That night, I slept in the room next to his. And for the first time since my wedding, I breathed.
In the days that followed, I found his library — rows and rows of books. I’d never been allowed to read before, not really. When Arthur found me sitting cross-legged on the floor with a book open in my lap, he smiled faintly.
“Everything in this house belongs to you,” he said. “Nothing is forbidden.”
Nothing is forbidden. No one had ever said that to me before.
Days turned into weeks. I learned the rhythms of the farm — how to read the ledgers, how to plan for the seasons, how to run the household. My mind stretched in ways I didn’t know it could.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Arthur asked me softly, “Matilda… are you unhappy here?”
I thought for a moment, then said honestly, “No. For the first time… I can breathe.”
Not long after, Arthur fell ill. Fever took hold of him, and I stayed by his side for days, refusing to sleep. When he finally opened his eyes and saw me slumped in a chair beside his bed, he whispered, “You stayed.”
“I am your wife,” I said simply.
Something shifted between us then — not passion, but something steadier. Trust. A quiet devotion that didn’t need words.
