Emalyn gave her a sad smile, holding her arm a bit tighter. “So. Are you going to accept him?”
If he lives...“We had... a misunderstanding.”
“One of many you will have, now and in the future. Marriage, in many ways, is about an endless series of misunderstandings. It’s also about working through them.”
Rose sighed. “I thought it was supposed to be easy, when there was true affection. As with you and His Grace.”
Emalyn gave a short bark of a laugh. “Ask His Grace sometime how many pieces of antique ceramics I have chucked at his head. He has that number in his head at all times.”
Rose paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“After the first four, he started keeping a ledger, a running tally of pieces and their worth, threatening to take the costs from my allowance.”
“You cannot be serious.”
Emalyn turned them back toward Thomas’s room. “He never has, of course. I think keeping the ledger is just his way of arguing.” Emalyn’s steps slowed to a halt and she closed her eyes, tears leaking from the corners. “If Thomas lives—”
“He will.”
Emalyn sniffed but her eyes remained closed. “If he lives, I hope you will talk to him. Consider accepting him. I am convinced he cares deeply for you. Whatever went awry between you, I hope you will give him a chance to set things right.”
Before Rose could answer, the door to Thomas’s room opened, and Michael beckoned for them to return.
*
“Thomas?”
The cold had retreated, leaving the tingling pain at the far reaches of his senses. Pain that began to grow, its tendrils winding around him, burning through muscle and bone. He recoiled as it flowed through him, seeking the numbing cold and lingering darkness.
“Thomas? Son?”
Two voices, neither buried in the miasma. Closer. Entreating.
The pain clambered for attention, searing through limbs, making him aware of his legs, his arms. Blackness lightening to gray.
“Thomas?” A new voice. A woman. Soft. Pleading. Caring.
The pain seized him now, spiking through his chest and abdomen. He groaned.
Jubilation erupted around him, a feminine cry of delight—Mother?—followed by hushed whispers seeking quiet.
A slow but expanding awareness brought more pain and a muddle of random thoughts.They were happy for my pain? What hurts? Why? Who are these—Another deep groan pushed out of him. Then he felt the cold touch of something on his lips, and a bittersweet liquid coated his tongue. He fought to swallow, coughing. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt dry, swollen, tender.
After a moment, the pain began to retreat, the darkness returning. Only this time, it settled over him with a soft comfort. As it claimed his consciousness, he heard that last female voice whisper. “We will find them, Thomas. I promise.”
*
“The laudanum willhelp with the pain. When he becomes more awake, mix it with whisky instead of honey. Ten to twenty drops per day. No more than forty drops at most. You do not want him forming a habit. Less is better, if he can tolerate the pain.” The surgeon closed his bag. “From here, he needs rest and lots of fluid. Boiled water more than tea. So far there’s no infection, probably because the wound was so seared. But continue to watch him for fever. If one develops, send for Dr. Oakley immediately. He will take over his care from here as your family physician.”
Rose stood with Emalyn near the door as the surgeon gave his instructions to the duke.
“Some doctors are so insufferably rude,” Emalyn whispered in her ear.
“Women have no mind for this level of details. It would scorch the cobwebs in our tender minds.”
Emalyn choked, her grip on Rose’s arm threatening to cut off the blood to her hand.
They stood aside as the duke escorted the doctor out, pausing only to hiss at his wife. “You are incorrigible!”
