of consideration, he thought that all she had to do was weep and perhaps beg. All she had to do to spare herself the humiliation was to apologize for providing him with ten long years of unrelieved misery, to look up at him and concede that he was master, not with mere words, for she'd mouthed those false phrases before. No, now he wanted to see it in her face. Not once in his entire life had anyone ever looked upon him with that degree of fear which bespoke true power. Wasn't he entitled to it once?
Of course he was, though what he saw in her face was not fear. Intimidated and angered, he moved forward, with a sense of no turning back.
Then suddenly she pushed him away, struggling to her feet, her arms moving upward as though for protection. Taken by surprise, James at first dared to hope that perhaps she was on the verge of weeping, begging. But instead he saw her move quickly to the door, as though nothing at all had happened, as though she were quite accustomed to imposing her will upon his, without explanation.
Enraged, he started after her, and was just in the process of turning her about when she looked directly at him, her face revealing her fear, but her voice as contained as ever.
"You seem to be suffering a point of confusion, James. I am your wife, not one of your—"
He tightened his grip on her arm. "You will do as I say."
"I think not."
Again he tried to push her to her knees, but she stepped to one side, grasping the doorknob, the incongruity of a smile on her face. "You know as well as I that all I must do is lift my voice in a single cry of alarm and every watchman within earshot will come to my aid."
"They are my watchmen," he shouted, his anger and frustration blending.
"Are they?"
"They take their commands from me."
"Shall we test them?"
He considered challenging her, then changed his mind. With trembling hands he restored himself and sank down into the chair behind the bureau, his sense of defeat still growing.
He watched as methodically she straightened herself. Then she gathered up the pages of the fallen letter and stood erect before him where he sat crumpled behind the bureau. Without looking at him, still concentrating on folding the letter, she spoke. "As you have suggested, James, I will attend to this. I fear that you are not yourself today and would recommend a long ride across the moors." At last she looked down on him, an expression filled with hate. "Tend to your hounds and horses. Leave everything else to me."
He had thought to answer, some obscene remark. But at the door she stopped. "I will take my leave now. I will respond to Morley Johnson myself. It is my wish that he make his journey, both to the Lakes as well as to Hadley Park."
Halfway out of the door, she stopped again. "Tend to yourself." She smiled. "You look quite undone."
And with that she was gone, closing the door behind her.
He sat for a moment, unmoving behind the bureau. The trembling started someplace deep inside him, a tidal wave of unspent rage cresting until at last it erupted, and leaning angrily forward, he grasped the near inkwell and hurled it against the closed door, hurled the quill after it, then the hourglass after that, then the blotter, each small and insignificant item striking with hollow reverberations against the closed door until at last the surface of the bureau was stripped, his childish rage spent and, exhausted, he crumpled upon the bureau, weeping.
Once outside the door, she saw the Great Hall in dim outline only, saw as through a mist two house stewards hurrying toward her, clearly summoned by the crashing of objects against the closed door behind her.
As the two approached, she drew herself up and knew that the tirade would not last long. It was a mere child inside the library, displaying a child's rage.
"My lady," murmured one of the stewards, gaping at the bombardment going on within the library. Then, as she had predicted, a silence fell.
"It's nothing," she soothed the two
Of course he was, though what he saw in her face was not fear. Intimidated and angered, he moved forward, with a sense of no turning back.
Then suddenly she pushed him away, struggling to her feet, her arms moving upward as though for protection. Taken by surprise, James at first dared to hope that perhaps she was on the verge of weeping, begging. But instead he saw her move quickly to the door, as though nothing at all had happened, as though she were quite accustomed to imposing her will upon his, without explanation.
Enraged, he started after her, and was just in the process of turning her about when she looked directly at him, her face revealing her fear, but her voice as contained as ever.
"You seem to be suffering a point of confusion, James. I am your wife, not one of your—"
He tightened his grip on her arm. "You will do as I say."
"I think not."
Again he tried to push her to her knees, but she stepped to one side, grasping the doorknob, the incongruity of a smile on her face. "You know as well as I that all I must do is lift my voice in a single cry of alarm and every watchman within earshot will come to my aid."
"They are my watchmen," he shouted, his anger and frustration blending.
"Are they?"
"They take their commands from me."
"Shall we test them?"
He considered challenging her, then changed his mind. With trembling hands he restored himself and sank down into the chair behind the bureau, his sense of defeat still growing.
He watched as methodically she straightened herself. Then she gathered up the pages of the fallen letter and stood erect before him where he sat crumpled behind the bureau. Without looking at him, still concentrating on folding the letter, she spoke. "As you have suggested, James, I will attend to this. I fear that you are not yourself today and would recommend a long ride across the moors." At last she looked down on him, an expression filled with hate. "Tend to your hounds and horses. Leave everything else to me."
He had thought to answer, some obscene remark. But at the door she stopped. "I will take my leave now. I will respond to Morley Johnson myself. It is my wish that he make his journey, both to the Lakes as well as to Hadley Park."
Halfway out of the door, she stopped again. "Tend to yourself." She smiled. "You look quite undone."
And with that she was gone, closing the door behind her.
He sat for a moment, unmoving behind the bureau. The trembling started someplace deep inside him, a tidal wave of unspent rage cresting until at last it erupted, and leaning angrily forward, he grasped the near inkwell and hurled it against the closed door, hurled the quill after it, then the hourglass after that, then the blotter, each small and insignificant item striking with hollow reverberations against the closed door until at last the surface of the bureau was stripped, his childish rage spent and, exhausted, he crumpled upon the bureau, weeping.
Once outside the door, she saw the Great Hall in dim outline only, saw as through a mist two house stewards hurrying toward her, clearly summoned by the crashing of objects against the closed door behind her.
As the two approached, she drew herself up and knew that the tirade would not last long. It was a mere child inside the library, displaying a child's rage.
"My lady," murmured one of the stewards, gaping at the bombardment going on within the library. Then, as she had predicted, a silence fell.
"It's nothing," she soothed the two
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