A Yuletide Invitation. Christine Merrill

frowned in puzzlement. ‘You cannot tell if your husband is angry?’

      ‘He has not said a cross word to me—that I can remember. Not in the whole time we have been married. But no man can last for years with such an even temper. He must be hiding something. And if I cannot tell when he is angry, then how am I supposed to know that he is really happy? He is always smiling, Rosalind.’ And now she sounded truly mad as she whispered, ‘It is not natural.’

      It was all becoming more confusing, not less. ‘So you abandoned your husband because he was not angry with you?’

      Elise picked up some bits of straw and began to work them together into a flat braid. ‘You would think, would you not, that when a woman says to the man she has sworn herself to, that she would rather be with another, there would be a response?’ She looked down at the thing in her hands, gave a quick twist to turn it into a heart, and placed it on the tree.

      Rosalind winced. ‘Oh, Elise, you did not. Say you did not tell him so.’

      Elise blinked up at her in confusion. ‘You did not think that I left him without warning?’

      ‘I assumed,’ said Rosalind through clenched teeth, ‘that you left him in the heat of argument. And that by now you would have come to your senses and returned home.’

      ‘That is the problem. The problem exactly.’ Elise seemed to be searching for words again, and then she said, ‘After all this time there is no heat.’

      ‘No heat?’ Rosalind knew very little about what went on between man and wife when they were alone, and had to admit some curiosity on the subject. But she certainly hoped she was not about to hear the intimate details of her brother’s marriage, for she was quite sure she did not want to think of him in that way.

      ‘Not in all ways, of course.’ Elise blushed, and her hands busied themselves with another bunch of straws, working them into a star. ‘There are some ways in which we are still very well suited. Physically, for example.’ She sighed, and gave a small smile. ‘He is magnificent. He is everything I could wish for in a man.’

      ‘Magnificent?’ Rosalind echoed. Love must truly be blind. For although he was a most generous and amiable man, she would have thought ‘ordinary’ to be a better description of her brother.

      When Elise saw her blank expression, she tried again. ‘His charms might not be immediately obvious, but he is truly impressive. Unfortunately he is devoid of emotion. There can be no heat of any other kind if a person refuses to be angry. There is no real passion when one works so hard to avoid feeling.’

      Rosalind shook her head. ‘Harry is not without feelings, Elise. He is the most easily contented, happy individual I have had the pleasure to meet.’

      Elise made a sound that was something between a growl and a moan. ‘You have no idea, until you have tried it, how maddening it is to live with the most agreeable man in England. I tried, Rosalind, honestly I did. For years I resisted the temptation to goad him to anger, but I find I am no longer able to fight the urge. I want him to rail at me. To shout. To forbid me my wilfulness and demand his rights as my husband. I want to know when he is displeased with me. I would be only too happy for the chance to correct my behaviour to suit his needs.’

      ‘You wish to be married to a tyrant?’

      ‘Not a tyrant. Simply an honest man.’ Elise stared at the straw in her hand. ‘I know that I do not make him happy. I only wish him to admit it. If I can, I will improve my character to suit his wishes. And if I cannot?’ Elise gave a deep sigh. ‘Then at least I will have the truth. But if he will not tell me his true feelings it is impossible. If I ask him he will say that I am talking nonsense, and that there is nothing wrong. But it cannot be. No one is as agreeable as all that. So without even thinking, I took to doing things that I suspected would annoy him.’ She looked at Rosalind and shrugged. ‘He adjusted to each change in my behaviour without question. If I am cross with him? He buys me a gift.’

      ‘He is most generous,’ Rosalind agreed.

      ‘But after years of receiving them I do not want any more presents. Since the day we married, whenever I have had a problem, he has smiled, agreed with me, and bought me a piece of jewellery to prevent an argument. When we were first married, and I missed London, it was emerald earbobs. When he would not go to visit my parents for our anniversary, there were matched pearls. I once scolded him for looking a moment too long at an opera dancer in Vauxhall. I got a complete set of sapphires, including clips for my shoes.’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘You can tell just by looking into my jewel box how angry I have been with him. It is full to overflowing.’

      ‘Then tell him you do not wish more presents,’ Rosalind suggested.

      ‘I have tried, and he ignores me. Any attempt to express displeasure results in more jewellery, and I am sick to death of it.’ She began to crush the ornament she had made, then thought better of it, placing it on the tree and starting another. ‘Do you wish to know of the final argument that made our marriage unbearable?’

      ‘Very much so. For I am still not sure that I understand what bothers you.’ Rosalind glanced at the tree. Without thinking, Elise had decorated a good portion of the front, and was moving around to the back. Since the Christmas tree situation was well in hand, Rosalind sat down on the couch and took another bite from of the biscuit in her hand.

      ‘Harry had been in London for several days on business, and I was reading the morning papers. And there, plain as day on the front page, was the news that the investments he had gone to look after were in a bad way. He stood to lose a large sum of money. Apparently the situation had been brewing for some time. But he had told me nothing of the problems, which were quite severe.’

      ‘Perhaps you were mistaken, Elise. For if he did not speak of them, they could not have been too bad.’

      The tall blonde became so agitated that she crumpled the straw in her hand and threw it to the floor. ‘I was in no way confused about the facts of the matter. They referred to him by name, Rosalind, on the front page of The Times.’

      That did look bad. ‘Surely you do not hold Harry responsible for a bad decision?’

      ‘I would never do such. I am his wife, or wish that I could be. Mine is the breast on which he should lay his head when in need of comfort. But when he returned home, do you know what he said to me when I asked him about his trip?’

      ‘I have not a clue.’

      ‘He said it was fine, Rosalind. Fine!’ Elise repeated the last word as though it were some unspeakable curse. ‘And then he smiled at me as though nothing unusual had happened.’

      She paced the room, as though reliving the moment.

      ‘So I went to get the paper, and showed him his name. And he said, “Oh, that.” He looked guilty, but still he said, “It is nothing that you need to worry about. It will not affect your comfort in any way.” As if he thought that was the only thing I cared about. And then he patted me on the hand, as though I were a child, and said that to prove all was well he would buy me another necklace.’

      She sagged onto the settee beside Rosalind and stared at the straws littering the floor. ‘How difficult would it have been for him to at least admit that there was a problem in his life, so that I did not have to read of it in the papers?’

      ‘He probably thought that you were not interested,’ Rosalind offered reasonably. ‘Or perhaps there was nothing you could do to help him.’

      ‘If I thought it would help I would give him the contents of my jewel case. He could sell them to make back his investment. They mean nothing to me if all is not well. And if that did no good, then I would help him by providing my love and support,’ Elise said sadly. ‘But apparently he does not need it. And if he thinks to keep secret from me something so large that half of London knows it, then what else is he hiding from me?’

      ‘It is quite possible that there is nothing at all,’ Rosalind assured her, knowing that she might be wrong. For