It was not the first time I had heard my name. Tom. He had been calling me for some time. He was the one who shook me. I closed my eyes, pressing a hand against my chest trying to slow my breath. Eventually it worked—somewhat—and my breathing returned to something closer to normal.
Opening my eyes, Tom’s worried face filled my entire field of vision. He was soaked and every few seconds his muscles gave an uncontrollable seize. His face was wet too, wet with rain, but also with tears. They mingled together into an indistinguishable mess. That was when I finally recognized the drips falling on my own hand. Pulling it away from my chest, I stared at it inanely before recognizing that the drops originated from my eyes. They followed a trail down my nose, cheeks, and chin before hitting my hand.
I was crying, too.
I brushed them away angrily. He was fine. I had no proof that my husband was anything other than safe and slightly damp and bleeding to death inside a rat-infested hovel. No—the dower house was fine. He was fine. He had to be.
Shaking myself forcefully, I broke away from Tom. I needed to dosomething. Hugh would not be impressed with his viscountess if, at the first sign of difficulty, I fell to pieces.
I turned around, searching for the blankets that I had readied. They were grasped tightly in Mary’s arms. I grabbed them, pressing them against Tom.
“Stevens, take Tom’s coat. Timothy, is the bath readied in Tom’s rooms?” My voice was clearer, sharper and calmer than I expected. At my direction, the household, which apparently froze at the sight of Tom—just as I had—sprang back into life. Relieved of his coat, I helped Tom adjust the blanket around his, still shivering, form. Chafing his shoulders for warmth and in a desperate attempt to feel useful.
“Go, change out of those wet things,” I directed. I called after Timothy on one of his numerous trips up the stairs. “Cool water first Timothy, we need to add the hot slowly.”
“What?” Tom asked.
“My mother swears by gradual warming if someone is exposed to cold for too long.”
“It is not that cold, Kate. It’s not even snowing.”
“Humor me?”
“All right… Do not worry overmuch. You know better than anyone, Hugh has a hard head. Even if he was thrown, it took you months to penetrate that thick skull. What is a little fall from a horse compared to that?” I gave his poor attempt at a joke a brief chuckle. It was well intended. He nodded before making his way up the stairs, with Stevens hovering at his side.
And so began my vigil. The second night of my marriage spent staring out the window, watching the rain pour down. This time I chose the drawing room, it had the best view of the drive. For another hour or so, servants scurried back and forth, bringing heated water and clean linens to Tom.
Eventually Mary let me know that Tom fell asleep but appeared no worse for his hours in the cold. I dismissed her with thanks.
Knees tucked to my face, feet on the settee, I watched, and I waited.
The rain was ceaseless, unyielding, ruthless. My only source of comfort was a lack of thunder or lightning. Hour after hour passed with nothing but the ticking of the clock for company.
Mere months ago, I sat in this same position and watched the rain drown the world, desperately hoping that my husband would not appear in my doorway. Now I would give anything, everything for that very sight.
Dimly, I became aware of my aching shoulders and back. It was not enough of a bother to adjust my position. Besides, the pain kept me focused, kept me here, kept the images of my strong, capable husband battered and broken in the mire at bay.
I finally understood how Hugh had made such a complete change of character in my absence. I would forgive him anything, do anything, give anything now. If he would just behereto be forgiven, to receive, to accept.
This was love. I was certain of it now. More certain than I had been of anything before. It was nothing like what I expected. It came without warning or permission.
And at this very moment, it hurt more than I could bear. Because the one thought that I could not banish with will, or concentration, or distraction, waswhat if? What if I was too late? What if I never got to say it?
And that would destroy me.
* * *
It wassome hours into my vigil that I heard the footsteps. I had no notion of how long I had been watching, waiting. The rain had given no quarter, and I stopped counting the chimes of the clock an eternity ago.
It seemed early for servants to be about, that was certain. Perhaps, though, the clouds were too thick to give an indication of dawn. I couldn’t help but hope whoever they were, they would leave me in peace. I couldn’t look away from the window; I might miss him.
The clink of a decanter against a glass registered as odd but I was too exhausted and too far from sleep to give it any thought. It was the cloying combination of pine needles, citrus, and lilac that finally registered. I blinked down at the glass beneath my chin. It was held out, matter-of-factly, by a creased, arthritic hand.
For the first time in hours, I turned from the window, following the hand up a boney arm to the beady gaze of Agatha. “Hugh’s father preferred gin,” she said.
She lifted the glass toward me again, and I took it from her in stunned silence. She carried its twin in her other hand and tilted it back for a ladylike sip. She glared at it with a sneer, before taking a heartier sip and settling on the nearby chair. Peering out the window behind me.
“Terrible drink. But the smell—it reminds me of him,” she said.
