“Yes,” he answered honestly. “I did. When she died, a part of me died along with her.”
At least, that was what he had thought, how he had felt. But now, he could not help but to wonder if that was not entirely true. If instead, he had believed a part of himself dead which had not truly died at all. If that part of him had merely been lying dormant, waiting for the right moment to come back to life.
Or waiting for the right person.
Waiting for Johanna McKenna. The last woman for whom his heart should long. And yet, the only one for whom it did.
“She was a fortunate woman, to have been so loved by you,” Johanna said.
There was no jealousy in her voice, only raw candor.
“I was the fortunate one.” His voice was rough with emotion now as he recalled Hattie, his charmed marriage with her. From the moment they had begun courting, she had stolen his heart. He had never had a hope of defense against her. “I wish Verity could have known her. But Hattie died when she was so young. She has no memories. All she knows of Hattie is what I tell her.”
That still broke his heart every time he thought about it.
He knew that much would never change, regardless of how much time passed and how much healing he was able to do.
“I am sorry, Felix,” Johanna said, touching his hand. “That must be so incredibly difficult for you. My heart aches for both you and Verity.”
The unexpected contact warmed him. When she would have withdrawn, he moved quickly, taking her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. How good this connection felt. How necessary. As necessary as his beating heart, as his next breath.
Her compassion moved him.
“We are fortunate,” he said, “though I think I did not realize just how fortunate until I saw Verity in the nursery, until I heard her voice, until I held her in my arms and realized she was still alive. We have each other, which is more than some.”
More than Johanna herself, but he did not say that.
He sensed her stiffening at his side, and he knew she heard the unspoken words. Though he longed to learn her story, he would not force her. There would come a day, he hoped, when she would willingly share the details of her past with him.
“I think of her,” she said, taking him by surprise. “My daughter, Pearl. I think of her every day. There will never come a time when I do not feel her absence in my life. When I do not remember her and wish she were still here with me.”
The sadness in her voice hit him directly in his heart. Without thought, he slid his arm around her, drawing her into his side. And though she felt right, tucked against him, her curves pressing into him in all the right ways, his gesture was not about desire but about comfort. A silent acknowledgment of her pain, of what she had endured.
He noted, not for the first time, that she did not speak of Pearl’s father. Since her name was Johanna McKenna, he could only assume she had never wed the man. He found himself curious about what sort of man could capture Johanna McKenna’s heart and win her. But he said nothing, for he did not dare pry.
“There is no cure for grief, I have found,” he said instead, speaking honestly and from his own experience. “Years dull the pain in incremental measures, but still, some days are worse than others. Some days, it is a flood, over your head. Other days, you can swim just long and hard enough to keep from drowning in it.”
He was afraid she might move away from him, might seek to put some distance between them. But instead, she wrapped an arm around his waist in return, her hold tight. As if she were taking comfort from him every bit as much as he was taking it from her.
“It has been nine years since I lost her,” she said quietly.
“Nine?” He stared down at her in surprise. “You must have been nothing more than a babe yourself then.”
“Seventeen.” Her voice was sad. “I was seventeen when I became a mother. I scarcely knew how to look after myself then. It was far too soon. I blame myself for what happened, of course. If I had been older, wiser, wealthier, if she had a father in her life who could have provided for us, she would have lived.”
He stroked down her spine calmly, caressing, but inside him, irritation flared to life at the man who had taken advantage of a young girl on her own in the world. “You need not speak of it, Johanna.”
“I want to.” She glanced up at him from beneath lowered lashes. “I am not embarrassed by my past. Others would be, I know, but I have always reasoned that Pearl was the very best part of me. I will not have her memory as nothing more than a shameful secret.”
He nodded, because he understood. In polite society, an unwed young mother was a source of shame for her family, ostracized by all who knew her. She would either be forced to give up her baby or to hide herself in the country or on the Continent.
“Tell me whatever you wish, my dear,” he said, still caressing her back.
He admired her strength. He did not think he had ever met another who had endured as much as she had and who still found the fortitude to carry on. A woman who could care for and laugh with a child she scarcely knew.
“Her father was another actor in the traveling company I joined when I ran away from my father,” she said slowly. “He was older than I was, thirty to my fifteen, and I thought of him as a brother. I had been with the company for a few months when everything changed. He often performed the largest roles in our plays. He told me he would help me get bigger roles, better roles.”
Dread curdled in his gut as she paused, letting out a bitter laugh. He knew where her tale was going, and it was beginning to make him ill. That a thirty-year-old man would take advantage of a girl of fifteen made him want to do the bastard violence. But he ground his molars and forced himself to remain silent.
