In the morning, I awaken to the sight of Edward seated upright in bed, engrossed in the daily newspaper. He’s still dressed in his yellow-and-white, vertically striped pyjamas, but he appears much improved from the day before. Rubbing my eyes, I stretch my arms above my head and let out a yawn.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?” Edward asks, not taking his eyes off the paper.

“Morning, love. I feel… tired, but then again, I always do when I’ve just woken up. And you?”

“A little better. Still a bit weary, but not so much that I can’t manage the day. At least we don’t have to return home just yet—we’ve still some time to ourselves here in the countryside.”

“That’s a relief. I’m glad you’re doing better.” I pause for a moment before adding, “I’ve got to head to the post office today. I wrote a letter to Margaret, telling her all that’s transpired these past few days. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Certainly,” Edward replies, folding the paper into his lap and rubbing his eyes. “But I’d like to eat first. I’m absolutely famished.”

“All right, I’ll get ready and make you an omelette. That ought to be filling enough?”

“Could you also make some bacon? Three to five pieces, maybe? And two slices of toast? I really am ravenous.”

“Good heavens,” I sigh. “Very well. I suppose that’s what I get for giving you a light chicken soup last night.”

Throwing the covers aside, I begin dressing for the day. Once I’ve fastened the final button on my baby pink frock, trimmed with white frills, I head downstairs to prepare breakfast. My stomach growls rather loudly as I step onto the first stair, prompting a chuckle from Edward.

“Sounds like you need a hearty meal yourself!”

I shake my head, giggling quietly, then make my way into the kitchen, where everything remains neatly in place. I retrieve two brass pans from the hooks by the window and pour a bit of oil into each. From the icebox, I take out a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon.

I place the bacon in one pan and light the stove, then crack five eggs into the other. We’re both quite hungry. Hopefully, this will suffice—especially for Edward. I won’t be having any bacon myself.

As the pans begin to sizzle, I boil water and prepare two cups of coffee. For Edward’s, I use three teaspoons of grounds instead of the usual two, to give him an extra kick and ensure he’ll stay alert throughout the day.

The scent of bacon wafts through the house as it crisps in the pan. I portion the omelette—sixty percent for Edward, forty for myself—and plate the bacon beside it. The toast pops from the toaster, and I place two slices next to his omelette. The plate is practically overflowing.

I carry the dishes to the table just as Edward descends the stairs, now dressed in his everyday attire. There’s no need to dress finely in the countryside; everything tends to get dirty rather quickly.

Setting the plates down, I return to fetch the coffee and utensils.

“Thank you,” Edward murmurs, planting a kiss on my cheek as he sits down. I press a kiss to his lips in return and take the seat opposite him. He stretches his hands across the table, and I rest my smaller hands in his. He strokes them gently with his thumbs. He isn’t always so affectionate, but when he is, I must admit, it’s charming.

A smile forms on his lips, dimples pressing into his cheeks and a faint blush rising. It makes him look far younger than his twenty-eight years. I’d say twenty, perhaps even eighteen, if not for the slightly unkempt haircut betraying his age.

“What is it?” I ask softly, catching his gaze.

“Nothing, love. Can I not admire you for a moment?”

My cheeks flush. “No—I mean—of course you can,” I stammer, startled by his sudden tenderness. He’s rarely this romantic, and when he is… it often means he’s building up to something that unsettles me.

We linger in silence, eyes locked, until I finally speak, growing mildly uneasy. “Aren’t you going to eat? You said you were starving.”

“I am, but I wanted to ask you something first,” he says, withdrawing his hands and folding them in his lap.

Oh no. Here it comes.

“What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Margaret?”

Despite myself, I feel the colour rise in my cheeks. “What do you mean, love? We’re friends—nothing more.”

“Yes, but you spend such a great deal of time together. Write constantly. I can’t help but wonder—”

I cut him off. “Maybe men don’t spend so much time with their friends, but women do. Margaret and I grew up together. Our parents visited one another nearly every day. Naturally, we were close.”

He tilts his head, considering this. “Still, don’t you tire of her?”

“Not at all. Women love to talk. There’s always something to gossip about. And even when there isn’t, we enjoy one another’s company.”

“You don’t always enjoy mine,” he mutters, taking a bite of bacon.

“What are you on about? Of course I love spending time with you. If I ever seem distant, it’s unintentional.”

“But you get uncomfortable around me. Not all the time, but often enough.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” I reply, folding my hands in my lap to conceal their trembling.

“You do,” he says sharply. His tone shifts—he’s growing irritated.

“We’ve been through this before. The only thing that unnerves me is too much physical touch. And I’ve grown used to it, haven’t I? If you can’t see that, then I don’t know what else to say.”

He exhales deeply. “But I’ve also noticed how uncomfortable you get whenever I mention… sexual deviants.”

“Yes. And wouldn’t anyone? The very thought of such people makes my skin crawl. And for you to even imply something like that about Margaret and me—it repulses me, Edward. It angers me.”

Tears well in my eyes. Partly out of fear—fear that he might uncover the truth. But they’re useful now. I can weaponize them, make him feel guilt, turn the conversation in my favour.

His expression crumbles from fury to remorse.

“I—I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. Truly. I went too far. I believe you. I won’t bring it up again.”

He rises from his chair and opens his arms, stepping toward me. He embraces me, and after a moment, I allow myself to return it. But inwardly, I think: You’ve said that before.

“This isn’t good for us,” I whisper, voice choked by emotion. “Please don’t do this again.”

He stiffens and inhales sharply. “I swear to God I won’t. I’ll never do this to you again. Come here.”

He pulls me into a deeper embrace, resting his chin atop my head. We remain like that for a while. He doesn’t speak, but I can feel the weight of his apology. Still… if this happens again—and I suspect it will—I won’t let it slide.

I pull away first and sit back down. “We should eat. Best to make the most of our day, don’t you think?”

“Right.”

He sits, and we eat in silence, our breakfast now quite cold.

Once we’ve finished eating, I gather the plates and stack them neatly in the sink. I pour what remains of our coffee down the drain, rinse the cups, and place them beside the dishes. The water runs warm over my hands as I clean, but it does little to quiet the tremor in my fingers. Edward brings over the forks and knives, his eyes still fixed on me—less suspicious now, but watchful, as though I might vanish if he blinks. I ignore it. Best to keep the morning light.

I slip on my outdoor shoes and retrieve my bonnet from the coat rack. Edward dons a flat cap and a light brown jacket that smells faintly of lavender and smoke. The sun shines warmly outside, casting long golden shadows across the winding countryside path. Somewhere in the trees, a blackbird sings its morning hymn.

“Ready?” I ask, adjusting my bonnet with a practiced hand.

He nods and opens the door for me. We step into the soft morning light, the air fresh and slightly damp with dew. The hedges lining the road glisten, and birds call to one another from the trees overhead. The earth feels soft beneath our feet.

The post office is not far—perhaps a ten-minute walk—and the journey passes quickly. We exchange a few words about the weather, about the smell of wildflowers in the grass, about a robin we spot flitting across our path. Nothing too heavy. That suits me just fine. I let him talk more than I do, nodding where needed, pretending a smile when he looks my way.

When we reach the post office, I glance at Edward. “Would you mind waiting outside for a bit? I just need to speak to the clerk.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “All right.”

I step inside. It’s a modest building, little more than a wooden counter with a scale and a small wall of pigeon holes behind it. The scent of ink and dust clings to the air. A woman in her forties stands at the counter, flipping through a ledger. Her spectacles rest low on her nose.

“Good morning,” I say with a smile. “I’d like to post a letter, please.”

She looks up and returns my smile. “Of course, dear. Domestic or international?”

“Domestic,” I reply, slipping the sealed envelope from my bag and placing it on the scale. My heart pounds in my chest, a rhythm loud enough that I’m sure she can hear it.

“To Eastbourne, by any chance?” she asks, squinting at the address.

“Yes, actually.”

“Thought so. We’ve had quite a few going there this week. Must be something in the water.” She chuckles and begins weighing the letter. “That’ll be tuppence.”

I fish the coins from my reticule and place them in her palm.

“Thank you, love. It’ll go out this afternoon.”

I nod gratefully. “Much appreciated.”

As I turn to leave, she calls after me gently, “Tell Miss Thatcher I said hello, will you? Used to know her mother.”

“I’ll be sure to pass it along,” I say with a polite nod, even though I have no intention of doing so. The fewer people who know I’m writing to Margaret, the better.

Edward is still waiting outside, seated on a bench beside the door. He stands as I approach.

“All set?” he asks.

“Yes, it’s on its way.”

“Good,” he replies. “And now?”

“I thought we might walk a little, if you’re up to it. There’s a nice path that winds through the fields—it ends at a little hilltop with a lovely view. We can sit there for a while, enjoy the breeze.”

He smiles faintly. “That sounds perfect.”

We set off again, leaving the post office behind. I slip my hand into his, and we walk side by side in silence. The path grows narrower the farther we go, the hedges taller and wilder. The countryside unfurls around us like a patchwork quilt—green, gold, and stitched with wildflowers.

It’s hard, sometimes, pretending. Hard to hold someone’s hand while dreaming of someone else’s. Each step forward feels like a performance, each glance, each smile carefully stitched together for an audience I no longer wish to impress. But I press on. It’s all I can do.

When we reach the hilltop, the wind greets us like an old friend. It rustles through the tall grasses and tugs at my skirts. The view stretches far across the fields, with the faint line of the sea glinting on the horizon. The sky is a bright, endless blue.

Edward sits first, patting the ground beside him. I join him, tucking my skirts beneath me. For a while, we don’t speak. The silence is easy. We watch the clouds drift past, white and weightless.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says eventually.

“Yes,” I answer. “It’s peaceful.”

“I used to come here as a boy,” he says. “Climb trees, fall down hills, ruin every pair of trousers I owned.”

I smile faintly. “And now?”

“Now I sit beside my wife and feel as though I’ve done something right for once.”

The words fall softly, but they strike deep. I look away, toward the sea. The letter is gone now—sealed, sent, out of my hands. Margaret will read it. She’ll know the truth. I don’t know what she’ll do with it, what she’ll say, whether she’ll write back. But the silence between us has been broken. That must count for something.

A butterfly lands on the hem of my dress, its wings the color of lilac. It pauses there, then flutters away, vanishing into the sky.

I close my eyes and breathe in the moment—the wind, the warmth, the ache beneath my ribs that never quite leaves.

And I wonder if Margaret feels it too.