She found him slumped in a chair before a dying fire in the drawing room, staring at a sheet of paper.
“Mr. Harris?” she whispered.
But at that moment, a loud clap of thunder shook the vicarage and he didn’t hear her. He crumpled the letter in his hand, dropped the tumbler he’d been holding in his other, and held his face instead.
“Mr. Harris!” She flew to his side, kneeling before his chair, reaching for the spilled glass and turning it aright on the floor. Her hands were tentative on his knee, entreating him to notice her presence. “Are you ill?”
He looked at her with strange wonderment. “Charlotte? Did I wake you? Pray forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Has something else happened? Mr. Harris, you look very ill. Should I send Buxley for Dr. Webb?”
“No. There is nothing he can do for me.”
“What, then?” She spied the crumpled letter. “Have you received bad news?”
“Yes. Bitter news.”
“Your mother?”
“No. Mother is fine—still staying with friends in Newnham. Doing as well as can be expected for a woman forced from her home.” He rubbed both hands over his face, clearly distressed.
“Is there nothing I can do? Is there something you might take for your present comfort?”
“If you mean brandy, I have had plenty ... with little relief to show for it.”
“Shall I call Father?”
“No. Let him sleep.”
“Shall I leave you alone, then?”
“Stay, Charlotte, if you will.”
“Of course.”
“You are a comfort to me,” he said idly, still staring at the embers in the grate. “Always have been.”
Lightning flashed, filling the room with light, then leaving it more shadowed than before. Wind howled, holding the curtains aloft on the breath of its wail.
“You must be freezing!” She rose and rushed to the window, wondering why on earth it had been opened on such a cold January night.
“I had not noticed ...”
She closed the window firmly, pausing to look out at the swaying tree limbs and swirling snow. “Thunder and lightning in January.” She shook her head in wonder. “This is going to be an incredible storm.”
She walked to the hearth and tossed a few scoops of coal onto the fire, then turned to him. Seeing him shiver, she pulled her father’s wool lap robe from the back of the chair and laid it across his shoulders.
“Is it Fawnwell?” she asked, straightening the robe over his arms.
He didn’t answer, so she continued. “You shall rebuild—”
“In time.” He straightened in his chair. “Though it is not Fawnwell alone which weighs on my mind this night.”
She again knelt before him. “It is not the wind, is it?” She attempted a mild tease. “I have never known you afraid of a coming storm.”
But his answer was contemplative, serious. “Afraid? Why be afraid when there is nothing I can do. This I know, but still—I detest my utter helplessness to stay its hand. I dread its power over me. I dread the ... damage ... it will certainly havoc.”
She squeezed his hand and he looked down at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there.
