Lillian stared at him, her heart hammering in her chest. "Why?"
"Because I care for you." The words came out rough, almost reluctant, as though they had been dragged from some deep place he had not known existed. "Because when you are in distress, I cannot simply stand by and do nothing. Because..." He broke off, shaking his head. "Because this is apparently what it means to have feelings, and I find I am not as immune to them as I believed."
For a long moment, Lillian could not speak. The weight of his words pressed against her, demanding a response she did not know how to give. She wanted to accept, she wanted to lean into the comfort he was offering, to let him shoulder some portion of the burden that had suddenly descended upon her family.
But she was Lillian Whitcombe, practical and proud, and she had learned early that dependence was a luxury she could not afford.
"I appreciate the offer," she said carefully. "Truly, I do. But this is a family matter. We will manage, as we have always managed."
"Lillian..."
"You should go." She withdrew her hand from his, though the loss of his warmth felt like a physical pain. "It is growing late, and Rosanne will be wondering where you are. Thank you for escorting me home. Thank you for…...For everything."
Daniel's expression flickered; hurt, frustration, something that might have been resignation. But he did not argue. He simply nodded once, stiffly, and moved toward the door.
At the threshold, he paused and looked back.
"If you change your mind," he said quietly, "you know where to find me."
Then he was gone, and Lillian was alone with the silence of the house and the weight of her own stubborn pride.
***
The days that followed were among the hardest Lillian had ever known.
Her father's recovery proceeded slowly, too slowly. The broken leg caused him constant pain, despite the laudanum, and the cracked ribs made every breath an ordeal. He could not be moved from the bed without assistance, could not attend to his bodily needs without help, could not so much as sit up without someone supporting his weight.
He bore it all with characteristic stoicism, but Lillian saw the toll it took: the frustration in his eyes when he could not manage some simple task, the shame that flickered across his face when she helped him with intimate necessities, the quiet despair that crept in during the long, sleepless nights when pain kept him wakeful and the darkness seemed to press in from all sides.
Mrs. Whitcombe tried to maintain her composure, but she was not a young woman, and the strain of nursing her husband was beginning to show. Dark circles appeared beneath her eyes. Her movements grew slower, more labored. She forgot to eat unless Lillian reminded her, and she forgot to sleep unless Lillian insisted.
And the expenses mounted.
Mr. Crawford visited daily, as promised, and his fees were fair but inescapable. The medicines he prescribed, laudanum for pain, poultices for the ribs, liniments for the leg, drained the household budget with relentless efficiency. The servants whispered among themselves, worried about wages that might be delayed, about positions that might become redundant if the family's finances failed.
Lillian heard the whispers but she pretended not to.
She took over the household accounts, poring over the figures late into the night, searching for economies that might be made without sacrificing the necessities. She reduced the kitchen budget, trimmed the candle allowance, postponed repairs that were not immediately urgent. She wrote to the family's creditors, explaining the situation with careful dignity, requesting patience without explicitly begging for mercy.
The creditors were sympathetic but firm. The debts would wait, but not forever. Interest would accrue. Eventually, payment would be required.
And through it all, the roof continued to leak.
Lillian would lie awake at night, listening to the steady drip of water into the buckets she had placed throughout the study, and she would think about her father lying in the room above, broken because he had tried to fix a problem they could not afford to solve properly.
She did not think about Daniel.
She did not allow herself to think about him, about the kiss in the folly, about the offer he had made, about the quiet intensity in his voice when he said he cared for her. To think about him would be to acknowledge the alternative, the possibility of help that she had refused out of pride and propriety.
She had made her choice. She would manage, as she had told him. As she had always managed.
Chapter Thirteen
On the fourth day after the accident, a carriage arrived at Hartfield.
Lillian was in the study when she heard the wheels on the drive—a heavy, expensive sound quite unlike the rattle of the local cart that brought supplies from the village. She set down the account book she had been reviewing and went to the window.
The carriage was black and gleaming, drawn by a pair of matched grays that were finer than any horses in the neighborhood. A coat of arms was painted on the door, but Lillian could not make it out from this distance.
