“YES,” Lillias said, thinking swiftly. “Will you go and fetch one for me? RUN!”
“I’ll make haste!” Dot yanked open the door and vanished in the direction of the kitchen, losing a shoe on the way. Lillias slammed the door, bolted it, and hurtled up the three flights, stumbling only once.
The house was already slumbering for the night; the candles had all been doused.
She knocked on the door, gently.
He might not open it for her.
He might not open it at all.
Well, then, she would pound.
She heard the bolt slide, and the door opened. He was in trousers, a shirt open at the throat. Still in his boots.
Hugh froze. And then his face flared into fleeting brilliance. There and gone. His features carefully schooled to stillness.
Behind him, the lamp was lit and the fire was healthy and high.
“I heard,” she said softly. “Mr. Delacorte told me.”
His head went back a little, then came down in a nod. He stepped aside and she followed him into his room.
He closed the door and slid the bolt shut.
He sank down on the edge of the bed as if all of that movement was the last he was capable of.
She hovered in the doorway. Quiet. Inwardly frantic to bear for him the kind of pain that could not be assuaged.
“It’s kind of you to come,” he said finally, formally.
She couldn’t quite breathe properly. “Of course.”
“Giles?” he said suddenly. “Is he...?”
She swallowed. “He intends to call on me tomorrow at five o’clock.”
He studied her face, then nodded once. His features remained immobile.
He was, in fact, alarmingly still. The force that animated him, burned from him, seemed all but doused. He leaned forward, hands folded in his lap.
Her gut went cold.
She worked the knotted ribbon from beneath her chin and freed herself from her bonnet, tossing it on the chair. Then she shook off her pelisse and draped it over it.
She sat down, very gingerly, next to him. The bed had a surprising amount of bounce. They neverstinted on the truly important things at The Grand Palace on the Thames.
The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room.
Together they sat in silence for a time.
“The reason stories likeRobinson Crusoeexist...” Hugh began finally, as though continuing a thought. His voice was frayed. He cleared his throat. “...is because people want to read a story about survivors. Survivors of things that smash our lives apart. There’s something so satisfying in it, I think. And if anyone can survive...” He paused. The fire, his breathing, were the only sounds for a time. “Well, perhaps Uncle Liam will turn up one day with a pet... a pet parrot.”
He tried a wry smile.
But he looked stunned.
And that’s when she knew her heart had only ever been buffeted a bit before. She hadn’t understood definitively that it belonged to him until his grief broke it open. His grief was hers.
