Dedicated to Lady Tarlea
As Anthony walked into the Library, he saw Edith quickly stop reading and hide the book underneath the cushions on the sofa beside her.
"Good book?" he asked, slightly off his guard.
"Oh, nothing really." She gave every impression of a small girl discovered by her father in the act of looking at scandalous writings. He was the age of her father…
"Oh. Er, well…coming to bed, darling?" he asked, all his polite upbringing taking over, since he didn't know what else to think, let alone what to say.
"Yes…yes." Her answer was too bright, too easy.
And that was all it took; Anthony immediately worried. She had never deliberately hidden anything from him before in the year and a bit that they had been married…at least, nothing that he knew of.
As he prepared for bed, he tried to shake the uncomfortable feeling away from his mind. It's just a book he told himself…but what book? And why didn't she want me to know?
He couldn't stop himself going downstairs in his dressing-gown on the pretext to Stewart (and to himself) of finding something to read…which was true really, he thought bitterly. He found the book easily…and it was The Black Moth by someone called Georgette Heyer. Flicking through the pages, he found that it was just a love story. Why would Edith not want him to know she was reading a romance? Unless…unless…unless she's tiring of me…I knew it would happen, eventually…I bore her…I don't provide her with enough excitement or…or passion…or fulfilment...
He slowly climbed the stairs up to their bedroom, heavy with anxiety and dread, thinking I mustn't let this fester. I must ask her about it like a reasonable man. But when he got there, Edith had already gone to sleep.
…
He took so much longer than usual to undress…he must have gone downstairs…I'm sure he saw…I've worried him…but I can't tell him, he'll blame himself…please let me not have spoiled everything…he's coming in…I can't face him now. I'll pretend I'm asleep, and deal with this in the morning…
…
But in the morning, it all seemed so much more difficult to address, for both of them.
Anthony looked up from his copy of The Times often, but never had the right words. What about..."Good morning, darling. I see you're reading The Black Moth. Would it help if I dressed as a highwayman and rescued you from leering Dukes before ravishing you?" Ha! That would be really something if I could manage THAT with one arm!" He felt ridiculous enough as it was, being so upset over his wife's reading matter and feeling jealous of a book, without making a prize ass of himself accusing her of something he had no evidence for.
Edith, who had never taken her breakfast in bed, preferring to join her husband downstairs, was quiet and withdrawn. The longer Anthony stayed silent, the less she felt confident talking to him. What if he disapproved of her reading the book? No, he wouldn't do that. Surely she knew him well enough by now to know that he was very liberal and progressive in his views. But it was obvious to her that something about last night's episode had bothered him. Did he think she was lowering her standards reading Miss Heyer? She wasn't Jane Austen, but she wasn't bad. She was forging a new, original path, her prose was good, and the story was compelling. Anyway, this was her first novel, published only a few months ago. Anthony might have read reviews of the book, but Edith was almost totally sure that he would not have had a chance to read The Black Moth. So what had upset him so? She really didn't dare think. She was just so sad that they had lost the ease between them that had existed since their marriage.
Then it struck her why she had been reading romance fiction in the first place, why she had been embarrassed when Anthony saw her doing so…there had been a friendly, loving ease between them, but not the intimacy that she craved. She wanted Anthony to know her inside out, as Jack knew Diana in the book. She wanted him to open up to her so she could know him just as well…and most of all, she wanted Anthony to be able to express to her all the love and adoration that she saw in his eyes, and she realised that, due to his Victorian upbringing and, yes, his age, he may never be comfortable doing that. And that made her sad. His arm…the age gap…none of that mattered to her, if only they could find a way to love each other completely.
…
More tomorrow...