For now, wearing a different color of gown whenever she was with Henry felt like an easier step than deciding what more to do with Matthew’s study or Lily’s bedchamber. Small steps were all she could manage.
Funny how venturing to Henry’s parents’ home to see him felt like a monumental leap.
“I’m so very sorry to hear Inspector Field was injured,” Yvette said quietly as she retrieved a fresh gown—a lavender one—from the wardrobe. “Fernsby said he’d hurt his head?”
Amelia nodded numbly. “It sounds as if he struck it when he hit the pavement and damaged his ribs and shoulder.”
“Imagine the headache the poor man must have.” Yvette grimaced as she laid the gown on the bed to look over.
It was a good point. “I should bring a tonic or two in case he needs them.” Having a father who was an apothecary, as well as being a chemist herself, meant her household’s supply of remedies was well-stocked.
“Good idea, madam. The poor man surely hurts most everywhere.”
The remark had Amelia grimacing as she turned to allow Yvette to unbutton the back of her gown. Thank goodness he had a comfortable place to recover with a warm bed, plenty of food, and whatever else he needed to aid him. She took comfort in knowing how closely his mother would watch over him, even if she would’ve preferred to do it herself. Hopefully Mrs. Field wouldn’t mind if Amelia visited to lend aid and support.
Amelia glanced at the clock. Surely by now, Henry had settled in. Yvette offered to accompany her, but Amelia didn’t think Mr. and Mrs. Field would look poorly on her for not having a maid with her when she called. She was, after all, a widow with no formal need for a chaperone.
Soon a hansom cab deposited her before the Field residence just off Marylebone Road. She hoped he’d arrived—and that she could control her emotions when she saw him.
With a trembling hand Amelia knocked on the door, pleased when the butler remembered her and showed her in with the semblance of a smile.
“Master Henry is resting in his former bedchamber,” Stubbs advised.
Amelia didn’t know the man well, but could detect the worry in his expression. “How is he?” Though perhaps the question would be better posed to Henry himself or his parents, she couldn’t help but ask.
“Suffice it to say he’s not his usual self.” He escorted her to the small reception room near the front door. “I’ll let Mr. and Mrs. Field know you’re here.”
Only a few minutes passed before the rustle of fabric caught Amelia’s attention, and she turned to see Mrs. Field approach with hands outstretched.
“Mrs. Greystone. I’m so pleased you called.” The older woman squeezed her hands, her usual smile somewhat dim and worry in her eyes.
Mrs. Field was lovely, with brown eyes that usually sparkled with curiosity and life, dark hair swept into a loosely elegant chignon, and a slim figure. Amelia had found much to admire about her during their past visits.
“I hope I’m not intruding, but I was quite anxious to see Henry.” So anxious that the sight of the stairs behind Mrs. Field was tempting.
“Of course.” Henry’s mother released her hands and gestured to the staircase. “He’ll be happy to see you, I’m sure.”
“How does he seem?” Amelia asked, having already noted the deep line between Mrs. Field’s brows.
“Hurting more than he’d like to admit.” She sent Amelia a rueful look as they climbed the stairs together. “He didn’targue even once when his father suggested he come here to recuperate—not once.”
“That is concerning.” She fisted her hands as worry claimed her once again. “A bomb. I can hardly believe it.”
“Nor could we,” the older woman said quietly. “Though we’re grateful it wasn’t worse.”
“As am I.”
Mrs. Field turned down a hallway when they reached the landing and paused to knock before opening the door, perhaps to make certain he was awake. “Henry? You have a visitor.”
Amelia’s heart leapt to her throat at the sight of Henry in the four-poster bed, and all else fell away. His head was wrapped with a bandage, several cuts marking his face. But it was his eyes that revealed the pain he was in, along with the smudge of shadows beneath them. Eyes tight with agony.
“Amelia.” His expression lightened, a smile coming to his mouth, temporarily masking the pain. “How…how kind of you to call.”
Though tempted to rush into his arms, Amelia stood rooted to the spot. Emotion threatened to choke her, all too aware of his mother looking on. She needed to stay strong—for Henry.
Yet she couldn’t keep her thoughts from racing. What if he hadn’t survived the blast? How could she go through that kind of loss again?
Twelve
