In addition to being Ned’s father, he is Ned’s employer, and John’s. She suspects, though her brother refuses to speak to her candidly on the matter, that John is indebted to him financially. There was a time, before he began working for Ned’s father, when John put his trust in the wrong man, investing money their parents had left them in what appeared to be a promising business venture, thinking himself a grown man when he was still so young.
Most of this Wendy has gleaned from overheard snatches of conversation, snooping and sleuthing on her own. Any time she’s asked directly, her brother always steers the conversation away, telling her business dealings are not a woman’s concern.
It’s more than that though. A delicate balance exists between Ned and his father, and thus between her and Ned’s father, and even her and Ned—one she is still trying to understand. Ned fears his father’s disapproval, and he craves his respect, craving it all the more fiercely every time it is withheld. Despite everything, despite the man Wendy knows Ned to be deep down, part of her husband still longs to be his father’s image of what a man should be. Thus his bluster before Scotland Yard, thus his acquiescence to every one of his father’s rules. It is an irony Ned doesn’t seem to realize. His father respects strength, yet Ned remains cowed. What would happen, she wonders, if he stood up for himself, if he demanded respect for who he is, and not who his father wants him to be?
“Of course,” Wendy says. “Very proper.”
She hears the frost in her voice, swallows around it like a lump of ice in her throat. Ned flinches, the slightest of motions. Is it from her, or from resisting glancing at his father? His eyes find Wendy’s, begging her for patience, even now, when their daughter is missing.
He’s hurting, as unhappy about his father’s presence as Wendy, but they must keep up the facade. Wendy knows. She understands. But her daughter is missing. Peter stole Jane from her very bed, and every moment her father-in-law spends here, every moment they play pretend, is a moment she could be out there saving Jane.
Wendy almost lays a hand on Ned’s chest. It would be a small gesture of appreciation, a bridge between them, a sharing and lightening of their burden, but she can’t help the anger rising and rising in her like a tide. She lets her hand fall. It’s her father-in-law she hates, but Ned is closer. And even if he was only bowing to his father’s pressure, Ned is ultimately the one who sent Mary away.
She imagines Mary arguing, Ned insisting with hurt in his eyes, and now Mary sitting alone in her tiny rented room. Mary is the only person who might understand. Wendy can’t speak to John or Michael, and even if she undid years of lies and told Ned where Jane is, would he believe her?
Her fingers curl into the fabric of her skirt, bunching it into a fist before she forces herself to let go. She won’t lay a hand on Ned’s chest to comfort him, but she won’t lash out either. In this moment, it’s all she can do.
Movement draws Wendy’s eye, Ned’s father shaking his head before he withdraws. Footsteps echo in the hall, pointed as he descends the stairs. Wendy bows her head, still keeping the space between herself and her husband. Ned’s shoulders hunch. Each footfall is a frown, a harshly spoken word. Then eventually the front door opens, and closes, and they both slump without moving closer together.
When Wendy does look up, she finds Ned watching her as if she might shatter, the pieces of her embedding themselves in his skin. Wendy presses her lips into a close line. If she speaks, if she says anything at all, she might blurt out the truth. She knows the bluster Ned put on in front of the men from Scotland Yard was all for his father’s benefit, acting the masterful head of his household with no time for the nonsense of women. She shouldn’t resent him for it, but she can’t quite forgive him either. It’s unfair, expecting his trust and support when she hasn’t given it in return. But she can’t be that bridge. Not now. Not while her daughter is gone. The kindest thing she can do is withdraw.
“I’m tired,” she murmurs, looking down.
If she looks up, she’ll see the hurt in his eyes, all the truths she’s failed to tell him. When he answers her, Ned’s voice is strained, as though still performing for her father-in-law.
“Of course, darling. You should rest.”
Wendy dips her head. She doesn’t intend to look up as she steps past him, but Ned touches her arm.
“The inspectors are doing everything they can. They’ll find Jane and bring her home.”
Despite her better judgment, Wendy meets her husband’s eyes. The loss in them is dizzying, threatening to break her all over again. The stutter—nearly vanished in the eleven years she’s known him—betrays itself when he speaks, a sign of his exhaustion. She should say something kind, reassure him, but she’s already wasted too much time. She needs to go after Jane, and she can’t do that with Ned watching over her. Wendy pinches the inside of her arms to keep them crossed.
“Of course.” Her jaw aches with holding back words. “You’re right. The police will take care of everything. I’ll go rest. You’ll fetch me if you hear anything?”
She says it knowing there will be nothing to hear. Scotland Yard won’t find Jane.
