In the weeks after their return to London, Guy and Louisa had, separately, busied themselves in the complicated aftermath of the events on the Princess Alice. Guy was deeply involved in the case and its preparations for trial, while Louisa wrestled with her longing to talk to her husband openly about her involvement and all she knew, against the very real risk of endangering them both to forces she now knew to be black indeed.
She returned to her stenography training and the daily routine of before as if nothing had changed, desperately seeking comfort from the repetition. All the time, the fear that she could never return to the normal of their past clung to her like cobwebs.
They saw each other every day, lay together every night, yet in their cordiality they managed never quite to look each other in the eye. Louisa would sit opposite Guy at the table for supper and miss him, even when she could see and touch him. She knew it was for her to build the bridge again and determined that even if she had to do so brick by solitary brick, she would.
In the night, Louisa ducked her head down, out of the cold air and into the groove between Guy’s shoulder blades. She stretched her legs along his and slid her hand around his chest until it lay flat where she could feel his heart beat. He was warm, and he moved slightly, letting her come in a little closer.
Brick by brick.