“Was he very sick?” My voice shook. I couldn’t get the image of all those marks on his chest out of my mind.
“Your husband was often in pain as a child. My father helped him as much as he could, but he wished he could do more. Be patient with him. Even a man as kind as David has his pride.”
I furrowed my eyebrows, not sure why David’s pride was once again being mentioned, nor could I understand how it could have anything to do with a sickness in his youth.
I could see from the sharp edge of Dr. Clarke’s jaw that he would rather not continue speaking on the subject, and marriage notwithstanding, I didn’t have a real claim to know David’s most personal history.
It was only by chance I knew of it at all.
Until David was ready to tell me himself, I needed to put it out of my mind. That sickness I’d felt in my stomach before asking Dr. Clarke had been a warning. Mentioning those marks to anyone else would be a betrayal. I was fortunate Dr. Clarke was a more loyal friend to David than I had been.
W
Chapter 21
“Anna slept in my arms last night. How am I ever going to let her go?”
—David Tate, 1850, Age 23
The stronger I got, the less I saw of David. He came to my room each day but never in the evenings. Unless I struck ill with a sickness even worse than this one, he would likely never climb in my bed or hold me close again.
That didn’t stop me from reliving the memory constantly. What else was a woman to do while passing the time in her bedchamber? At night, I would imagine he was there again, his arm wrapped around me, his body warm against my back. But I wasn’t delusional. I knew those moments were dreams and dreams only. In the morning, I awoke, and the room felt cold and empty without him, and I was growing accustomed to the feeling.
It was strange, wasn’t it? He’d spent one night in my room. One. I’d slept either by myself or with Mama for the past twenty-five years. If anything, having him in my bed should have been shockingly peculiar instead of something I’d struggle to live without.
Two days after Dr. Clarke’s visit, I felt well enough to wash and dress, and although the effort was tiring, I felt much better for it. Maren was brushing my hair when the soft knock I’d come to recognize as David’s rapped at my bedroom door.
“Enter,” I said loud enough for him to hear. I’d never barred him or told him to wait when anyone else was around. There would be no reason for a wife to ask her husband to wait until her hair was up to come in.
David strode in. His eyes went to the bed before he turned to find me sitting at the dressing table, my dark, freshly washed hair brushed and falling to my waist. For the past three days, he’d seen me in various stages of undress, usually with a wrap or blanket over me. Seeing my hair out of its long braid shouldn’t have caused him pause.
But it did.
His step faltered, and his eyes slipping to my waist, then slowly traveling up to the crown of my head.
Usually, when Maren was in the room, he would immediately come to me and place the slightest kiss upon my forehead—just enough contact to quiet any whispers about the two of us. Sometimes, I allowed myself the luxury of believing he was also checking on my fever, reassuring himself it was indeed gone.
He didn’t kiss me this time. He didn’t move at all. But something in his face must have caught Maren’s attention, for she immediately set down the brush, gave him a short curtsy, and left the room.
It wasn’t until the door closed behind her that David turned toward where she’d just been, shaking his head with the wordwaiton his lips.
But he was too late.
We were alone in my bedchamber again, and for some reason, my unbound hair—or, at least, the way David had looked at it—made me feel as exposed as I’d been in my chemise.
I could see the moment David realized he was acting very un-husband-like.
He blinked hard, straightened his spine, and looked toward me without exactly meeting my eyes. “It is good to finally see you dressed and out of bed,” he said stiffly.
I closed my lips tightly, but I knew my eyes still widened at his comment. He couldn’t have said anything more inappropriate if he’d tried. And based on the way spots of color were rising to his cheeks, he’d definitely not tried.
“I meant—” He squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand down his face. With a deep breath, he tried again. “What I meant to say was, you look well.”
I let my smile blossom on my face. I did feel well. Better, even, than I had a few minutes ago, now that he was in my room, bumbling up our conversation. “Thank you. I knew what you meant. And I feel much better.”
He stayed where he was, even though I wished he would come nearer. Having him to myself was a luxury.
“We’ve had a guest arrive,” David stated.
