It was around one month after I had found out about Alexander's lack of faith towards myself, that I decided to have some of my questions answered. Why did he choose 'Maria Reynolds'? Why did he choose to not come with my sister and I for a short break? How did it all come to be?

I have never been quite as strong or as eloquently spoken as my older sister; Angelica; but after a month of sickening and agonising waiting, I could wait no longer. I had to understand what my husband saw in her; I had to understand what she saw in him and I had to be granted answers.

While Alexander had tried (several times) to explain, and while I had listened to his answers intently, I couldn't help but find myself doubting each and every answer of his. I couldn't help but question whether he was twisting the truth – would he use his vast mind against me like that? Could I trust him to be honest after everything?

No. I couldn't, not yet.

In result of this, I had exchanged various letters with the woman in the picture. While fear overwhelmed me, the desire for the truth was considerably greater. I remember resenting her handwriting, with all of the pretty loops and smudged ink. But, even despite this, I managed to see past this resentment to read:

'I shall meet you.'

We met in a coffee shop. I had brought every letter she sent to me, with every intention to throw it into her face; to scream words that would be frowned upon (especially coming from a woman) and to publicly shame her further. I wanted to tie each letter to her and set her ablaze: I wanted to burn it all.

But, when she approached the table…

All of this resentment fizzled away. All of it was replaced with pity. The empty expression upon her almost greyscale face; her low eyes and the way her lips hinted at a quiver… I couldn't help but feel such a strong emotion.

The closer she got, the stronger my emotions felt. The more I looked, the more that I noticed, such as the bruising upon her skin and the faded colours upon her clothes; that only seemed to enhance the marks of reds, blues and purples that patched her skin.

If it was any other woman, I swear that my reaction would have been something entirely different. I swear that my rage would have spilled over and past the boiling point, and that the woman would have been scarred.

But, Maria?

I am ashamed to say that I did get up and take her into my arms, giving her a hug. Her stiffness in response did not surprise me, especially considering that I could only guess that the softest touch she received was from–

Alexander.

The image of them both in one another's embrace made a rush of nausea pass through me, and it forced back into my seat: I was still weak. If she dared to look at me, she would have been able to see my physical weakness… That if I were in her position, I probably would have been in the same state as her – if not worse. That we were two women in a society, that was not yet ready to accept us as anything more than just that.

Maria would have been able to see that we weren't all that different.

Putting social status aside, we would have been no different to one another – aside from the fact that she goes around philandering with married men. A married man: my husband.

I allowed her a few moments to take a sip of her black coffee and so she could become somewhat comfortable (something that could never truly be achieved, given the circumstances). Then, we began talking.

I watched her body language closely, as she carefully examined the terrain – did she think herself in danger? Was this my doing? Or had her husband inflicted such pain upon her, that she couldn't help but glance around out of habit? Occasionally; usually before answering a question; she shifted in her seat: nervous. Her leg also bobbed beneath the table, and every so often I felt her knee hit my own, which always resulted in a murmur of an immediate apology.

'How did you meet?' I had enquired.

'Elizabeth, if I may call you that, I met Alexander at your own home. I had come searching for him, deliberately. I searched for companionship – even for a single night – and I found solitude in him. I found some sort of comfort in his character.'

Maria's speech was slow and nervous, and her eyes darted before she had said the next part.

'He was like the complete opposite of my husband.'

I had no intrigue in her statement, as the damage was extremely obvious. Even an ignorant man would have been able to see the torture that he puts her through – I wonder if she still allows him to?

'What did he see in you?'

'Elizabeth, your husband saw nothing but an unloved person and a body in it's prime: ready for the taking. I sought out some sort of feeling, and he was willing to provide that for the small price that my husband requested for.'

Her response was lacking the answers I searched for, but I still listened all the same, patiently.

'He saw myself as an escape from everything. From the political work and endeavours that were piling up on him; from the family life that required so much attention and from the usual routine that life forced him through.'

'Forced?' I had responded, almost disgusted in such a word. Was such a life; considering his history; not a gift to him? How could such a life be forced; a pain to maintain?

'Elizabeth! Please! I do apologise!'

Maria had quickly responded; her eyes shining with a tint of tears. If I wasn't so livid with her, perhaps I would have even called them pretty. Like two burning stars, that were long dead; yet, billions of miles away, they still presented signs of life.

'What do you mean, Maria?' I prompted.

'His dream, wasn't it always to become something more than what the world bargained for? Well, with all these expectations piling up and growing greater, wouldn't it be simpler to just lower them?'

An affair in order to lower the expectations of others? Clever.

Was that what he saw in Maria? Intelligence? Perhaps.

'Why didn't he say no to you: to this?' I asked this question, finally.

'Elizabeth, he didn't say no, because I was there. I was a vulnerable; easy target to acquire. He knew this just as well as my husband – though, the only difference is that he never exploited me for this.'

The final answer was because she was vulnerable, because she was easy? That didn't seem very much like Alexander to me, with all of his ambitions–

Ambitions!

He aspired to be something more; he aspired to be more than anybody bargained for!

Of all of the things that I had expected, it was not that his own aspirations should turn everything on it's head. His own aspirations, his want for a legacy… It had pushed him to the very limit, where he even aspired to make more than one woman satisfied.

Satisfaction, something he had always aimed to achieve with everybody: from his family to his work. Sometimes for himself, sometimes to his friends, or his family or even the country… His want for more had become too great, and…

Could he be another man, corrupted by political pursuit?

After this, Maria and I went our separate ways. We hoped to never see each other again, though, I no longer had the desire to burn her and her letters.

Surely enough, I did go home and continue to burn the memories: it did still pain me. His mistress' words had offered me some comfort, something that I never would have thought possible.

However, not complete comfort.

While she offered me some closure as to why; I still couldn't help but hold onto it. I still couldn't let go of the feeling that there was some other reason as to why he did this…

In time, I supposed that I would learn to let go. In time, I supposed that I would learn to forgive, to forget and to move on. In time, I supposed that I would stop asking:

Why didn't you say no to this?