They all ran off.

Ellie followed her husband into the kitchen. “That was very kind of you to allow the servants to use your bathing facilities,” she said quietly, wanting to get in the first word before he started to rail at her.

“They're our bathing facilities,” he snapped, “and don't think you're going to distract me.”

“I hadn't meant to. I can't help it if you did a kind deed.”

Charles exhaled, trying to give his heart time to resume a normal rhythm. Christ, what a day it had been, and it wasn't even noon yet. He'd woken up, found his wife with her head stuck in an oven, gotten into his first argument with her, kissed her soundly (and ended up wanting much, much more than that) only to be interrupted by a damned fire that she appeared to have started.

His throat was raw, his back was killing him, and his head pounded like a gavel. He looked down at his arms, which appeared to be shaking. Marriage, he decided, was not proving to be a healthful endeavor.

He turned his gaze to his wife, who looked as if she didn't know whether to smile or frown. Then he looked back over at the oven, which was still spewing smoke.

He groaned. A year from now he'd be dead. He was sure of it.

“Is something wrong?” Ellie asked quietly.

He turned to her with a disbelieving expression. “Is something wrong?” he echoed. “Is something WRONG?” This time it was more of a boom.

She frowned. “Well, obviously something, er, some things, are wrong, but I was speaking in a more general sense, you see. I—”

“Eleanor, my bloody kitchen is burned to a crisp!” he fairly yelled. “I fail to see anything general about it.”

Her chin jutted out. “It wasn't my fault.”

Silence.

She crossed her arms and stood her ground. “The rack had been moved. It wasn't where I left it. That oven didn't stand a chance of not catching fire. I don't know who—”

“I don't give a damn about the rack. One, you shouldn't have tampered with the oven in the first place. Two” —now he was ticking off on his fingers— “you shouldn't have run in here while the fire was raging. Three, you damn well shouldn't have stuck your head back in the bloody oven while it was still hot. Four—”

“That is quite enough,” Ellie bit out.

“I'll tell you when it's enough! You—” Charles stopped himself from continuing, but only because he realized he was shaking with rage. And, perhaps, with a little latent fear.

“You're making a list about me,” she accused. “You're making a list of all of my shortcomings. And,” she added, wagging her finger at him, “you cursed twice in one sentence.”

“God help me,” he moaned. “God help me.”

“Hmmmph,” she said, somehow managing to incorporate a world of scathing reprovement in that one semi-syllable. “He certainly won't if you continue cursing like that.”