Thank you so much for still reading and reviewing. :)
She began to live for Saturdays. Perhaps her colleagues noticed that her mood seemed to improve ever so slightly, to a pitch of almost feverish excitement on a Friday, but they seemed to dismiss it as an unusual fondness for days of leisurely roaming around London.
She did not roam around London, not at all. At the height of the summer months anyone could be in town, and anyone could chance to see them, they barely dared to walk down the street side by side. They refused to give Margaret, or indeed Hetty, ammunition that they could afford to withhold.
So, by process of elimination and irrepressible mutual desire, they spent their Saturdays behind the tightly locked doors of various hotels, always naked, always between the soft sheets of the bed and close to one another, sometimes holding each other, more often making love.
She developed a liking for rooms that looked over the park. They would close the first thin white drape over the window, hiding themselves from the prying range of any high-wandering eye outside but still allowing them to see the view outside of the mass of green, the trees and the paths, down towards the Serpentine, reflecting the sky. She smiled at herself as the thought ran through her mind, one Saturday afternoon, resting on Roland's chest, that she should have developed such a taste. And with all of the other things they had to think about. Two months ago it would have seemed absurd, before then she had barely even set foot in an expensive London hotel. So much had changed, she had done so much that would have been almost unimaginable to her two months ago.
She felt Roland's thumb stroking over her hair. The sheets were very soft and warm, and so was his body, still languid and sated from their lovemaking.
She had learned what it was to love someone absolutely, to yearn for them absolutely, to crave their presence with an almost physical urgency.
"Sweetheart, what are you thinking of?" he asked her quietly.
She let out a quiet sigh.
"You," she replied gently, turning onto her side a little so that she could look at him, "I'm always thinking about you."
He smiled at her.
"You poor child," he murmured.
She grinned, leaning up on her elbows, looking at his face. But he was not grinning back at her, as she had expected him to. In fact, his face looked rather sad.
"What is it?" she asked him softly.
"What are you doing, spending your life with me, Grace?" he asked her
"What?" she asked him, barely believing what she had just heard.
"You're so beautiful," he told her sadly, cupping her cheek with his hand, "You could have anyone you wanted. Why are you wasting your life on me?"
She was quiet for a second. Then, a moment later, she sprang into action.
"Now, see here," she told him, prodding him in the chest a little, throwing one of her thighs over him so that she straddled his middle, sitting astride him, bearing down on him, giving the impression, for half a second, of being threatening, "I am not wasting my life on you. You know me too well to think I would invest my life in anything I considered to be a waste. And if you're a waste, Roland Brett, it's my absolute privilege to waste away with you. Do you understand?"
Mutely, he nodded.
"Good," she told him sternly, reaching forwards and cupping his face in both her hands, resting so that her forearms leant against his chest, "You've seen the things I've seen," she whispered to him, as softly as she could, brushing his skin with her thumbs, "And you've brought me through them. I don't want anyone else. We belong together."
When his voice came forth, it was strangled with emotion.
"I love you, Grace," he told her quietly.
She pressed his lips to his, rocking her body forwards, closer to his.
"I love you too, my darling," she told him, her eyes falling shut, trying to control the feeling welling up inside her.
She felt his hands covering hers, holding on to her.
"Grace, are you alright?" he asked her gently.
"Yes," she murmured, her breath leaving her in a long ragged motion. She was almost dizzy. And now nauseous. Again nauseous. Oh god, "I just need a minute."
"Grace, here," his arms took hold of her, firmly but still as gently as he could manage to be and still move her, "Let me help you."
Tenderly he rolled her onto her back, lifting the blanket to cover her up so she did not get cold. He put his hand to her forehead, checking to see if she had a fever.
"Sweetheart, what's the matter?" he asked, "Are you alright?"
"Felt a bit sick," she told him, opening her eyes, sitting up a little, "It's alright, it's passing now."
"I'll get you a glass of water," he told her, clambering quickly out of bed and swiftly taking a glass from the side table and filling it with water from the pitcher that stood by it, "Here," he passed it to her, "Here, sweetheart," he helped her to pul the blankets up further so that they did not fall down and leave her cold, "Keep warm. You should have said you weren't feeling well."
Yes, Grace thought, she should have said. Somehow, she would still have to say. She would have to find a way to tell him.
"Thank you, darling," she told him softly, putting the glass back down on the table at her side of the bed, "I feel much better now."
"Good," he replied, kissing her forehead, smoothing her hair and resting with his arms around her.
They were quiet for a moment.
"I'm sorry I upset you," he whispered at last.
"Don't be sorry," she told him, "You didn't say it to upset me. I'm sorry I pounced on you."
"Don't be," he replied with a quiet grin, "I enjoyed it quite a lot actually."
She smiled a little too.
"Darling, what is it?" he asked, "If the sickness has passed. You still look-…"
Her eyes had fallen closed again.
"Roland, there's something I'd better tell you."
Please review if you have the time.