time. Casriel made him agree that the door would not be locked, but the concession Ash demanded was that nobody would open that door without Ash’s permission. He will go for three days without eating, a week without shaving. He refuses the physicians, but in fairness to him, he has tried all of their suggested remedies to no avail. He is truly afflicted.”
This recitation, so free of Sycamore’s usual drollery, made Della’s heart ache. “What remedies has he tried?”
“What remedies hasn’t he tried? A bland diet, morphia, cold plunges, a beef-tea diet, frequent bleedings, inversion—”
“Inversion?”
“Being hung upside down by his heels. Fasting, temperance, abstinence—from the ladies, which would part me from my every reason to live—abstinence from strong spirits, patent remedies, memorization of sermons or Bible verses, quiet… He has tried them all to no avail. If you marry him, Della, you will be marrying a man who is periodically quite out of sorts.”
“How long does this go on?”
“Months sometimes. Weeks otherwise. Winters are the worst, but Ash can hit a rough patch any time of year. Occasionally, I will think he’s drifting into the doldrums, but he’ll rouse himself. Other times, I’m rollicking along, my brother his usual self at breakfast, but that same afternoon, he retreats to his room, and I don’t see him for the better part of a week.”
Della drew her mare to a halt on the verge and let her have a loose rein. “Then this illness is both a misery and unpredictable. How long has he had it?”
Sycamore’s gelding stopped as well. “You should be asking Ash these questions, my lady.”
“And would he answer them honestly?”
“For you, if you caught him in the right mood, he might bare his soul, if he hasn’t already. May I be blunt?”
That Sycamore would ask was alarming. “Of course.”
“The physicians generally contend that marriage and procreation are helpful to the melancholic.”
“They do?”
“In that order, while I contend—never mind. In any case, there’s reason to believe, reason grounded in medical science, that the right wife might bring some ease to Ash’s situation.”
Della certainly hoped as much. “But?”
“But to fail at marriage would wreck Ash’s soul,” Sycamore said gently. “To disappoint the people who love him eats at him as badly as the sadness itself. You take a great risk if you marry Ash, for yourself, also for him.”
Della considered that advice, which was meant as kindly as Sycamore Dorning meant anything. “And what is the risk if I, who involved Ash in my troubles, turn away from him?”
“Don’t marry him out of guilt, Della.”
She gathered up her reins. “He was determined to not marry me out of guilt.”
Sycamore nudged his gelding forward. “And people wonder why my amours are so plentiful and superficial. Have a frank discussion with Ash, a frank, private discussion. Tell him why you’re marrying him and leave pity out of it. He neither wants nor deserves your pity.”
Nor did Della want his. What a coil. “Will you see me home?” she asked.
“Of course, and unless I miss my guess, you can expect a call from Ash this afternoon. Make him get down on bended knee, Della. A little begging works a treat on a man’s hubris.”
“As if you’d know about begging a woman for anything.”
Chapter Seven
Ash’s spirits were unaccountably good as he waited for Della to join him in the Haddonfield family parlor.
“Mr. Dorning.” Della looked pale and composed, also quite fetching in a blue afternoon gown and cream silk shawl. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“I was hoping you’d allow me a turn in the garden,” he said. “The day is mild, and we should enjoy the pleasant weather while it lasts.” And also remain out of earshot of well-intended, meddlesome siblings.
“Let me fetch a second shawl,” she said. “I could use some fresh air.”
Ash could not read her mood, but she had received him, which suggested her brothers weren’t planning to call him out, and she wasn’t planning to dodge off to the family seat.
“Take your time,” he said. “My afternoon is otherwise free.”
Her smile took on a hint of mischief. “As is mine.”
She returned a moment later, a crocheted shawl atop the cream silk. “I crossed paths with Sycamore in the park this morning.”
“He did mention that. I have wondered if he hacks out so regularly for the exercise or to flirt.”
“Likely both. Also to gossip.”
Della led Ash through a pair of French doors and into the walled back garden. Leaves carpeted most of the walkways, though a few chrysanthemums were still showing