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"Is there anything I can do?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Anything at all to help?" she continued.

Arthur looked at her for several seconds before answering.

"You already are," he said quietly.

"You've sat beside him." He held her gaze. "You have understood precisely what many surgeons overlooked. Sometimes a man needs reminding what he was fighting to return to."

He heard the parting of Eliza’s lips as a gentle "oh" escaped them.

“Laurence and Radnor... they're like brothers to you,” she said.

Whether she had intended it as a question or merely an observation, he answered anyway.

"They are."

The words hung in the air between them. He could feel the familiar ache beginning to settle in his chest. He had spent enough hours contemplating Radnor's mortality for one evening.

He turned them both towards safer ground.

"What is it about your chambers that renders you so sleepless?"

His hand remained resting lightly around her ankle, the warmth of her beneath the thin fabric of her nightdress grounding him as much as it appeared to reassure her. He had intended to remove it several moments ago. Instead, he found himself leaving it exactly where it was.

If he understood what troubled her, perhaps he could solve it.

The shadows beneath her eyes had not escaped him, even before he had departed for Belgium. He had assumed them to be the consequence of overexertion. She danced from breakfast until supper with seemingly inexhaustible enthusiasm, twirling wherever music could be found. More than once he had crossed the entrance hall only to discover her spinning across the marble floor with one of the maids. Whenever he moved through the house, he found himself unconsciously choosing whichever route carried the faintest echo of music.

Pure coincidence, he had told himself—an explanation growing less convincing by the day.

"Oh..." she murmured thoughtfully.

"My room is lovely. In fact... it's the nicest room I've ever had."

There was such genuine gratitude in her voice that he almost felt guilty for expecting a complaint.

"It truly is beautiful. It's just..."

Her fingers began absent-mindedly tracing the embroidered pattern stitched into the quilt.

"I've never really had a room of my own."

Arthur frowned. She could not sleep... because the room was too pleasant? He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"What I mean," she hurried on with a small laugh, evidently sensing his confusion, "is I've never slept alone."

"When I was little, I shared with James, Richard and Cecily. We were forever talking after we were supposed to be asleep. Then, once we grew older, the boys had one room and the girls another."

Her smile softened into something quieter.

"There was always somebody there." She shrugged one shoulder.

Arthur found himself picturing it without meaning to, a tiny cottage. Several narrow beds crowded together beneath one roof. A much younger Eliza lying awake amongst a tangle of siblings, whispering stories beneath blankets until exhaustion finally claimed them all.

The image settled unexpectedly heavily upon him. She had spent her childhood surrounded by people. Now she occupied one of the largest bedchambers in England entirely alone.

"In case you haven't noticed," she added with a sheepish smile, "I've never been particularly good at being quiet."

"No," he replied dryly. "I have not noticed."