As the city disappeared past the windows of the carriage, Isabelle was surprised to feel herself becoming more tense. She assumed the city’s darkness, stink, noise, and oppression had been the biggest barriers to her happiness, but as she watched the buildings grow farther apart, she felt her shoulders stiffen and her breathing grow shallow.

She glanced at Alexander now and then when she felt brave enough to run the risk of catching his eye. It never happened. He appeared asleep, except that his fingers tapped ceaselessly on his legs.

How could she stand an entire week of nothing but Alexander’s silent company? In preparation for this visit, in addition to the packing, she’d made a list of topics they could discuss. It was a short list, and not fascinating in nature, but she had been confident that, when alone together inside the carriage, they would manage to at least be interesting to each other.

She was no longer confident or even hopeful. A sigh escaped her, and she saw Alexander’s eyes flutter open. She hurried to look out the window.

“All right?” he asked. His voice sounded tired, unless that sound was annoyance.

“Fine. Thank you. Just enjoying the view.” Why had she said that? The view? The current view was dirty tracks separating squatting cottages that seemed to be sinking into the earth.

He made a single grunt that may have been a laugh. “In at least this matter, you are easy to please.”

Isabelle felt a physical jolt, and not a pleasant one. Was he, through this mocking comment, accusing her of being generally difficult? In what way had she earned this censure? She had been gracious at all times, she was certain. She had made a habit of it. She could think of three, possibly four times she’d gone out of her way to thank Alexander for something he’d provided in his house. And now he suggested she was impossible to please? Was she so cold and remote? She felt simultaneously ashamed and furious. Well, if that was what he thought of her, she’d show him how difficult she could be.

Her righteous indignation radiated an uncomfortable heat. She fidgeted with her bonnet. Her collar seemed too tight. And why was the road so full of ruts?

The more she fumed, the more uncomfortable she became, until she realized that her brilliant plan of affronting and aggravating Alexander was only leading to her own disquiet. She ducked her head and smiled into her lap as she realized there was an infinitely better way to devil her husband.

“I am, in fact, easy to please in several ways.” Her voice came out more quietly than she’d intended, but she was sure he had heard. She forced a chattering, lilting accent, as though he’d asked a question and they were now in the midst of a casual discussion. “I am pleased by many books. I am delighted by wildflowers. I am pleased with harmonious singing, mine or someone else’s. A good hand of cards is a great pleasure. An obedient horse. A fine pianoforte. Intelligent conversation is most pleasing, mainly for being so rare.” She felt the barb of those words as they left her mouth, even through her docile smile.

“And that is not all. I am delighted when I read a well-­written letter.” She swallowed away a lump of sadness at the thought that she’d been so unfaithful a correspondent lately.

Continuing on, she said, “I am pleased by the gradual return of spring. Visits please me. I enjoy a novel. On occasion, I have even been known to smile at a perfectly ripe pear. Yes, I believe there are few pleasures greater than a perfect pear.” She nodded as if to agree with herself and then looked directly at Alexander for the first time.

He was watching her, his expression unreadable. Had that not been enough? Well, then. She would fill this carriage with nonsense. There would be more words than her brooding and silent husband could stand.

“When I was a child, I was eager to be pleased. I would wander out of doors and collect all the things that interested me. I’d come home with my apron pockets filled with berries and stones and leaves and once even a frog. I’d gather flowers or fallen leaves or snowballs, depending on the season. I collected every note and letter I received in boxes in my bedroom, and on quiet evenings, I’d sit beside the fire and read messages from the past.”

If this litany of silliness was not infuriating the man, Isabelle didn’t know what would. She continued to talk, sometimes looking out the window, and sometimes daring a glance and a smile in Alexander’s direction, for what felt like ages.

Each time she looked his way, Alexander was watching her. He kept his face steady, without creased brow or squinted eye. She could not be certain how her waterfall of words was received until she told a story about sneaking out of church on a hot summer Sunday with Edwin and catching a fish in one of her mother’s stockings.

Alexander’s face broke into what could only be described as a grin. Conspiratorial, amused, and pleased.

Pleased?

She hadn’t intended to please him. Indeed, she was unsure she would ever be able to do so. Now his expression conveyed something she had unintentionally created in him, and the recognition unbalanced her.

Isabelle stopped speaking abruptly. The silence inside the carriage pressed against the windows, the roof, and the floor. She was tempted to open the door and flee, but her survival instincts outweighed her embarrassment.

Alexander’s voice slipped through the tension. “What kind of fish?”

“Brook trout,” she said, immediately wishing she’d kept her mouth closed. All day. But especially at this moment.

When she managed to raise her eyes again, she found Alexander watching her, smiling. His already handsome face was much improved with such a smile. She tried to remember the last time she’d seen a smile like that on his face. Probably at their wedding, when he was charming her mother. She was fairly certain he’d never smiled like that at her. A good smile, she noticed. Well worth the reputation. It spread wide across his jawline and added a sparkle to his sometimes-dull eyes. Not dull now, she found herself noticing. Not dull at all.

She ducked her head again, trying to hide her own smile. Sitting across the carriage from her husband in a moment of shared amusement was not at all what she had planned.

She couldn’t deny that it felt pleasant. Perhaps more than pleasant. The word “charming” began to bounce around in her mind.

Good heavens, she thought to herself. What if I like this man?

Mrs. Burns had arrived before the carriage and had opened the country house in preparation for their arrival. When the driver pulled up to the front door, Alexander leaped out and faced the home he loved. His staff, intact and present here in the country, stood outside awaiting their arrival.

Yeardley, upright and unsmiling but somehow not fearsome, stood nearest the carriage. Mrs. Burns stood between him and Mae, the kitchen maid who provided the cooking in addition to all the other kitchen work. Jonathan, the driver, took his place in line with the others. Alexander greeted his staff with polite warmth, as though he had not seen them only that morning.

Isabelle waited what seemed quite a long time for him to remember that he’d brought her along. Finally, at a glance from the driver, Alexander turned and reached his hand to help her out. She found her legs shaky from having sat so long trying not to let their knees touch, and she gripped his hand harder than she’d have liked as she stepped down onto the gravel drive.

Isabelle looked up at the house, pleased with its aspect. An unassuming home, larger than a cottage but smaller by far than a manor, it felt familiar. Much like her parents’ home. Like her home, but smaller. More compact. Windows faced the gently sloping lawn that led away from the front of the house and down into a small wood.

“It’s perfectly charming,” she said.

She hadn’t meant to say it. She glanced at him to see if he was offended by her appraisal.

He appeared not to have heard her. His gaze hadn’t left the house, as if the view itself were his life’s breath.

“It is good to be back here,” he said. “Thank you all for your work to open the house.”

Mrs. Burns nodded and answered him. “Mr. Osgood, you made such good time that I hadn’t expected your arrival for another hour.”

Alexander smiled at Mrs. Burns. “I couldn’t wait. I told Jonathan to push on.”

Mrs. Burns turned to Isabelle. “Mrs. Osgood, welcome to Wellsgate.”

“Right. Yes,” Alexander mumbled. “Welcome.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you can be comfortable.” All signs of his smile were gone now. “I know it does not compare to your parents’ property, but it is home to me.”

They stepped inside the house, and a warm, inviting entryway filled with light seemed to welcome them inside. A staircase to the right led up into what were likely the bedrooms, and a large, window-filled room was on the left.

Alexander cleared his throat again. “Please make yourself at home,” he said, pointing to the sitting room. “I’ll have Yeardley bring in the bags, and then Mrs. Burns can show you to your rooms. I am going up to change.”

He practically ran up the stairs, leaving Isabelle standing in the foyer. Mrs. Burns breathed out what might have been a laugh. “Give him time, Mrs. Osgood. He’ll learn.”

“What will he learn?” Isabelle asked. The possibilities of what remained unmastered seemed manifold and various.

Mrs. Burns nodded in understanding. “How to make a place for you,” she said kindly. “I am sure he’s very glad you’ve come.” She bobbed her head and stepped into a hallway.

Isabelle was not so sure Alexander was glad she’d come. How could she have such assurance when he made no point of saying so?

Isabelle stepped inside the sitting room. It was warm, lovely, and comfortable. If this room was where he thought she belonged, she could be happy here. The furnishings felt simpler than the dark and heavy tables and couches in Manchester, and the few paintings, landscapes and village scenes, evoked comfort. She walked to the large bank of windows and looked outside. A view of the stables made her wish for an afternoon of fast riding, but she dared not suggest it. Alexander had given her no reason to think that she was welcome to make plans.

As she watched out the window, she saw Alexander jogging toward the stables. He was dressed to ride, and he looked so free, so eager to get into the saddle. She battled with the pleasure of seeing him looking relaxed against the frustration of having been left behind. Did it not occur to him to ask her to join the ride? Or was he eager to be away from her? She slipped into a chair and picked up a book from the table at her elbow. Every few seconds, her eyes slipped from the page to the stables. After several minutes, she saw Alexander ride away on a handsome stallion. She felt her posture soften. He was gone, and glad to be gone. And this was her place. Inside. Alone.