She paused, tea tray in hand, her shoulders drooping as though her burden were far heavier than a mere pot of hot water and a porcelain cup. “May I offer my brother a drink now?”
“Please do. Mr. Lambert and I are finished.” But clearly Peckwood wasn’t, for he stepped closer to Graham, his tone quieting. “There is no sense in alarming either of the Balfours. It’s been only two days since the man endured major surgery. That he’s even sitting up in bed and somewhat able to communicate is a victory, wouldn’t you say?”
Graham sighed. The old surgeon’s words rang true. Perhaps he was being a bit rash. Expecting too much. Hoping too much, actually. If he could, he’d speed the hands of time and bypass this horrible suffering Colin endured.
“Nooo,” Colin roared.
“Colin! Be careful.”
Graham and Peckwood pivoted just as Colin crushed the teacup in his hand and threw the shards into Amelia’s face.
“Amelia!” Graham’s cry blended on the air with Peckwood’s, “Mr. Balfour!”
Graham flew to Amelia while Peckwood tended Colin. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Graham guided her to the chair near the door and eased her down, then dropped to his knees at her side. She pressed her fingers to her cheek, and when her gaze met his, tears welled in her eyes.
“You’re hurt.” His voice came out far huskier than he intended, and he cleared his throat. “Let me see.”
“I am fine.” Her chin quivered, belying her bold statement. “Please, see to my brother.”
Though her pluck did her credit, now was not the time for such obstinance, not when she was clearly injured.
Dear God, must this woman bear so much?
He gently coaxed away her hand. “Mr. Peckwood is caring for Colin. Let me tend to you.”
Blood oozed from a quarter-inch gash on her cheek, surrounded by smaller nicks that reddened her flesh. Nothing required sutures, thankfully, but the bleeding must be stopped.
“One moment, please.” He retrieved some cotton wadding from his bag, then dabbed away the blood. Folding the soiled part inside of itself, he pressed the clean side against the cut. “There. That’s better. Just a bit more pressure, no stitches needed.”
A single fat tear slipped from her eye. “My brother is not the same man he was.”
With his free hand, Graham brushed away the tear. She was right. Colin was not the same.
And might never be.
Amelia sank onto the sitting room chair, pressing her fingers against her temple. Surprisingly, after such a morning, no headache throbbed, but her cheek still stung, a tangible reminder that Colin wasn’t himself. He was here physically, but mentally where did he roam? Was her younger brother trapped inside that bandaged skull of his, trying to get out? Was that the reason for his sudden outbursts? She’d tried everything she could think of to allay his restlessness, from lavender sachets to the reported calming effect of grinding lemon balm counterclockwise seven times while humming a lullaby as it steeped in tepid water. Nothing had worked. Not yet, anyway. She sagged against the high-back cushion.
Oh, God, this is beyond me. Beyond Mr. Peckwood and Graham. Only You can fix this problem…a problem for which I advocated. This is my fault, Lord. I never should have urged my brother towards such a surgery. Please forgive me, and may Colin forgive me as well. He was happy as he was. Grant that he might be happy once again.
Heaving a sigh, she searched deeply for scraps of gratitude, and snagged onto the first that came to mind. Thankfully, Colin wasn’t in a continual state of unexplainable madness. There were moments of lucidity. Of quiet. Like now. Times when he reached for her hand or lifted a lopsided smile, reminding her he was still in there somewhere.
The front door knocker rapped. Betsey’s sturdy shoes thumped in the corridor. Unbidden, Amelia’s heart fluttered. Had Graham—perhaps—returned? How lovely it would be to sit by his side on the sofa and just stare into the hearth. To hear his steady breathing. Maybe even to rest her head against his chest and listen to the beat of his heart. What a sanctuary that would be.
Moments later, Betsey entered the room. “There’s a Miss Godwin here to see you, miss. Shall I send her away?”
She opened her mouth to say yes, then paused. As tired as she was, and as much as she wanted to keep Colin out of the public eye, still…how lovely to talk with someone about something other than laudanum dosages or broth intake.
“Show her in, Betsey.”
Amelia rose and faced the door as Mary gracefully sailed in.
“Good afternoon, Amelia. I was wondering if—oh! Are you quite all right?” She was a bird, this slight woman, one with head cocked and curious eyes fixed on Amelia’s cheek.
“I…em…it was an accident, I’m afraid. But just a trifle.” The lie tasted like sand in her mouth, but she couldn’t very well say her brother—who may be going insane—threw shards of porcelain at her, could she? She looked past the woman’s shoulder to Betsey. “Would you see to a tea tray for us, please?”
Mary held up a hand. “No need. I shan’t stay long.”
“Very good, miss.” With a dip of her chin, Betsey continued on her way.
