A/N: I feel that in a lot of my fics that I don't give Amy enough credit. So here I am trying to make amends for that. Mariagoner, thank you so much for your review – you are feeding my soul.

Amy lets the filmy lace of the curtain fall loose and she steps away, smoothing the front of her skirt. Her face will be composed when he enters, a smile that she has only begun to recognise this last month across his face. She will, of course, smile back and then conversation will flow as it always has between them, meaningless and frivolous. A private joy they have always shared nonetheless.

It won't be hard not to think of him in this strange new light. The difference in his step when he comes back from Plumfield, always that older smile twitching across his face as it had when he was seventeen and Jo had agreed to take him skating or they ran off to play jacks alone – she will not think of it, for ignorance, they say, is bliss and Amy wants only to know of happy things. Frivolous could not hurt anyone and she takes some comfort in that thought, her restless hands finally stilling at her side.

There are happier things she can also think of if his eyes flick to the wall instead of hers. There is a secret she keeps nestled deep inside her, one that has surpassed many of the other small ones she has kept to be her own person. To feel that Amy March is still alive and painting her own world lest Amy Laurence be consumed in the routine and quiet emptiness of her devoted life. It is this secret that will keep the smile genuine on her face as Laurie rambles on about the many disappointments in a confining office space compared to the wild nature of a spruce tree or other such nonsense. She knows what he wants, what he yearns for when he looks out the window of his study, pen listless in his hand as he writes figures and dates in long thin columns but Amy knows also that she cannot give it to him. He has become what he has made himself and she knows her part in it.

So she convinces herself that happiness, no matter what the cause, is the key to this happy marriage and a stable life. It stops her from crying when the doorknob turns and Laurie enters the room, that predicted smile already on his face, his eyes not quite meeting hers. He crosses the room and takes her hands, kissing her on the cheek in a habitual manner that tells her he doesn't really mean it. Not the way he did when he first came back to her La Tour. Vevay, she laments, seems so very far away.

"- and so I suspect the roast will burn and the poor Professor will be left with charcoaled lamb for tea tonight." Laurie finishes and Amy looks up in disbelief that she has missed the first half. She reprimands herself for letting her thoughts carry on when her husband has been speaking; for everything he says she knows she should find important.

"Poor Jo never could cook," Amy adds as Laurie sits in the chair by the window and smiles distractedly, his hand already on his chin.

She watches him a moment, the strong line of his jaw in the dying afternoon so perfect in his bonny profile that she feels a shot of pride. He is her husband, no matter what she fears when he strides across the yard or when his eyes look out the room as they did just now. Amy is content with the world they have both created for herself and her secret keeps her smiling.

"Would you like roast for supper too?" she asks, thinking with satisfaction that she suits the role of his wife so well. Her sister, she knows would never think to ask him what he would like for tea. It would be a wonder if they never starved themselves or settled for raw batter and belly-aches – but that she knows is a realm of hypotheticals and thankfully non-reality. It is just her anxiety that whispers such notions to her, Amy reminds herself, her hand falling across her front in a reminder of what is real and so very right.

"No. Thank you," Laurie looks up and for a second his black eyes are on her and she feels it. "Soup would be rather good don't you think?" She nods and he looks away again, propped up on the window sill beside his chair. "Always thought it fed the soul."

Amy moves to the door, feeling her heart beating in her ears as her hand lands on the knob. "I'll tell the cook," she says obediently. She will not voice her memory of Jo's last soup before her wedding day and her sister's words as she deposited the spilt, very spare soup that was the best tasting dish she ever served. Amy will walk without tripping on her dress for she has the natural grace her sister always lacked. She will tell the cook and they will eat the soup in relative silence at seven o'clock before a night like every night begins.

That night she lies on her back looking at the ceiling as Laurie sleeps on his side, turned away from her. She does not wonder why he has always slept facing the wall but she does let her hand creep from his arm to lie on her stomach.

She thinks about his words that afternoon and she thinks about thoughts she has considered very quietly for the past few days. At first she dismissed them as silly, knowing that her sister would never do such a thing. Marriage and love have always been serious to Jo and after having turned Laurie away the first time, causing both of them so much pain, Amy thinks her sister would never change her mind.

But then she knows her husband so well, lives with him and knows his habits undisguised. His words, always simple and looks, always tender have delighted her endlessly with their singular devotion to her but change, she knows is inevitable. Their romance she knew would wax and wane like the moon as marriage is never an unending time of settled happiness. Still, like the moon, it would be timeless and always there. And yet, she thinks sadly it has only taken a month. One month of sudden changes and poorly masked squabbles have marked the waning moon sooner than she expected. The differences in not only his smile and attention, but his posture and words have told Amy more than she cares to know. It has brought these selfish, untrusting thoughts to her, thoughts she believes are unworthy of Jo and Laurie.

Her sister would not hurt her or fool and torment Laurie and he, Amy thinks, her hand drifting back to his arm, would not imagine tearing apart this life they have made. What was in past, he has told her so many times whenever her little selfish fears have found their way to her lips, is in the past.

He has quoted her sister but he has done that before and she has simply misread them.

Laurie does not leave the house for a week and Amy feels as though the smile will never leave her face. She can still recall the kiss he gave her after breakfast before disappearing into his study. Work has become the main event of his day, and she, Amy thinks with a heavy blush, has become the main event of his night.

She worries though, a little and not enough to stop anything, that the increase in activity might spoil her secret but really she is spoilt for Laurie's attention and the moon is full. She worries and puts it aside as she does her paintbrush when the sun looks ready to set and her husband enters her parlour.

"Sometimes I think I'll be glad to never see another sheet of paper as long as I live," he says stretching before coming over to kiss her. Amy smiles sympathetically before her hands go to his shoulders as he bends over her and kisses her on the bench. His touch is as sweet as it was in the morning and Amy knows she will never tire of this.

"Oh that's rather good," he says when he straightens and her hands fall back into her lap. He is referring of course to her painting but for a moment she feels silly and girlish enough to think it is a veiled reference to them. Her cheeks are still pink when she thanks him and he sends a proud smile her way, offering his arm as they walk to the library where they will wait for dinner.

She sits opposite him, facing the window so that he will have to intentionally turn in his chair if he wishes to stare out. It is devious and clever of her and she feels just a little guilty for it but the pleasure of him watching her as she mends his shirt is worth it and she silently plans to do it again the following night.

Laurie's hand is on his chin, his long finger resting across his lip as he watches her diligently work, needle in and out, a short tug, needle in and out. His eyes are not following her movements she knows, but are rather resting on the shape of her neck, the light in her hair turned the richest of golds from the sunset. She smiles in thought of the colour, forgetting to wonder how three buttons were torn from his shirt and the work is soon complete, her husband still watching.

"It's nice to see the colour in your cheeks again, dear." Laurie says quietly filling the companionable silence. She knows the stress she caused him after the last miscarriage. She knows she would not have been able to live with her were their roles reversed. "I don't know how long it's been there but I'm glad for it. You always did look best at dusk."

Amy looks up at him, her eyelashes long. "Thank you my lord," she replies, tongue-in-cheek. He looks a little startled by her playful answer, his eyes flicking over her as though he does not recognise who she is in the moment. He decides to smile at her and lean forward, his forearms against his long knees.

"You're quite welcome."

Her hair is still wet when his hands brush through it, his lips making marks across her clean skin. They are in the bathroom and she has not had a chance to dry; his heat makes her shiver and she moans for more, small hands clutching at his shoulders.

"Amy," he breathes, hands moving over her body as though he cannot touch her enough. Her mouth opens under his and she reaches to touch the blades of his shoulders, the skin she knows under it as taught as she feels. She pulls off his waistcoat, the buttons already loosened before he entered the room and soon her hands are peeling off his shirt as his dip lower on her body.

He is touching her with a ferocity she has never fully known but Amy does not question it, merely leans into his body and surrenders to his fever-like heat. She wonders in the briefest of impulses if his parents died in such a way. The thought is brushed away with the feeling of his hand cupping her head, its enormity large enough to encompass the back of her head easily as they kiss, open-mouthed and messily.

Laurie pulls them to the cold ground and she is shaking with so many things and says nothing as he continues to kiss her vehemently. She holds her breath and imagines that he is doing this to prove something to himself. When she stops breathing, lying flat against the tiles he pulls back to stare down at her, hair a mess looking like a caged animal. She understands in her heart of hearts but Amy Laurence is fair and charming and as vapid as the colour choices for their bed sheets and chooses to kiss him again, forgetting his look and concentrating on the steadying thump of her heart as he breathes less surely than before.

His hands are clammy when they grasp at her and she closes her eyes. She tries to feel warm but with the cold on her back and the fire atop she feels more like she is suffocating in differences and a disaster. She scrunches her eyes tight as his lips move down her neck and his large hands cover her breasts. His fingers are against her ribs even as his palm rolls against the cold points of her nipples and she is gasping for air.

She worries what he would think could he hear her thoughts and promptly focuses on thinking of nothing but the feeling of his body against hers, his lips, long and hot against her skin, his legs tangled with hers.

Laurie's hands are soon dancing lower and she inhales when his thumb – she knows it is his thumb as it is every time – brushes the gentle part to her womb. Her hips twitch and she lets out a breath she hasn't known she held. Amy realises quite suddenly that this is all very simple and she lets Laurie continue without the tightness in her chest, the frozen stillness of her limbs. He is her husband and with her eyes shut and the secret lying inches from his long, deliciously careful fingers it is increasingly bearable. The fire soon returns to her limbs and it is as though he has just stepped into the bathroom all over again.

She doesn't remember if her mother said anything about fingers and stolen moments in rooms and places other than the bed but the heated passion is more than welcome. She is entirely grateful that for once Laurie directs such enthusiasm towards her. She thinks not of the last time she saw his face as such and thinks not for whom it was for.

Her eyes are closed and Amy knows that it will be over soon and she will have enjoyed herself. She bends her legs and boldly takes his wrists, moving them to her breasts as she lifts her hips to meet his – they have done this dozens of times and yet this, she knows is the first time he has cried and buried his face in her hair. He is shaking with such small and hated sobs that she stills quickly. Amy scurries to sit with him and his arms go around her, still stubbornly keeping his head over her shoulder and she tries not to worry more than she already has. Anxiety has been her curse before and she refuses to let mistakes repeat more than twice.

It will hurt him if she speaks but then, she thinks a little like the wronged Amy of past with a fire before her and a manuscript in her hands that she has been hurting for some time. He has stilled and his weight is familiar though heavy and she sniffs the small sound like a hammer between them.

Amy wonders if the wet ends of her hair cool his face as her fingers dance across his shoulder blades. She is cold and the bathroom is silent.