It must be that she ached to hear her name spoken aloud at all in this place. Where everyone was so kind, the kind of place she thought she might happily stay forever, if only she thought it was safe to remain motionless. If only she could afford to.
She wondered if she’d ever be able to safely claim her name or herself again. Or if she’d only find true safety by inventing a new person to slip into like the clothes she’d borrowed.
Or, more specifically, like armor.
She needed to get to her brother. To someone who knew her, before she lost herself completely.
She said to Mr. Bellingham softly, “I’m here. I’m here.”
It seemed to settle him. But his breath still came swiftly between parted lips and his eyelids shuddered in the throes of dreams that looked anything but peaceful.
After today, she knew now she yearned to hear her own name invoked with love and terror and fury, like the trumpets that shattered a wall in the biblical story. Like Captain Hardy sailing over the banister.
He seemed such a quiet man, Captain Hardy. Dignified and taciturn. But this violence had stripped him bare before the world, too, as bare as Mr. Bellingham. Both literally and figuratively. His heart—and his torso—had been on display for all, when he’d called for his wife.
She would never forget the expression on Captain Hardy’s face when he’d come for Mrs. Hardy today in the kitchen. He’d fixed on his true north, and he’d taken her hand and led her away and she’d gone.You are all I need,it seemed to say.
To be so loved.
Her throat felt thick again.
She had been so terribly wrong about Brundage. She hadn’t loved him, nor had she been loved at all. She might never have realized this if things had gone differently.
She wondered if the person Mr. Bellingham called for—Emily? Lorelei?—was a comfort to him. For wasn’t that what people did? She’d had no one to call out for one month and five days ago. And perhaps that was why she’d been nearly silent throughout. Someperverse pride would not allow her to scream again with the full knowledge that no one would come for her, hand outstretched to lead her away.
This, too, was why she wanted to stay with Mr. Bellingham: so that no matter who he called for, he would not go without an answer. She could think of no more hollow feeling.
She dipped the cloths in the basin of water, folded them, and then gently pressed them to his chest. And she only felt a little guilt as her hand lingered lightly, there against his skin, feeling, with wonder, the thump of his heart. It seemed properly steady. She allowed her palm to spread. And this was an indulgence: to feel his skin.
Shockingly soft over muscle that felt like rock.
This is our bargain,Mr. Bellingham, she thought.I will tend you, and you will enlighten me. You will reveal the mystery of men to me. You will help ease a fear.
His chest expanded and fell in a sigh. And her hand, like a ship in a sea, rose and fell along with it. So odd, so thrilling, to feel his life surging against her hand. Like she’d captured a beast.
But the bones of his hips seemed very sharp. His belly a bit too concave. He was beautifully built but thinner than he ought to be.
Even so, she knew he was stronger than she was.
Every man was likely stronger than she was. She fought back that surge of despair.
She wrung the cloth and dipped it in the basin to wet again. Then wrung it to lay across his forehead.
He was still warm.
For a time, she sat with him in silence.
And suddenly his breathing became rough.
And all at once his sleep was bedeviled. She reared back with a gasp, as he kicked out. He fought with thelight coverlet and threw it from his body. “No!” he muttered. “Son of . . .”
And just this motion looked personal and so skillful, an act of orchestrated violence that made her step back and catch her breath. Her heart thundered, awed and frightened, as she watched him. She willed herself to calm.
He might have been reliving today’s battle.
Or some other battle he had lost or won.
He lay still in a moment, breathing hard. Muttering to himself.
