Inside the house, I was immediately set upon by a fussing Mrs. Hudson. She sat me on a blanket in the dining room with a hearty bowl of stew and Kate beside me. It may have been the best thing I have ever tasted. Another bowl and a half later, I was finally sated.
I was summarily dumped into a bath by Stevens. He said nothing but his expression said more than words ever could about the likelihood I would ever see these clothes or boots again.
I fully intended to dress and return downstairs after I left the bath. I even got so far as putting on my breeches. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of sitting down. The prospect of rising again was somewhat overwhelming, and the bed was so comfortable… The five minutes I allowed myself before I would rise and finish dressing came and went, and I was none the wiser in my near comatose state.
It could have been minutes or hours before I woke to the feeling of the bed dipping under the weight of another.
“Wha?”
“Go back to sleep,” Kate whispered, tucking herself against my side, struggling to join me beneath the blanket. Where did the blanket come from? I commanded my arm to lift the blanket slightly so she could press herself closer and with some effort it complied. She settled, and I let the fabric drop. Her hand found a place atop my heart, warming it from the outside as she warmed the inside with her very presence. She rose up on an elbow, pressing a kiss there before collapsing back against me with a sigh.
“What was that for?”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Kiss?” She popped back up, tilting her head up. It was probably uncomfortable. The angle I had to bend my neck to reach certainly was, but it was more than worth it. It was a simple press this time, and I licked my lip after she retreated. “Why do you taste of scotch?”
She chuckled, “it is a long story. I will tell you some other time.”
“Hold you to that.” She nuzzled closer to my side. I was too tired, and she felt too good to press the point further. And, for the first time in my marriage, I drifted off to sleep with my wife in my arms.
* * *
I awokesome hours later to the tinkling of piano keys and a cold emptiness where my wife used to be. I had no idea what time it was, but certainly before dawn.
The tune was not one I recognized; slower, softer, sweeter than she usually favored. The notes shifted to something wistful, calling to me.
The aching exhaustion I had felt now temporarily sated, I could no more have stopped myself from lighting a candle and padding down the stairs toward the notes than I could stop my heart beating.
The sight that greeted me would be etched in my memory until the day my breath left my body. My wife in front of the pianoforte was always a sight to behold but this was something different. Her back swayed gently in time with her motions. Her dark curls ran free down her shapely back. She was still in her silky nightdress. Had she been wearing that in bed? I must have been half dead to have missed that. It was a delicate lacy thing, intended to tempt.
Not wishing to interrupt the vision before me, I leaned as silently as possible against the doorway, watching her tiny, delicate hands work their way across the ivory keys.
Though it was unfamiliar to me, I recognized when she reached the melody, more confident for the familiarity. She turned the page so quickly I would never have noticed the interruption had I not seen it with my eyes. Watching her work, I wished desperately that we had progressed further in our lessons, that I knew more of reading music, of playing. Anything so that I might be of assistance, I could turn the pages for her, involve myself somehow in the magic she wove in the night air. The piece was winding down now, reaching its soft conclusion.
When her fingers hovered over the final keys, she surprised me. Without turning she whispered, “you should still be asleep.”
“I heard you.” With that she turned to face me. Eyes wide and unreadable in the candlelight.
“I’m sorry. I thought I was far enough from the bedrooms that no one would hear.”
“Do not be sorry. I love to watch you play.” She hummed thoughtfully in answer.
I stepped into the room, my candlestick joining the several she already had lit. She shifted to one end of the bench, sliding more to one side, creating a space for me. I could only hope my eagerness was more charming than off-putting; masking it was no longer an option.
“Hugh,” she whispered, tucking an overlong strand of hair behind my ear, before letting her hand fall to my, still bare, chest. “I thought…”
“I know, I am so sorry.”
“It is not your fault. I just—I kept seeing this image of you, hurt, bleeding, in the elements, maybe even dying and you were alone. I thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t.”
“But I could have. And you would never have known. I would never have told you…” She broke off.
My heart gave an eager lurch at what sentiments might lie at the end of that sentence. “Told me what?”
“I understand now. How you brought about such a change in your manner.”
