“And for that I am grateful, miss.” Betsey’s head bobbed. “But it’s not my desires that are in question now, is it?”
Amelia turned away, her maid’s insight cutting far too close to the truth.
What do you want, Amelia?
The question would haunt her for the rest of the night.
Graham punched open the door to his room, then winced as the knob smacked into the wall. That would leave a divot in the plaster. Just one more offense to pitch atop the heap he’d been acquiring all evening.
After lighting the lamp, he slung off his coat then fumbled with the mess of a knot in his cravat. What a night. First letting irritation get the better of him over Peckwood’s theatrics, then abandoning Amelia to fend for herself in a room full of men. And if that weren’t bad enough—which it was—when she did seek him out, he’d gone and treated her like a common trollop. What kind of blackguard was he?
Throwing the neckcloth onto the bureau, he smothered a growl, then practically ripped off his waistcoat buttons in his haste to be done with this wretched evening. Now that he’d kissed Amelia, what was he to do? Continue tending her brother and pretend nothing had happened between them? Thunderation! He couldn’t. It was too late. That genie had long since fled the bottle.
He tossed his waistcoat over the back of a chair, staring at the thing as if answers might be found in the weave of the cloth. How could he—in good faith—ask Amelia to be his wife? Him. A practically penniless doctor. His hands clenched so tightly, they shook. By all that was holy, why had he not maintained more self-control? The timing of that stolen moment of passion was wrong. All wrong. He should have waited, bided his time until he was financially ready to open his own practice. Become the man Amelia deserved. Yet once again he’d gone off half-cocked, just like when he’d left home for the navy. He’d failed his mother by not listening to her pleas for him to delay enlistment until he was older.
And now he’d failed the only other woman he’d ever loved.
Yanking his shirttails from his trousers, he flopped onto the bed. How was he to make things right? A ragged sigh ripped out of him, just as his gaze snagged on the lone bookshelf across from him. Next to a stack of medical journals, his mother’s Bible lay like a fallen soldier, the cover worn, the edges ruffled from overuse—but not by him. Never by him. Yet there it sat. Patiently waiting for him to pick it up.Daringhim to pick it up. Somewhere deep in his gut, laughter welled, but by the time it surfaced, the sound was repulsive in his ears.
“Well, God,” he muttered. “If ever I needed guidance from You, this would be the time, eh?”
His breath hitched as the words doubled back and struck him broadside. Maybe itwastime he stopped groping his way through this world on his own and instead picked up the faith his mother had clung to so fervently.
Rising, he pulled the book from the shelf then sank back onto the thin mattress. Just touching the thing unearthed bittersweet memories of his mother, sitting by the hearth late at night, reading as if her life depended upon it—which she always said it did. Or how she’d flip through the pages before each meal, finding just the right psalm to pray over their food. He’d been naught but a lad of six when Father had died, leaving her alone to care for him. Many a mother would have apprenticed off her son and gone on with life, but not his mother. She’d taken all the strength and comfort of the words in this book and harnessed them to pull her through the hard times. What a fine, fine woman she’d been.
He cradled the worn leather reverently, then ever so gently he opened the cover, taking care not to crack the now-feeble spine. Inside, on the left-most page, was a list written in his mother’s hand, with headings punctuating the columns.
When life is heavy.
When goodwill befalls.
When forgiveness comes hard.
When death strikes a blow.
All those and more were followed by verses, presumably those his mother had clung to for each situation. Interesting, but not nearly as compelling as the note written on the right-hand page.
He squinted, then scooched across the mattress, closer to the lamp. No, this was no note. It was a prayer, and judging by the blotches obliterating the ink on some of the letters, a very heartfelt prayer blessed by her tears. It seemed too personal to read, this act of communion between his dead mother and the God of the universe, but if he listened hard enough, he’d swear he could hear her voice calling across time and space, urging him to continue.
So he did.
Oh, Lord, You alone know my heart, how it aches for my son. My only son. Yet this very pain You are acquainted with intimately well. It is within Your power to bring Graham home to me, and how I pray it may be so, that I may hold him in my arms and feel the beat of his heart against my cheek just one last time. But more than that, Lord, I ask You to bring him home to You, even if I am not yet on this earth to witness it. For there is nothing better than that my boy’s heart be turned to You, oh gracious King. Make it so, Lord. Oh, God, I plead with You to make it so.
By the time he finished, a great fat plop of moisture fell from his own face and blended with the stains already marring the page. He closed the book and, clutching it to his chest, dropped to his knees at the side of the bed.
Let her know, God. Please let my mother know, I am finally come home.
TWENTY-TWO
“I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed.”
It wasn’t just a new day. It was a new beginning. No, more than that. A whole new life. Not that anyone could tell from the outside, mind. When Graham had lathered up in front of a mirror this morning, the same old slightly crooked nose and sea-worn skin reflected back. But as he tethered the horse and bounded up the front steps of St. Peter’s, he knew—as surely as the sun rose each morn—that he’d risen a different man after spending hours on his knees, surrendering every bit of pride and anger to a God who took it all and more. Even the oppressive asylum walls couldn’t squelch that peace.
The second he entered the warden’s office, a pug-nosed clerk looked up from his desk. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes, could you let Mr. Waldman know Mr. Graham Lambert is here to—”
“No need.” The warden stepped from his inner sanctuary, a gold pocket watch dangling from his fingers. “I was just about to leave this with my clerk. I looked for you after Mr. Peckwood’s stunning demonstration last night, but rumour had it you’d already called for a carriage.”
