Enough
At some point she realises that she desires Otto. She cannot say that she loves him. What does she know of love? She is merely twenty-one, married and widowed within four months at the age of eighteen, with no wedding night. For that matter she is unsure what she knows of desire, except that she wants to touch him, wants to lean against him. She wants to sit close enough that she can draw comfort from his body, from his existence. More and more though she wishes to kiss him, to feel what that would be like.
This is Marin's fault, she has decided. Alive she would have been a living formidable barrier between Nella and any of this 'nonsense'. Their daughter a seal on their bond as lovers, something unbreakable and intangible, forever out of the reach of the country girl, once merchant's wife, now tainted widow. (Poisoned flesh. No man will touch her now, nor ever. It sticks in her throat like a seed.)
Marin died. There is no barrier. Nella's mind wanders again and again to the whispered voices, the open and shut doors. His room to her room. Pale on dark. Firelight on burnished skin. Whispers and ecstatic cries, stifled so as not to wake the house. She imagines the scenarios, wonders how it all started and as she wonders she watches. She watches Otto, looking for what Marin could see, curious about how it works, how one goes from a servant to a lover, and she begins to see it herself. The way he moves, the way he speaks. His diligence. His skin. His eyes. His hair. She begins to feel it, and she understands one way of it, one side, but the other is completely obscured. It is caked in dirt, hidden behind the vale of death. She cannot understand how he saw Marin. "From front to back I love you." And she has no way to observe.
He is a good father to Thea, and she is so envious it hurts. She wishes Thea were hers. Or theirs. Then she would not be alone. She would be a woman. She can tell no one. There is no one she can trust with this, yet another secret. They'd sworn there would be no more. She lies by omission with every breath, until she discovers that in this house of secrets, she is a novice at keeping another.
"Don't go there," Cornelia warns her one day. Nella jumps. She hadn't realised that her eyes had followed Otto and Thea out of the room. The maid is kneading pastry with a touch more ferocity than usual. Her friend. Nella doesn't pretend that she doesn't understand, and Cornelia isn't done. "Learn from what happened with Madame Marin. Don't repeat her mistake."
She is going to respond that Marin had not considered it a mistake but stops. Tears in a church. Otto leaving. Fevered prayers. Her face in death one of someone who had not wished to die yet; there was too much to do. Marin owned her mistake, but it was still a mistake.
"What about you?" Nella asks softly spoken but slightly sharp. Cornelia stills a moment before continuing her work in silence. She stops again and lifts her head, so she meets Nella's gaze.
"Toot is like a brother to me. A friend. Anything further I have dealt with long before you arrived." She waits a moment to let her words sink in. "You will break up this household if you continue," and you will be alone. Nella acknowledges the truth. If Otto takes Thea and leaves then Cornelia will not stay with her. Not for this. She nods like she understands, like she agrees. She gets up to leave, to go to her room or Johanne's study, and instead finds herself in front of Otto. He sits in a chair, three-year-old Thea in his arms, sleeping. She is beautiful. She is wonderous. Nella's heart swells. She had helped her come into this life.
"I look at her to see Marin," he murmurs, touching a finger to his daughter's nose, her chin, lightly so as not to wake her. Nella approaches. She is unsure how to do this, as unsure as she had been three years ago with her husband in his study. Otto lifts his head to her, reading a difference in her silence and she sees fear tremble across his face. He has known too. He has been waiting for this. Her intention must be written so plainly across her face. Nella swallows, trying to force down the humiliation, the foolishness. He does not want her advances; his reaction is clear. He has frozen, not a word passing his lips. Stubbornly Nella reaches out a hand to place on his arm, her twenty-one-year-old self rebelling at her eighteen-year-old awkwardness. She waits for the spark, the rush, but his eyes don't even look down. They hold her steady, afraid still, waiting. Not wanting to provoke her, betraying nothing that might encourage her. Some part of her wants to force him to react, but its only a small part. Disappointment and rejection clatter through her. The injustice of it all. She knows she should be content but her young soul snarls at the bars contentment bring, the chains of just settling for what she has and be grateful. Underneath all that though is the low burn of being found wanting.
Nella removes her hand and places it on Thea's head, stroking her beautiful black curls. Otto relaxes next to her and bitterness settles even as she decides that this will have to be enough.
"Let me take her to bed," she murmurs and without a word still Otto scoops the child into her arms. Thea mumbles a little and snuggles into the crook of Nella's neck. She shuts her eyes a moment in harmony with the child, drawing comfort from her warmth and closeness. That soft toddler smell of newness still. When her eyes open Otto is watching her across the breadth of his daughter, with gratitude in his eyes.
"Thank you." She knows he isn't talking about taking Thea. She nods once, shortly and turns away, holding the child close. It will have to be enough.