He nearly choked on his potato. A library? Mr. Morrison mentioned you had books. I thought perhaps a few shelves in the study. Nothing fancy.
He didn't mention that most of them had been Margaret's, that he hadn't been able to bring himself to even enter the study since her death. I see. Would you mind if I do whatever you want? The words came out harsh, dismissive. He saw her flinch slightly, saw Molly's disapproving look, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.
This is your home now, after all. Clara set down her fork carefully. Mr. Walker, I understand this situation is not what either of us would have chosen, but taking your anger out on me serves no purpose. I didn't force you to marry me any more than you forced me. We are both victims of circumstance, and I would appreciate it if you could remember that.
Her words were calm, measured, but there was steel beneath them. Ethan felt properly chastised, like a school boy caught pulling pigtails. "You're right," he admitted grudgingly. "My apologies," she nodded, picking up her fork again. "Perhaps we should establish some ground rules for coexistence, such as we maintain separate rooms, as you've already arranged.
We present a united front in public for appearanc's sake. In private, we need not pretend affection we don't feel. I will fulfill the duties of running the household and caring for Sophie should she allow it. You continue running the ranch. We stay out of each other's way as much as possible.
It sounded cold, clinical, like a business contract, which Ethan supposed was exactly what their marriage was. And Sophie. I won't force myself on her. Children can't be rushed in matters of the heart. But I will be here consistently, patiently, until she's ready to accept my presence.
That could take a very long time. Then it takes a very long time. Clara met his gaze steadily. I'm not going anywhere, Mr. Walker. This marriage may be a prison for both of us, but I intend to make the best of it.
I've survived worse situations with my dignity intact. I'll survive this, too. There was something in her tone, a hint of past pain that made him wonder what those worst situations had been. But before he could ask, not that he would have, Sophie's voice rang out from upstairs. Papa, Papa, I need you.
He was up and moving before the second call, taking the stairs two at a time. Sophie's door was still closed, but he could hear her crying inside. Sophie, sweetheart, what's wrong? I had a bad dream about Mama. His heart clenched.
The nightmares had been frequent in the months after Margaret's death, but they'd been getting better until today. Can I come in? Only you, not her. He entered to find Sophie huddled in her bed, her favorite doll, one Margaret had made for her, clutched to her chest. Her face was red and blotchy from crying.