2nd September, 1893 — Rowle Residence, Mayfair
The sixth day dawned – the sixth day since his father’s stroke, since Philip had been awake again. Yesterday had been a whirlwind: first, Philippa off to the Hogwarts Express; then leaving for the altercation at the Leaky Cauldron, with his unfortunately-titled siblings; after which he had stopped in to see his father, who was still clinging obstinately to life.
Philip hadn’t had the opportunity to rectify this as yet, but he was still grasping at the possibility of it, still turning it over and over in his mind, letting it consume his attention all morning. He didn’t have anywhere to be today, as far as he knew – but being at home was little better than that, when he didn’t have the place to himself. He had stalked from his bedroom to his study for the morning, thankful the younger children were occupied with their governess or nanny or whoever she was (– he hadn’t worked out their respective ages yet, one thing at a time –) but still intent on avoiding his wife.
Until he came down for luncheon and found her at the table. Supposing it couldn’t be avoided, he sat down opposite her. Lunch was served; he started eating. It struck him that, at its core, this was essentially Robin’s plan (a plan of civility and finesse, above reproach): to continue to exist in this life he barely knew, and had never chosen. Robin would have them all doing the same marionette dances they had always been, even though their strings were newly cut. He would have him act the Philip she expected forever.
For the last few minutes, Philip had kept his gaze trained on his wife rather than his food, not quite caring to be subtle about it. He didn’t know her, but if she had any wits about her at all, surely she had noticed the difference in him already in the last few days? His pacing about the house, aggravated and erratic; the confusion, as if he had suddenly been plunged to the precipice of madness; rifling through his possessions and the rooms and his life as if he were a stranger trying to make any sense of it. He was half waiting for her to accost him about it, but – who knew? He had no idea what she would do.
Alexandra. He knew her name, ha; and he must have a vague textbook trajectory of their history buried somewhere in his head that he would need to dig through, too. He tilted his head at her, watching every small movement she made. She looked neat, well-dressed, impeccable today: precisely the way she had every day this week. There was a certain coolness to her, he had decided, but – he didn’t yet know much else.
He couldn’t fathom what they might usually discuss at a Saturday lunch, and certainly hadn’t bothered to guess at it.
Philip hadn’t had the opportunity to rectify this as yet, but he was still grasping at the possibility of it, still turning it over and over in his mind, letting it consume his attention all morning. He didn’t have anywhere to be today, as far as he knew – but being at home was little better than that, when he didn’t have the place to himself. He had stalked from his bedroom to his study for the morning, thankful the younger children were occupied with their governess or nanny or whoever she was (– he hadn’t worked out their respective ages yet, one thing at a time –) but still intent on avoiding his wife.
Until he came down for luncheon and found her at the table. Supposing it couldn’t be avoided, he sat down opposite her. Lunch was served; he started eating. It struck him that, at its core, this was essentially Robin’s plan (a plan of civility and finesse, above reproach): to continue to exist in this life he barely knew, and had never chosen. Robin would have them all doing the same marionette dances they had always been, even though their strings were newly cut. He would have him act the Philip she expected forever.
For the last few minutes, Philip had kept his gaze trained on his wife rather than his food, not quite caring to be subtle about it. He didn’t know her, but if she had any wits about her at all, surely she had noticed the difference in him already in the last few days? His pacing about the house, aggravated and erratic; the confusion, as if he had suddenly been plunged to the precipice of madness; rifling through his possessions and the rooms and his life as if he were a stranger trying to make any sense of it. He was half waiting for her to accost him about it, but – who knew? He had no idea what she would do.
Alexandra. He knew her name, ha; and he must have a vague textbook trajectory of their history buried somewhere in his head that he would need to dig through, too. He tilted his head at her, watching every small movement she made. She looked neat, well-dressed, impeccable today: precisely the way she had every day this week. There was a certain coolness to her, he had decided, but – he didn’t yet know much else.
He couldn’t fathom what they might usually discuss at a Saturday lunch, and certainly hadn’t bothered to guess at it.
