He could feel the cynicism radiating off of her like heat from a fire, but he couldn't fault her for it. She didn't have to believe him. He'd known better than to say anything, anyway. There were too many pragmatic reasons why he might have wanted her to stay for her to read into the statement any sort of emotion. And it was a senseless preference, anyway, irrational and inexplicable; it didn't matter if she stayed. She was never going to forgive him.
Ford could tell he was going to hate her question before she asked it. It was written all over her face — she intended the question to hurt. She had no shortage of ammunition by now, so he expected she would be successful. He held his breath anticipating it, and then his face darkened on hearing it. Did his family know about him? No specification of what she meant. Of course it was obvious, but the phrasing still rankled; as though this was all there was to him, the only thing that mattered in weighing his value as a person. Noble had reacted the same way.
"No," he said, tone clipped. Noble had found his letters, but that didn't mean he knew everything. He didn't understand anything, and he had been clear about that from the start. He knew there had been somebody, before the wedding — he didn't know who, and he didn't know about anything that had happened since, and Ford had never intended to tell him. And aside from Noble, he was practically a stranger to his family. They didn't know he'd been in love, they didn't know he'd committed crimes, they didn't know the lengths he'd gone to and the sacrifices he'd made for them. They lived with their own versions of him, invented and altered to suit their needs. Verity thought he'd deflowered Jemima in the coat room and then only agreed to marry her on threat of death; it was the reality she needed to sustain her prolonged anger. Grace thought he didn't love her, didn't believe in her, had been eager to be rid of her, which was the fantasy she needed to gather up the grit to live away from home. No, no one knew about him — no one knew anything. Jemima didn't know about him, either. "What do you plan to tell them?"
Ford could tell he was going to hate her question before she asked it. It was written all over her face — she intended the question to hurt. She had no shortage of ammunition by now, so he expected she would be successful. He held his breath anticipating it, and then his face darkened on hearing it. Did his family know about him? No specification of what she meant. Of course it was obvious, but the phrasing still rankled; as though this was all there was to him, the only thing that mattered in weighing his value as a person. Noble had reacted the same way.
"No," he said, tone clipped. Noble had found his letters, but that didn't mean he knew everything. He didn't understand anything, and he had been clear about that from the start. He knew there had been somebody, before the wedding — he didn't know who, and he didn't know about anything that had happened since, and Ford had never intended to tell him. And aside from Noble, he was practically a stranger to his family. They didn't know he'd been in love, they didn't know he'd committed crimes, they didn't know the lengths he'd gone to and the sacrifices he'd made for them. They lived with their own versions of him, invented and altered to suit their needs. Verity thought he'd deflowered Jemima in the coat room and then only agreed to marry her on threat of death; it was the reality she needed to sustain her prolonged anger. Grace thought he didn't love her, didn't believe in her, had been eager to be rid of her, which was the fantasy she needed to gather up the grit to live away from home. No, no one knew about him — no one knew anything. Jemima didn't know about him, either. "What do you plan to tell them?"
Set by Lady!