Page 30
Balston House
Outside George Slater’s bedchamber
Hands clenched and chin tucked to her chest, Sophronie paced outside her father’s bedchamber.
The doctor had arrived soon after they’d returned from the Wesleyans’, and Papa had been tucked into bed. After ushering everyone from her father’s chamber, he’d closed the door with a firm, final-sounding snick.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
She stepped on the flowers in the Aubusson carpet as she marched one direction, then pivoted and made the return journey, once more treading on the festive red blossoms.
Though no more than ten or fifteen minutes had passed since the physician had shooed them from the room, each second stretched out endlessly as Sophronie’s mind ran rampant with all manner of imaginings.
What had happened?
Why on earth had her father been on that side of the house and away from the rest of the guests?
What would she do if Papa died?
What was taking the physician so dang-fangled long?
Evan leaned a shoulder against the wall beside her father’s bedroom door and silently watched her sojourn up and back. Up and back. Up and back.
The rest of his family had retired to the chapel to pray.
He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said his womenfolk were praying people.
“I’ll ask for a light repast to be kept at the ready. Sandwiches, fruit, cold meats, and cheese. Tea and sherry too. It may be a long night,” the duchess had announced before giving Sophronie a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I am here if ye need me, my dear.”
Sophronie was at once grateful and petrified at the possible implication of her kind words. She stopped and stared at the closed door, willing it to open and the physician to come out and tell her all was well. That her father had simply overestimated his strength and ability to venture out.
With each passing minute, that hope faded until, with every heartbeat, a voice in her head repeated.
Papa’s going to die.
Papa’s going to die.
Papa’s going to die.
A desperate sound escaped her lips, and she bit the inside of her cheek to still the hysteria bubbling under the surface of her hard-won composure.
Evan straightened and came to her side. He faced the door and rocked back onto his heels.
“I would spare ye this worry.”
She glanced upward for a moment, then returned her focus to the door, incapable of getting words past the lump in her tight throat. Instead, she nodded. Evan’s presence was comforting, and Sophronie wanted to wrap her arms around his waist and bury her face in his chest.
People always said how strong she was. They were wrong. It was a veneer, a charade, a wall to protect herself. She wasn’t strong. She had fears and worries just like everyone else. She simply hid hers behind a bright smile, daring behavior, and a resilient spirit.
“I shouldn’t have gone.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed. “If I hadn’t gone to the Wesleyans’, Papa wouldn’t have either. My selfishness caused this. Once more my actions have brought calamity upon my father.”
“Nae, Sophronie.”
Evan turned her into his arms, and then she was against the solid wall of his chest as she’d yearned to be, absorbing his strength and the woodsy, musky scent of his cologne. He was her rock at this moment, and she clung to him.
“Ye canna blame yerself, lass,” he murmured into her hair.
I can and do.
