***
Edward woke with a start, his dreams filled with stampeding horses, red slashes that looked like Amelia’s scars, suffocating throngs of Society, and physicians insisting they be admitted to the home for bloodletting.
With heavy breaths, he dragged himself from the bed and crossed to the window. The barest hint of light was just touching the horizon. His hand rubbed absently across his stubbled jaw. How had Amelia fared in the night? Would she finally awaken? Had her fever improved?
His very thoughts pulled him to the door adjoining their two rooms.
He had never used this entrance, not in the time before he had been married and certainly not after. He would not be surprised to learn that Amelia had slept with a knife in case he was determined to intrude. But his desire to see Amelia trumped his uncertainty over their relationship.
He knocked lightly, unwilling to invade her privacy without her consent. But no one answered.
His eyes bore a hole into the wood of the door. What now? Was he to return to bed and await a servant to tell him the state of his wife’s health? Go about his day as usual? The idea was distasteful. More than that, it was disheartening. How was he to do anything without the knowledge that Amelia was safe and cared for?
Of its own accord, his hand quietly turned the handle to the door. He inched it open enough to see the room beyond. It was empty. Even the bed appeared undisturbed.
He pushed the door wider, panicking. Where was Amelia? A maid? How could they have—
Oh.
She was there, indeed. Settled in the middle of the bed, initially hidden from sight by one of the bed columns.
He swallowed hard, looking over his shoulder at the now open door between their rooms, then back down at the beautiful woman before him. Her hair must have come undone during the night as it spilled across her pillow in gleaming waves. She was not so pale as she had been the day before, and she seemed to sleep easier as well. The curve of her chin was relaxed, losing all of its stubbornness and ire. Thankfully, he had not seen much of either directed at him lately, but she appeared younger and more free nonetheless. Her lips were parted slightly, and the blankets—high enough that he could not see a single scar—rose and fell with each deep breath. Emotion overwhelmed him. He was wholly out of his element here, but he couldn’t possibly wish himself somewhere else.
As he stood transfixed, her eyelids fluttered. He stepped closer, willing her to awaken.
But she did not.
He reached to brush aside a lock of hair. But some invisible barrier kept him from touching her at all while she was so blissfully ignorant of the fact. This morning felt different than the day before. She seemed improved, and his panic and concern subsided, making him more aware of the intimacies she may not welcome. So, instead, he clenched his hand at his side and expelled a breath.
“I am in love with you, you know.” His words slipped out on a whisper. Then he laughed. Not a loud laugh. Not a laugh one could hear at all, really. Simply the kind that is accompanied by a smile and shaking of the shoulders. “Of course you don’t know. You likely think me incapable of love. You certainly would not welcome my presence if you knew the depth of my feelings.” He ran a hand down his face, grimacing. “Good heavens but I am growing mawkish. To an unconscious woman, even. This is bordering on insanity.”
He moved from the bed, intent on returning to his room and instigating his former plan to simply inquire after Amelia’s health from the servants. Though he knew he would not be able to abide such distance from her.
At the threshold between their rooms, he looked back, unable to help himself.
He still could not make out Amelia’s form in the grand bed, but knowing she was there, improved and sleeping well, gave him a measure of comfort. Some tension left his shoulders as his eyes swept the room. Then the door handle to the hall turned, the door began to open, and his tension returned tenfold. He slipped into his own chamber, closing the door quietly behind himself.
***
“What do you mean you do not know how she is?”
Edward rolled his shirtsleeves up. He’d long ago discarded his jacket. “The physician is due back this afternoon. Until then, all I can tell you is she still sleeps.”
“Of all the preposterous—”
“Now, now, Augusta, do not eat the boy alive.”
“Well, someone needs to dosomethingabout him, Charlotte! He has gone about every inch of this marriage wrong, and now he cannot even give me finite information regarding his wife.” Lady Cromwell shot Edward a withering look with this final comment.
Edward dropped down into a chair, despite the two women still standing. He was tired. Exhausted. And he didn’t care much to be pecked alive by the mother hens standing before him.
Lady Anderson turned to face him, the ostrich feather atop her turban swaying in the wind. She was plump where Lady Cromwell was thin. Their personalities were likewise: Lady Anderson all sugar and softness while Lady Cromwell was rigid and terrifying. He loved them both but didn’t particularly like either just now.
“Now, Edward...” Lady Anderson began, softly, waving her hand at Lady Cromwell to stop her huffing. But Lady Cromwell did no such thing.
“None of that coddling, Charlotte.” Lady Cromwell pointed her walking stick at Edward. “The truth, if you please.”
Edward blinked. Lady Cromwell was generally strict and commanding, but she appeared downright livid.
