He simply nods, and it feels as if I’ve cracked apart. As if something painful and tight is spilling from my chest, the release of it nearly bringing me to tears.
He goes on, voice soft. “Your genitalia. Do they suityou?”
I can’t form the word. I can only shake my head, my breath caught in my lungs as I hold Arthur’s gaze.
“Charlotte.” My name comes out pained, and Arthur steadies himself with an inhale. “Is it a man you wish to see in the mirror?”
I can’t bring myself to answer him. I can’t. I’m afraid if I confirm it aloud, this moment will shatter, taking me with it. Yet the way Arthur so effortlessly puzzled me out is proof he knows me like no other. He’s watching me still, and he must see the answer in my eyes because, suddenly, he closes his own.
With the comb still in his hand, Arthur bends low, his arms wrapping around my stomach and his face sinking against my hair. The tear I see running down his cheek has me trembling in response.
“Do you find me loathsome?” I ask, my voice scarcely cooperating.
“No.” He says it immediately, and then again, louder. “No, Charlotte. I could never.”
“But it’s anathema.”
“Not to me.” Arthur’s eyes open to meet mine, his chin on my shoulder and his voice firm. “Not. To. Me. We’ll sort this out.”
“How?” I ask, not seeing a way.
“I don’t know.” The admission is quiet, Arthur turning his head to press a kiss to my hair. “But we will. I promise it.”
I want so desperately to believe him. But how can I possibly? This is the life I was born into. And though Arthur is a better husband than I ever hoped to find, I’ll always be his wife. His Charlotte.
No amount of wishing or hoping will change the person I see reflected back at me in the mirror.
Arthur presses another kiss to the side of my head before brushing the last of my hair. He takes his time, clearly lost in his own thoughts, and I don’t attempt to interrupt him. He has every right to think this through. To decide if this is what he wants after all.
IfI’mwhat he wants.
I wouldn’t fault him for finding me lacking.
We eat our supper in our chamber, like we did our breakfast. And when the sky turns dark, Arthur lights the oil lamps. We lie across from one another on the bed, quiet, although neither of us sleeps. Arthur’s hand drifts through my hair, twisting and twining, twisting and twining.
My mouth opens of its own volition, the words no longer able to rest. “Do you think you could love me again after what you’ve learned?”
Arthur’s eyes snap to mine, clarity returning. His voice comes out on a breath. “My love. I’ve never stopped.”
Chapter 13
Arthur
I watch Charlotte through the window, her hands clasped behind her back as she wanders the gardens. Her skirt brushes the ground as she moves, the picture of eloquence and mindful rearing.
To know she’s felt a disconnect her entire life with who she…she?…is and who she was raised to be is an agony inside I cannot quell. No amount of tea or critical thinking these past many days has brought me a solution.
Charlotte believes herself to be a man. A man stuck inside a woman’s body.
How do I help her?
“Oh,” I breathe aloud, the absolute simplicity of it walloping me upside the head.
Him.
How do I help him?
“Sir?” Willard says, stumbling upon me standing in front of the window near the staff halls at the back of the house. “Is there something you need?”
