Sol spent the rest of the morning abed. None of the women came to disturb him, as if they had a sense of what had transpired and how, despite the fact his mind was clearer than it had been in days, he felt no peace. Only guilt and regret. He’d failed, but damned if he could figure out how he could have succeeded.
Or perhaps he couldn’t have. Perhaps he’d just been wrong about everything. Perhaps he was too naïve, too foolish, too spoiled to face reality. He pressed his hands to his temples, pain now brewing.
His brother was right. He was completely incompetent. How he believed he could succeed…
But no longer.
Unwinding his bandage, he rubbed his ankle. The moment he could get into a carriage, he’d be going home, and they would talk—be completely honest with each other. He’d tell Frederick everything that had happened, all the mistakes he’d made, and beg his brother’s forgiveness. And then he’d plead with Frederick to share the truth with him as well.
About Lady Drucilla—he’d checked the papers and Berab had been right, which had been a kick to his gut—about the matter of the marquess’s son, aboutHannah, even if whatever they’d had between them was done.
Yet try as he might, one voice, one image, one person would not leave his mind, would not stop haunting him and his thoughts. She’d left but wouldn’t leave him.
He gritted his teeth. Well, he’d just have to forget, like she’d said he would. He’d find a way. No matter how much it hurt. Because she wasn’t coming back.
Buttoning his shirt, Sol took to the stairs, his feet bare, but for the first time since his fall, he was able to put weight on both. Yes, the injured side was still swollen, but he’d be able to get home easily, either that day or the next, just as Doc had promised.
Hopefully that day. He was ready. He needed to get on with it all.
His stomach growled.
Fine, he’d get on with it after he ate.
Sol ducked into the parlor. “Doc, Gertrude, Bayla?” He frowned at the empty room. “Where is everyone?” The fire was going, though it was more embers than flame. He poked at it and glanced at the mantel clock.
After eleven. They should all be about. He craned his neck, but the dining room was empty as well. He poked his head out into the back lane. The snow had thankfully stopped, the sun even shining, but it was likewise empty. And quiet.
Actually, so was the street, which meant… Sol tapped his chin. It wasn’t Shabbos, but perhaps it was… market day. If that was correct, they and all their closer neighbors were most likely bargaining and wouldn’t be home for hours. Especially if the weather stayed nice after so many days of downpour. Everyone’s larder probably needed refilling.
He drew himself back inside and latched the door.
Just his mazel, the day he was ready to leave and he had to wait to say good-bye. He wrinkled his nose. He was not going back to bed; he was too keyed up. Perhaps he’d read. Sol marched back into the parlor and grimaced at Doc’s collection of medical texts and Gertrude’s rabbinical books.
Perhaps not.
His stomach rumbled. Well, at least that was something he could do. He moved into the kitchen to poke around and find what Bayla had left. Maybe there was something from that basket Aaron and Roger Berab had brought? If it wasn’t completely finished. The jam had been divine.
He looked around the empty worktable to the space beyond. The cupboard held a few crusts of bread, but the room looked to be near empty, except… he glanced toward the small windowsill. There, perched atop, likely set out to cool—and lure a dozen thieves, not to mention birds—was an entire cake.
An applecake. His favorite.
Sol’s mouth watered. He shouldn’t—or, well, he should wait until everyone came home and they could eat together. Her stomache twisted again, this time painfully.
Though perhaps if he just cut a small piece from the outside, a thin sliver, then no one would notice any was missing…
Before he could rethink his plan, he’d grabbed a knife and crossed the room. He brought the plate down and set it on the table. Squinting, he saw one side was a bit uneven, thus cutting a piece off would assist the cake’s total appearance. Really, eating just a little would be doing everyone a favor.
Or at least that was what he would argue to anyone who asked. Smiling, he sliced in and cut off the narrowest piece. Quick as he could, he stuffed it in his mouth. It tasted like paradise, golden and sweet and tart. He closed his eyes and… the room began to spin.
Sweat prickled his brow and he grabbed the table for purchase as his knees began to buckle. His eyes itched and he started to gasp for air.
No.
He tried to scream for help, but his throat wouldn’t work. What was going on?
An old memory rose in his mind. He’d been young. Only seven or eight. His father hadn’t been dead for a year. A friend of his brother’s had come for a visit and brought some salted nuts he’d purchased on a trip to Spain. Sol had been fine the first day, but on the second, the reaction had been swift.
Hannah.
