She hadn’t expected him to ask again. But maybe he was right to: it seemed ludicrous that she hadn’t reconsidered her answer, in light of all that. “Yes, I’m going to stay,” she affirmed – steady, measured, with more resolve than the first time he had asked her. “Unless you’d rather I went?” She could move out, if he thought it would be easier with her gone – she didn’t trust that his professed preference for her staying hadn’t changed now that she knew the truth.
But it was because she knew the full truth now that she couldn’t dream of leaving. She didn’t have money or resources either. The only place she had to leave to was home, to her family, and Jemima was not a good enough liar not to let something slip, unwittingly or otherwise. And if someone found out any of this, Ford would be in trouble, ruined and arrested, both. Maybe he deserved to be in trouble, but – no, she could not bring herself to think it, and would not be able to forgive herself if she had opened the door to it. Jemima may not know how to make the best of it anymore, but she was sure she did not want to make things worse.
So she would stay, if that helped. If he was not going to give up yet or flee or fake his death. And she didn’t know what staying looked like, from here, but she would just have to figure that out. “I just need – some time. Some space,” she added, exhaling softly, “to think.” Not to change her mind, or plan what to do: just to get her head around everything.
But it was because she knew the full truth now that she couldn’t dream of leaving. She didn’t have money or resources either. The only place she had to leave to was home, to her family, and Jemima was not a good enough liar not to let something slip, unwittingly or otherwise. And if someone found out any of this, Ford would be in trouble, ruined and arrested, both. Maybe he deserved to be in trouble, but – no, she could not bring herself to think it, and would not be able to forgive herself if she had opened the door to it. Jemima may not know how to make the best of it anymore, but she was sure she did not want to make things worse.
So she would stay, if that helped. If he was not going to give up yet or flee or fake his death. And she didn’t know what staying looked like, from here, but she would just have to figure that out. “I just need – some time. Some space,” she added, exhaling softly, “to think.” Not to change her mind, or plan what to do: just to get her head around everything.
