Month seven and your husband arrives without warning. His letters had ceased for a short while and the loneliness of it all almost made you miss them. His writing had improved greatly in the short time, but his spelling is still shamefully horrendous. Or, as he wrote once, whoreandous. You do not appreciate that he knows how to spell whore and not his own name.
You meet him at the door, house cloak pulled over your shoulders. The best part of his absence is how you get to relax. Your gown is baggy and wrinkled, your hair is undone: you have no one to impress.
Until, of course, your husband and another man arrive.
"I was not aware of your return," you explain, nearly panicked as you wrap your cloak tighter. Your husband does not acknowledge your shame.
"This is my second," he says curtly. The man beside him is obviously highborn, handsome in the ways girls often whisper about. He bends at the waist in the proper manner, holding a palm out in your direction.
You grant him your hand and the second presses his lips to your knuckles.
"You flatter me," you say. "I am simply a merchant's daughter."
"Modesty. Your family name is well known in The Golden City and the Black Coast. The tales of your beauty were not exaggerated."
Your husband frowns, but that doesnt ruin your joy.
"Are you both staying the evening?"
"A fortnight, if the lady permits," the second says. Your husband looks at him, brow knitted with confusion, but he repeats.
"I will have them prepare a hearty dinner," you say. "I apologize for my appearance. Allow me to get dressed."
"Are you not already dressed?"
The second laughs too hardily at your husband's question.
By the time the food is prepared, you have dressed yourself in your finest. Jewelry and gems, rich purple cloth your father had saved especially for you, hair twisted into a beautiful updo-
"What happened?" Your husband rises from his seat the moment you enter the hall, nearly knocking over his chair. Both he and his compatriot are freshly bathed, clothing clean and nicely pressed. You take a step back, unsure whether to brace yourself against the hulking form or not, but he does not reach to strike. Instead, your husband's hands find the space above your hips. "Have they not been feeding you? Has the crown not been sending gold?"
"My lord, I don't know what you mean." This is the first time he's ever touched you. His hands are calloused and catch the fibers on your gown. "If anything I have been fed too well, I'm afraid."
"Your waist!" He squeezes his hands towards each other as if to prove a point. "It's half the size!"
Both times he has come home have been by surprise; you hadn't been in a real gown for either.
"I-" you shift uncomfortably. "Forgive me, I... The maid helped properly..."
His second has a fox-like smile as he downs his ale.
"Have you been refusing to eat?"
"No, it's the fashion..."
"The fashion is to waste?"
"Have you never seen a lady undressed?" you ask, suddenly furious.
Not out of anger, but out of a painful embarrassment. His back goes straight and his eyes go wide.
Luckily, his second puts him out of his misery. "Friend, she has a corset on. Have you never noticed how all highborn ladies are shaped so erotically?"
Your husband's head snaps towards him.
"Clearly you need to spend more time undressing your wife and less time--"
"You will not say such things in front of my poor lamb."
"You two are married! She knows of sex!"
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