She watches him from the kitchen window as he potters about the back garden. He's taken to doing that lately, just after breakfast. Something has changed. She can feel the tension radiating from him. He's uncomfortable, ill at ease, exactly what she'd hoped to avoid. She had suspected that he would ask her to marry him; there were so many false starts after her illness, but she could feel his eyes following her, she could sense what he wasn't ready to reveal. She knew before he did, and she knew that she would accept. More than that, she had been happy to accept, happy to become his wife, to be able to unabashedly take care of him, rather than hiding her feelings behind a façade of position and responsibility. She had known, had always known, the deep reservoir of kindness that lay underneath the posturing, beneath the rigid adherence to duty and tradition. She had expected that marriage would soften him (some), would give him a safe, private place to reveal that gentle, loving spirit she knew he possessed. Hadn't he twisted himself inside out trying to anticipate what she needed, what would be best for her, when she was ill? Hadn't he gone beyond the boundaries of friends and colleagues by joyfully singing his relief at the news of her good health? Of course he'd had to backpedal, to make hurtful, deprecatory comments in a vain attempt to rebuild the chink in his armor. But she had known, so she continued to reach out to him in spite of (because of ) his gruff exterior, his inflexible determination to stay the course. She'd wanted to chip away at that small crack, to open it further and let some light in, some joy. And she had succeeded.
It had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to reach out to him that morning. Hadn't she hidden too, just as well as he? Hadn't she denied herself, ruthlessly stamping out the embers of desire that he brought out in her? She knows how important propriety is to him, the appearance of it as well as the reality. She knows how difficult it is for him to accept change of any kind, no matter that this change in their circumstances could bring them greater joy together than they had ever known apart. And she had felt that joy begin to bubble to the surface. She had no words to describe, no way to even broach the subject of what lay between them as husband and wife. It was more, so much more than she imagined. She needs it and she can feel that he needs it too. They've hardly gone a night without…well. She gives herself a shake. Enough of that. She can tell, too, that he is troubled by it, by his need for it. Perhaps by her need for it as well. That was a sobering thought. He has always had certain ideas about women: rules for correct behavior, appropriate appearances. His sensibilities have always been easily offended. She had thought she could lay down her armor, that she could be Elsie again. Not Mrs. Hughes, not even Mrs. Carson, but Elsie: belly laughs and green and rain and joy and love, real physical love. She hadn't felt that, hadn't allowed herself to feel that, in so many years. Decades, she silently corrects herself. Not since she was a young lass. She straightens. Now she begins to sense what the problem is between them. Her heart clenches at the thought that she has disappointed him, has displeased him in some fundamental way that cannot be forgiven. She doesn't want to hold this against him; she doesn't want to relive the past. They've so little time left, really. So little time for talking, being, loving. They should stay in this moment; they've earned it, surely.
Slowly, imperceptibly, she feels anger like the whisper of a match against flint. What right had he to make her feel small, shamed at having taken what little joy there was to be had? She hadn't been careless, indiscriminate, loose. She'd been young and felt what she believed to be love. It was honest and true and she'd not repent of it now. Not even for him. She'd counseled scores of girls under her care over the years, taught them to be careful, to be discriminating, to be as sure as possible. And never, never, never to cross that invisible line between downstairs and up. She'd lost only one girl that way. After all this time, after all they'd been through together, after what she knew in her bones they meant to one another, to feel that what she brought to him, to them, to their marriage bed, was improper, wrong? It was too much. She felt cheated. And very, very angry.