Oscar Williams had turned in their bed and found her side empty, cold, with her perfume as the only greeting. A long, stately creature of a man, he'd sat up in the sliver of daylight cutting their bedding in half. The luminescent blade dug into one green eye as he sighed and rubbed one ivory finger over a solid eyebrow. He was quiet finding his way and quiet in front of the mirror. Statuesque cheekbones inherited from his mother's side and his father's noble nose failed to tell the story inside. He had learned to keep his moods like a dagger. They were no good if used on himself, yet, if you were perceptive, he might have benefited from counting and expelling his emotions in a way that wasn't calculated. Oscar would not agree, and let condescension pool on his complexion and bleach the whites of his eyes. It was a very becoming cadence for him and would let him have dominion over most who were confronted by his preferences. A very polite kind of violence.<br/><br/>By the time his hair was perfectly so - black with all its precious oils applied, held back and luxuriously voluminous - there was a little upward bow to his pale-to-rose lips. It was said that his breeding was perfect, to let him look like that, but his mother had once commented that his youthful skin was an effect of all the self-control he practiced. The way he effectively put on his clothes, perfectly pressed pants and a vest over his starched shirt, could work to prove at least half her point. The jacket he wore was painstakingly tailored, and hung on to his shoulders like an obsessive lover as he took the corridor outside his chambers.<br/><br/>The maid Petronella Garfield, Ella, had informed him the woman of the house was out, and he'd huffed through his nose and smiled with narrowing eyes at the inconvenience. He took his breakfast alone in the room where they'd usually sit and talk over eggs and toast. It wasn't so important for their bodies, food was never scarce in the Williams house, but it was a routine. It was a ritual. And therein lie the misstep of Mrs. Williams. She had agreed to marry a titan of industry, the foremost provider of iron to build the new world, who lived on his schedule alone. It should not be so hard to comprehend their times and events should be a certain way. He'd already instructed her. Rituals broken make for poor religions. And now her deity was quietly seething on his own.<br/><br/>He ignored her when she first came, and thought it was only fair she offer some tidbit about her day so far. If it was an excuse it failed completely to win his sympathy. That whole thing again, with the rebellion she was waging from the plush chair of their city home. She was, at least, pleasant to see when she neared the table. He'd always approved of Elizabeth's face. Eventually he turned toward it fully. She'd set her newspaper down close to his. Delivered. He'd already committed the important things to memory.<br/><br/>"A request, so early in the morning?" She had asked him to forgive her. Usually there should be some incentive following a suggestion like that. He'd been in enough boardrooms to know of the exchange. In his mind, he was playing asinine games, the rules of which Elsie was never told. "But you don't sound too remorseful." he pointed out. He was using a certain tone of voice, full control, wrung dead from any affection. He stood and threw the knife on the plate he'd scratched up unusually while dividing his eggs. The resulting music was broken, pitched.<br/><br/>"You're radiant, actually, bragging about your little games. Your indulgences." He inhaled as though he was too tired to speak anymore, but decided against such mild reprimand. "Was the day so big you had to leave your loving husband to wake up alone? I suppose you're so important now propriety doesn't concern you?" he shrugged and tugged at one of his cuffs. A dapper accuser, looking down at her. His head weighed to one side as his lips lifted without the sentiment of a real smile. "Look at you, darling, so early into marriage and you're already a smoldering failure. And you hope to entertain political success? You ought to think about writing jokes for these instead." he tapped her newspaper and then flicked it with his nail.<br/><br/>"You could name the story 'I am queen and my husband is of no importance'. I'd read it, I think, even though I know how it ends." She really did have pretty cheeks. What if they were adorned with the prints of his hand? His hand wrapped around her wrist quickly so he could hold it up and squeeze it hard. "Good morning to you too, darling."