The Governess Affair

her—“Farewell,” he said.
    And then, before she could fumble for the right words—the words that would bridge the gap between the two of them and make this stunted marriage whole—he hefted her trunk with one hand and handed it into the boot of the coach. “Farewell,” he repeated.
    She boarded in a daze, refusing to let her confusion and numbness set in. This wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. She fought her way to a seat near the door so that she could make out his form. He was bent over her sister, saying something she could not hear over the din of the other passengers.
    Freddy actually smiled in response.
    It would happen now. He would turn and see her. He had to. She set her fingers on the handle of the door.
    Don’t walk away. Her eyes clouded with tears. You can’t walk away. I love you.
    It was a revelation. She didn’t know where it had come from. She only knew that it meant he couldn’t walk away. He’d look over and see her, and then he’d realize that he loved her, too.
    But in the end, that wasn’t what happened. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her. He didn’t love her. He simply offered Freddy his arm. They turned, and the two of them vanished into the crowd.
    Like that, he was gone.

Chapter Ten
    I N THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED Serena’s departure, Hugo struggled to find normalcy. He failed. It was almost impossible to care about the details of the duke’s finances. Food lost its savor. And all too often, he found himself standing by the window in his office—not working, not thinking, just staring at the empty iron bench in the square.
    On the third day, he decided that speculation over how she was doing was likely distracting him, and he resolved to write her a simple letter. But when he started, he found that his pen did not obey.
    Miss Barton, he wrote.
    I spent my day as I normally spend my days: threatening suppliers, bullying those who are not in line with my expectations, and generally creating havoc in the lives of others. The square across the street is empty of all but the pigeons. I find myself resenting them.
    He stopped and stared at the paper. Too revealing. Too friendly. And more importantly... There was that all-too-annoying error he’d made in the salutation. He crumpled it up and tossed it into the waste bin and started over.
    Mrs. Marshall, he started, and found a grim satisfaction in addressing her with his name. I hope that you are settling into your new home, and that all is to your satisfaction. Do please let me know if anything is amiss, and I shall see to it.
    He signed this, sealed it, and before he could think better of it, had it posted.
    He tried not to think of her in the coming days, but it was rather like trying not to think of an elephant: One couldn’t tell oneself not to think of elephants without bringing to mind large, gray creatures.
    Her reply came a few days later.
    Mr. Marshall, she wrote. My new home is all that I had hoped for. Everything is to my satisfaction. Nothing is amiss. Thank you very much for your concern.
    He stared at those words in frustration. There was absolutely nothing to respond to there—nothing he could say without volunteering his own unsettled thoughts or asking questions that might reveal feelings that he was better off not sharing.
    They’d married. He’d chosen to do without her. Anything else he might communicate would just hurt them both more. The best thing for all would be to keep this perfunctory—an occasional letter, from month to month, just to see how she fared.
    And yet when he left work that evening, he didn’t go directly to his home. He found himself meandering about the streets. Everywhere he looked, he saw couples together. Husbands and wives, seated next to each other in open barouches; young courting couples, sending one another flirtatious glances. Everyone was pairing up like turtledoves in the autumn chill. Only he was alone.
    He’d never cared about such a thing before. He wasn’t the sort to dwell on what wasn’t . But truthfully, it was easier to think of Serena—who was no longer in his life—than to contemplate the Duke of Clermont—who was.
    He found himself standing in front of a shop, staring at a sky-blue silk shawl, wondering how it would look against her skin. And then, to his great amazement, he found himself purchasing it. He watched himself in bemusement. Had he really come to this?
    When he finally made his way home in the deep darkness, he found himself sitting at