barged into the dairy and frightened the dairy maids, until they realized he simply wanted to know what they were doing and how it all worked, this business of turning milk into butter and cheese. On laundry day, too, he interrogated the laundry maids; the poor things blushed and giggled as they stammered out answers, for the whole time they were holding his drawers. He spent a day fascinated by the pigs, strode out to meet tenants, quizzing them until they were dizzy, and hatched a scheme with Mr. Ridley at End Farm to rebuild a rickety bridge using a new design. He even invaded Mama’s distillery and delighted her by rating her wines. Messengers and letters came from Birmingham every day, and Mr. Das sent a new secretary too, but Joshua grumbled that he could not concentrate, though Cassandra didn’t know what he meant, for surely he was seeking the distractions; the distractions did not seek him.

Days passed. One week. Two. He joined the family for dinner, and after dinner too, and passed each night with her. They made love and chatted quietly, and she went to sleep with hope in her heart.

Only to wake up alone.

The sunne is new each day: Oh, how those words mocked her! She used to consider the inscription to be a message of optimism—a reminder that at any moment one could start anew—but now she understood it as a message in futility. As each day stretched on, her husband drew closer, yet when the new sun came, it started all over again, and she was no closer to keeping him than she had been the day before.

Because he was always leaving.

When she dared to comment that he worked less than before, he waved a hand and said, “Das is coping. I’ll get back to it in Birmingham.” When she mentioned the midsummer festival, he said, “Yes, but by then I’ll be back in Birmingham.” And when she suggested he get a pair of dogs to accompany him on his long walks, he looked interested and then said, “What’s the point? I can’t take them with me to Birmingham.”

Birmingham, Birmingham, Birmingham. How she hated it, that noisy, dirty, fast-paced city that called to her husband. She hated it even though she understood now: Birmingham was where he had forged his life and himself. It was where he had transformed himself from an unwanted illegitimate boy to a wealthy, powerful industrialist. To become a country gentleman would be a betrayal of himself. Birmingham was not a place: It was his identity, his heart and mind.

Trying to make him stay with her would be like trying to stop the sun from rising.

And so she lied to him.

She said nothing about her missing monthly courses, or the nausea, fatigue, and sore breasts, and he did not seem to notice. She told herself it was not a lie, not really: Itwastoo soon to be sure. Even after she spoke of it to Mama and to the midwife and to a friend, she did not mention it to him. To think she had once believed that if she had a child, she could dispense with the husband! Now guilt mixed with dread, and her tongue was tied, for as soon as she uttered the words, he would leap to his feet and say, “Excellent. My work here is done.”

Yet he had made her a promise, and she had to tell him. How cruel this was: To have the child she longed for meant losing the husband she loved. She had never felt so torn in her life.

But maybe, just maybe, if she asked him to stay with her, maybe, just maybe, he would. Maybe this child would hold them together.

If we have a child, it is your child, not mine. I want nothing to do with any of it.

Or maybe not.

In her darker moments, she thought it would be better once he was gone. At least then she would be free of this dread, which was worse than nausea and fatigue, for the dread fought with hope and their tussles clawed at her. At least then her heart would be broken all at once, rather than breaking a little more each day.

* * *

On a sunny morning,nearly a week after her conversation with the midwife, Cassandra was sitting in the bay window of her ground-floor parlor, sewing her secret and arguing with herself, when she glanced up to see Joshua striding through the garden toward her window, his coat hooked over one shoulder.

Every part of her stilled, except her pounding heart and shaking hands.Today, she resolved.Today.

Of course, she had made that resolution every morning for several days, and each evening when she saw him, the words did not come.

But I must, she thought, her eyes eating up the sight of him, fearful it would be the last.If I cannot hold him, then I shall hold this: His face tilted up to the sun, a smile playing over his lips, a whirlwind of energy as he moved in easy, powerful strides.

Suddenly, she couldn’t bear it, but before she could hide, he spotted her sitting at the huge, open window, merely feet above him.

“Ah, fair princess!” he called, stopping and doffing his hat. “Are you occupied?”

“Nothing important.”

Clumsily, she shoved her sewing into her workbasket and forced a smile.

“Stay there, I’ll come in,” he said, turning away.

“I don’t see why you should waste time going around to the door,” she called back. “It would be more efficient simply to climb through the window.”

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