She hadn’t known what to expect, of how their life (their life singular, as per their union?) would settle now that they were back. She had only just grown accustomed to the daily habits they had made at the Sanditon. Breakfasts and suppers and sleeping in the same bed. Talking, too. It had not felt like a great deal of talking at the time, but now that they had hardly traded words between themselves in days except in small snatches, Jemima found herself quite stranded without his company.
And maybe this was normal and she should learn to live with it, to swallow every passing thought and doubt and keep herself to herself and hope that she was fulfilling her end of the marriage by simply – existing. In fairness, Ford had seemed busy most times she had seen him in the house – and he had siblings and a mother who presumably wanted things of him, and the Ministry, and whatever else. (A past to grieve, if she had not misread.)
She was in a dressing gown over her nightclothes when the knock came, considering writing a journal entry but hardly able to decide how to begin it. She hadn’t written properly for days, and not at the Sanditon either – it felt like too much, and too difficult when one shared a room – and when she had taken it out tonight she had found that letter from Jack folded in it, which had made her feel guilty enough to put the journal away again at once.
So she had picked up a hairbrush instead as she let him in, standing up to greet him and casting him a small, understanding smile but deciding not to cross the room to close the distance, if he had not. He had come bearing apologies and excuses, which eased a little of the discomfort in her gut – but after days of inescapable awkwardness, both in the house and out of it, even that show of consideration could not dislodge it all. “Well,” Jemima answered lightly, brightly, reassuring, even as she turned the hairbrush over and over unconsciously in her hands. “I’m well.”
She felt fidgety like this, so she perched herself on the side of the bed – her bed – in what she thought an invitation for Ford to make himself more comfortable too, if he liked. “How are you? Besides – busy,” she ventured.
And maybe this was normal and she should learn to live with it, to swallow every passing thought and doubt and keep herself to herself and hope that she was fulfilling her end of the marriage by simply – existing. In fairness, Ford had seemed busy most times she had seen him in the house – and he had siblings and a mother who presumably wanted things of him, and the Ministry, and whatever else. (A past to grieve, if she had not misread.)
She was in a dressing gown over her nightclothes when the knock came, considering writing a journal entry but hardly able to decide how to begin it. She hadn’t written properly for days, and not at the Sanditon either – it felt like too much, and too difficult when one shared a room – and when she had taken it out tonight she had found that letter from Jack folded in it, which had made her feel guilty enough to put the journal away again at once.
So she had picked up a hairbrush instead as she let him in, standing up to greet him and casting him a small, understanding smile but deciding not to cross the room to close the distance, if he had not. He had come bearing apologies and excuses, which eased a little of the discomfort in her gut – but after days of inescapable awkwardness, both in the house and out of it, even that show of consideration could not dislodge it all. “Well,” Jemima answered lightly, brightly, reassuring, even as she turned the hairbrush over and over unconsciously in her hands. “I’m well.”
She felt fidgety like this, so she perched herself on the side of the bed – her bed – in what she thought an invitation for Ford to make himself more comfortable too, if he liked. “How are you? Besides – busy,” she ventured.
