This dream is different. I am lying on my front, tracing the pattern in the carpet with my fingers. I mark the intricate twist of stem and leaves, the great loops of flowers. Above me is the familiar roof of the nursery table. If I turn my head, I spy the skirted legs of the maids. Their chatter as they sort the laundry is a soothing accompaniment to my play. There is a warm feeling along my flank and if I turn my head the other way I see Thoby. His body is so close to mine as to be almost indistinguishable from it. I sense that I must keep still and quiet or this warmth will go away. While I am thinking this, something shifts. I lose my place in the maze of leaves and flowers. I realize Thoby has gone. The space where his body was is empty and cold. Though I cry out no one hears me. The maids seem oblivious of what has happened. I look down but the shapes and colors have all disappeared. There is nothing left. I decide to fill the blankness by creating my own patterns. No matter how hard I work, I cannot replace what I have lost.

It is Sunday and I am alone; I have sent the children to stay with Clive. For once there are no visitors. I am in the sitting room at Charleston, where I have been waiting since early morning, wondering why Duncan does not come. Ever since his letter arrived announcing his return I have thought of little else. I have cleaned and decorated every room, trying to anticipate his needs. Now that his affair is over, I can admit that ending it will have been painful. He will need space to recover I remind myself. I resolve to force nothing on him, ask nothing for myself. To have him with me again will be recompense enough.

I watch the light spill through the curtains onto the floor. For the thousandth time, I try not to wonder why Duncan did not come at the time he stated in his letter. I know the line by heart. I will be with you for dinner. The places are still laid in the dining room, the duck congealing on its plate on the sideboard. I sat at the table and watched the candles burn themselves out, starting to my feet with each spatter of rain on the gravel, every gust of wind in the trees. Eventually, as dawn broke, I rose and came in here.

It is well into the afternoon before I hear Duncan’s voice. I force myself to swallow the great rush of emotion that immediately floods every nerve. The marigolds I have arranged on the table throb with light. I cannot prevent the surge of hope that this time he comes to stay.