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He stood and crossed the room to the basin, splashing cool water on his face as if to cleanse away the thoughts that clung stubbornly to his mind. It would not do to dwell on what could not be. He must press forward and decide whether he could tolerate Mrs. Gordon as a wife to aid their family respectability.
It would be better if he did not engage his heart in his second marriage. He had already found and lost the love of his life, and a man did not get a second chance to love so deeply. It was foolishness to imagine otherwise. He was fortunate to have loved at all, and it would be greedy—reckless—to think he could feel that again. Deep down, he knew that if he allowed himself to love and lose once more, it might be more than his heart could bear.
Chapter Thirteen
"Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure."
Jane Austen
* * *
By the time Jane went to bed that night, she knew Aurora had been right about the coffee.
She had skipped her afternoon cup, then her customary cup before dinner. Now it was midnight, and she paced her room with restless energy, her mind fixated on the notion that she should find a servant and demand a pot of coffee be brought to her immediately. The urge clawed at her insides with a desperation that astonished her.
Aurora’s warning regarding the cravings had proved true, which could only mean that this truly was the cause of her insomnia.
Her body was utterly worn out, but she could not relax. She had thought about going to the library to write her poetry, but it was inconceivable. For one, she could not summon the patience to sharpen her quill and dip it in ink—the mere thought of the effort it would take was enough to make her want to scream in frustration. Secondly, the library would remind her of how Barclay had so cruelly snubbed her.
The mere thought of it sent a wave of melancholy washing over her. Was this the foul temperament Aurora had warned her about? She had expected irritability, but this … this hollow, aching sadness was entirely unexpected. Perhaps it was the combination of Barclay’s rejection and deprivation of the demon brew that was causing this newfound despair.
It was all she could do to drag herself to the bed and fall in, her limbs heavy as stone.
To her surprise, she drifted off almost instantly, only to jolt awake not long after. Checking the time, she estimated she had slept for barely half an hour. Groaning, she returned to her pillow, squeezing her eyes shut and willing sleep to come again.
Eventually, she dozed in that strange half-sleep, half-waking state, where feverish dreams blurred with reality. Images danced before her eyes—Barclay at the altar with Mrs. Gordon at his side, Jane sitting alone in the family pew as his sister-in-law, forced to pretend joy while carrying the weight of sorrow like lead in her chest.
Her eyes flew open, the image searing her mind. She stared up at the ceiling in the darkness, too afraid to close her eyes again for fear the vision would return. It felt so real, the agony of it sharp and vivid.
But eventually, the fatigue in her limbs became too heavy to bear, and sleep dragged her back under.
When she awoke next, it was to find that morning had arrived, sunlight creeping between the drapes and spilling onto the carpet in warm golden pools. Sitting up, she moaned in agony. Her head pounded so fiercely, she could swear there was an entire orchestra tuning its instruments inside her skull. The light seemed to stab her eyes with every flicker.
She took hold of the coverlet and threw herself back onto the bed, yanking the fabric over her head to block the light until the throbbing in her temples receded to a tolerable hum. Was this what men felt like when they imbibed too much brandy at their clubs? If so, she was inclined to pity them.
Weary, she decided that drinking some tea and eating breakfast might assuage her physical torment. Groaning, she rose from the bed.
Bah to the strawberry water! There was not an ounce of energy in her for beauty treatments. This morning, she would do the bare minimum. Walking to the door, she found the cart waiting in the hall and pulled it into her room with more effort than she thought should be necessary.
After sipping a small amount of tea and consuming a few bites of eggs and fruit, her headache abated to a tolerable level—tolerable in that she thought she might conduct a conversation without embarrassing herself. But when she heard a light tapping at the door, she realized she had overestimated her capabilities in this fragile state. She wanted to shriek at whomever stood behind it to simply go away and leave her in peace. Raising a trembling hand to her temple, she massaged in slow, steady circles to calm herself.
“Who is it?” she called, her voice just above a whisper.
“Tatiana. May I enter?”
Jane gritted her teeth, massaging her temples where the dull ache of her megrim persisted. The last thing she wanted this morning was a delicate negotiation with an inquisitive nine-year-old. Tatiana would require a measure of diplomacy, and Jane was not sure she had any to spare.
“Of course,” she replied, her voice carefully modulated.
The door creaked open, and Tatiana stepped quietly into the room. At least, Jane assumed she did, because her eyes remained squeezed shut as she continued to rub her temples, attempting to alleviate the relentless throbbing.
“Are you all right?” the little girl asked, her voice soft with concern.
“Yes, yes. I am suffering from a megrim, is all.”
“Oh.” There was a brief pause before Tatiana continued with cautious optimism, “I was wondering if I could ask you to join me and Papa for a walk?”
Jane stilled, her hands dropping to her lap as she stared at the child. A walk? With Barclay? After everything?
