“I am.” Though it would be some time before he was fit to amble about, Silas felt far better than the last few times he’d awoken.
“That is good to hear. Shall I ring for a tea tray, sir?”
Silas nodded and tried not to wince at the honorific she insisted on using to excess. Instead, he soothed his wounded pride by focusing on her request. There was little he could do from this bed, but Silas could ensure she had something to eat as well, for she looked ready to collapse.
Miss Delmonte tugged the bell pull and gave the orders to the maid for their luncheon, yet when the young woman left, Miss Delmonte did not return to her place at his side. Silas examined her, though she avoided his gaze.
“Would you sit and talk with me, please?” he asked, but Miss Delmonte eyed the seat with suspicion, and Silas supposed if he distrusted the food she fed him then she had every reason to view his invitation with wariness; reassuring her that he didn’t intend to spout words of adoration didn’t seem the proper course of action, so he decided to appeal to her good heart.
With an overly feeble hand, Silas motioned for the seat and gave a faint cough. “If you please, Miss Delmonte. I have been sleeping so much of late, and I would prefer conversation.”
Punctuating his petition with a pained smile guaranteed to appeal to her kind nature, Silas waited as she crept to the seat and lowered herself once more. Miss Delmonte sat on the edge, her face a mask of polite indifference.
“What do you wish to speak about, sir?”
But for all his playacting at being frail, Silas’s mind was fogged, and he struggled to sift through his sluggish thoughts to settle on a proper subject. Conversation had never been lacking between them, but it was far easier when the topics presented themselves naturally—and when Miss Delmonte was as eager to converse as he. As much as Silas longed (and dreaded) asking her about the past six weeks and her time with the Hardwicke family, he doubted that would entice her to speak.
Turning his gaze to her paintings, he asked, “Have you been painting much of late?”
Miss Delmonte nodded, picking up her abandoned watercolor journal and flipping through the pages to show what she’d attempted tending him in his sickbed.
“That is lovely,” he said, examining the faces of his children. Griffith and Leah were cuddled together, fast asleep, with Helen sitting beside them, engrossed in a book—a precious moment captured by a skillful brush.
“I worked from memory, so they are not quite right—”
“I meant it when I called it lovely.” Silas gave her a look that brooked no refusal, and he longed to see her demure or blush or show any sign of feeling, but she kept it locked tight away. “Did you paint the Yorkshire countryside? I’ve heard much about its beauty, but I’ve yet to visit it myself.”
Miss Delmonte nodded, flipping to a landscape, and Silas prodded her, asking innocuous questions about the subject. Bit by bit—painfully at first—he got her speaking. Silas nodded and asked more questions, drawing her out more as she described her time away. She spoke of the Hardwicke family, though never the patriarch himself, and Silas thought it telling that she did not mention her aunt or uncle, although she’d stayed in their home.
Like a dog on the trail of a fox, Silas sniffed out things to ask her, and little by little, Miss Delmonte relaxed into her chair, her words coming more naturally as the constant “sirs” faded away. Silas hid his smile away, refusing to draw attention to the shift.
First, he would win her friendship again, and second, he would convince her of his feelings. Somehow.
***
Why could she not hold onto her good sense? Judith Delmonte had spent her adult years being level-headed and adhering to her station, but Mr. Byrnes eradicated her composure. For all her determination to adhere solely to her role as nurse to her patient, Mr. Byrnes broke through those feeble barriers. Like a child exploring the shore, she wandered deeper into the water, confident she was safe, but Judith knew all too well that the thrill of the waves and sand could turn dangerous in a heartbeat.
Yet every time she resolved to remain firm, Mr. Byrnes struck up some new conversation, tantalizing her with his quick wit and intriguing topics. It did not help that Judith yearned to stay beside him. Nor that he lingered in her thoughts any time she left his side. Then there were the hours she spent reading to him, which found them more often than naught debating some point of the story, sharing theories about the forthcoming twists of the tale, or sharing a laugh over some particularly clever turn of phrase.
Even when he was resting, Judith’s thoughts were fixed on the fellow.
Mr. Byrnes laid abed, his eyes closed, and his breathing slow and steady. She listened to every inhale, for they were each a blessing from heaven. Her eyes traced the line of his nose, settling onto his lips. Her heartbeat halted, and she forced her gaze to her sewing.
Stabbing the needle through the linen, the stem of Judith’s flower grew, and she clenched her jaw. For all his determination to woo her days before, Mr. Byrnes spoke not a word out of turn now, yet Judith found it all the easier to keep her heart in check when he was pressing his suit. His friendship was a harder thing to deny, and that affection (however platonic) allowed her thoughts to drift into places they ought not to go.
Martin’s face drifted into her memory, and Judith’s cheeks heated, her lips pinching together as she shoved her needle in and out of the fabric. His words echoed in her thoughts, and a new sheen of tears gathered as she recalled how surprised he’d been at her rejection. A woman in her position couldn’t wish for more, could she? He hadn’t said the words, but the disbelief in his tone and the shock in his expression said enough.
A man like Silas Byrnes could not truly desire her. Judith had never turned a man’s head before, and no matter how she stretched her imagination, it seemed impossible for her to have finally done so at her age. Let alone with someone so entirely desirable like him. Judith had nothing to offer a husband except her ability to run his household, and any number of women could do the same. Mrs. Talley and Miss Stevenson were far more amiable and lovely.
Mr. Byrnes’s eyes opened, turning to meet hers, and though sleep and the remnant illness left him befuddled, they focused on her face and lightened, a smile turning up his lips. Judith’s pulse quickened at that look, which spoke of his pleasure at seeing her far better than words. She swallowed, forcing her throat to relax, and turned her attention to her sewing, though a tremble in her fingers made it difficult to lay the stitches straight.
A voice whispered in the back of her thoughts, calling forth an idea that was too dangerous to consider: what if Mr. Byrnes was in earnest? It wormed its way through the doubts and certainties to upend any rationality Judith could lay claim to. And while staring into his eyes, the question arose to the forefront once more. It was one thing to be presented with arguments centered around her suitability as a helpmate to him and a mother to his children, but there was an edge of ardor in his gaze that made her wonder if there mightn’t be something more to his interest.
Prickles gathered in her heart, spreading out until it consumed her skin, and her breath quickened; her lips trembled, and the memory of his kiss brought a flush to her cheeks. Judith saw the possibility unfolding before her. The two of them standing before the altar. Building a proper life together. Their children. And her heart ceased beating as she considered another possibility—her own children. Judith had cast such hopes from her mind long ago, and having them reappear at that moment struck her with renewed force.
She could be a wife and a mother.
A firm and unyielding pain tore through those fancies, settling into Judith and hardening her through. Forcing those thoughts away, she cleared her mind. Lips pinched, Judith focused on the world as it was, not the fantasy she longed to live.
