She picked up her candle, went back upstairs, and made her way to the door she had never seen open. There was no light beneath it. Perhaps she was wrong. But part of her knew she was not.
She rested a hand on the doorknob for a long time before turning it slowly and silently. She pushed the door a little way open.
The room was in darkness. But her candle, even though she held it behind her, gave sufficient light that she could see an empty bed in the middle of the room, with a still figure seated on a chair beside it, one hand resting on the bedspread.
He must surely have seen the light, even if he had not heard the door opening. But he did not turn.
She stepped inside and set the candle down upon a small table beside the door.
***
It had felt amazingly good to be back, to be home. It always had. Even though he had quite enjoyed school, he had always longed for the holidays, and on the few occasions when Len had tried to persuade Flavian to go with him to Northumberland for the long summer holiday, he had always found an excuse not to go. This was where he had belonged, where he had wanted always to belong.
His very love for Candlebury had been his pain too. Why did that pair always go hand in hand? The eternal pull of opposites? For the only way Candlebury could belong to him for the rest of his life was through the death of David without male issue. And though he had known it would happen, he had notwantedit to happen. His love of home had made him feel guilty, as though he resented the fact that his brother stood in the way of his happiness. It was notlikethat.
Ah, it was never like that,he was telling his brother when he awoke with a start.It never was, David.
Fortunately he had not been speaking aloud. But he was fully awake and rattled. And feeling guilty again. He had not been to see his brother. Idiot thought, of course. But he had been avoiding David since his return, avoiding his rooms, avoiding the churchyard, avoiding all mention of him or thought of him.
Why had he never felt this way about his father, much as he had loved him?
It was clear he was not going to go back to sleep, even though Agnes felt warm and comfortable against him and he was tired. Briefly he thought of waking her, of making love to her. But there was a strange blackness in his head. It was not exactly depression. Or a headache. Just... blackness.
He eased himself out of the bed, found his dressing gown on the floor and drew it on, and let himself quietly out of the room. It was an unusually dark night, but he did not light a candle. He knew his way without needing any light. He let himself into David’s bedchamber and felt his way to the window. He pushed back the curtains, though there was not a great deal of light to let in. He could make out the shape of the bed, though, and of a chair against one wall. He drew up the chair to the side of the bed and sat on it. He set one hand flat on the bedspread.
It was where he had always sat when his brother was too unwell to get up. It was where he had sat for many hours both day and night during those final weeks. And he had always set his hand on the bed so that David could touch it whenever he wanted and so thathecould touchDavid.
Why had they always been so much closer than any other brothers he had known? They were as different as night and day. Perhaps that was why. The balance of opposites again.
The balance was no longer there.
The bed was empty.
What had he been expecting? That a ghost or spirit would have lingered? That there would be some sense of his brother here? Some comfort? Some absolution?
Why did I leave you to die alone?
He knew why. He had been head over ears in love, and he had wanted to celebrate his betrothal before returning to the Peninsula.
But why was I going back there?
He had known David was dying when he came home on leave. He had not really expected that he would go back, although he had set a date for doing so. He would inherit the title and properties and have all sorts of responsibilities to keep him at home. He certainly had not intended going back while his brother was still dying.
Why did I leave you?
Flavian did not hear the door open behind him, but he was aware of dim light and then of a slightly brighter light, of the door closing softly. He had woken her. He was sorry about that. And strangely glad. He was not alone any longer. He did not have to do his living alone.
He did not turn, but he waited for her to come close, as he knew she would. Then he could smell her familiar fragrance, and one of her hands came to rest lightly on his shoulder. He raised his own hand to cover it and tipped back his head until it came to rest against her bosom. He closed his eyes.
“Why did I leave him?” he asked.
It did not occur to him to offer her his chair or to draw up another for her.
“You were here for a few weeks after coming home on leave?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you sit with him all that time?” she asked.
