have been in a state of perfect order: happy siblings, a thriving firm, and a devoted husband.
She ate some pudding, trying to calm herself. “What about our Carstairs cousins?”
Venetia’s expression instantly turned sober. “We don’t have any Carstairs cousins left.”
“What? There were four of them!”
“Unfortunately they all died within an eighteen-month span. Lydia in childbirth, Crespin from influenza, Jonathan of bad oysters, and Billy”—Venetia grimaced—“Billy died by his own hand—it was whispered he was suffering from an advanced case of syphilis.”
The pudding now tasted of mud; Helena set down her spoon. She’d been fond of Billy Carstairs, a moody but kind young man, always saving scraps from the table to give to the village strays. And the rest of the Carstairses had been a noisy, fun-loving bunch, the youngest born on the exact same day as her.
All dead, all gone, leaving behind only a row of headstones in the graveyard of a parish church.
She gripped Venetia’s hand. “I’m so glad you are still here, and Fitz, too. If I should have woken up to find either of you gone…”
She couldn’t quite continue.
“Now you know how we felt, love.” Venetia kissed the back of Helena’s hand. “And you can scarcely imagine how thrilled we are to have you back. Don’t worry about old memories. We’ll make new ones. We are all together now and that’s the only thing that counts.”
Hastings swung between wild euphoria and feral fear.
Helena liked him. She genuinely liked him. It was as if he’d looked up from his lonely altar in the Sahara to find it raining. Barely a drizzle, to be sure, but still it was actual precipitation, when there had been nothing but burning sky and parched sand for centuries upon centuries.
Yet by the time he returned to her side…
It was one thing to have never been given a drop of rain, quite another to have felt the cool, sweet sprinkling on his face, and then to be denied the experience ever again.
If only he could have stayed with her, soaking up every last ounce of her lovely attention. And if only he could leave this moment to rush back to her side. But he was on one knee before Bea’s trunk and likely there to stay for a good long while.
“I know I didn’t come when I said I would and I am very sorry for that,” he repeated himself for the hundredth time. “But I couldn’t, you see. Miss Fitzhugh—Lady Hastings, my wife, your new mother—was injured and I didn’t know whether she’d live or die. I couldn’t leave her.”
No response. Bea hadn’t had such a bad case of the trunk for at least six months. But then again, for the longest time he’d been scrupulously careful about his schedule.
“If you were badly hurt, you’d want me to stay with you, wouldn’t you, Bea? You wouldn’t want me to fly off and visit someone else.”
Still no response.
He sighed. He had no idea how long they’d been at it. There were now three telegrams from Fitz in his pocket—he’d asked Fitz to cable him hourly to keep him abreast of Helena’s condition. At least she had not succumbed to cranial bleeding. He lowered himself to a sitting position, with his back against the side of the trunk. “Want me to read you a book? One of our stories?”
“I am badly hurt,” came her little pip of a voice.
It was the first thing she’d said to him since his arrival. He smiled ruefully, but also in relief. “Where are you hurt, poppet?”
The trunk had a little door at the bottom. It opened and out came her small, thin foot. He took it in hand, turning it one way, then the other.
“Listen,” she said.
“Ah, of course. If you will excuse me for a moment.” He fetched the stethoscope from his room, returned to the nursery, and rubbed his palm against the chest piece to make it less cold. He put the earpieces into his ears—Bea, who took her medical diagnoses seriously, could see out from the airholes that had been drilled into the sides of the trunk—and listened to her foot.
“Your blood seems to be pumping sluggishly and that is never good for one of the extremities—atrophy might result. In my opinion, dear Bea, you should take a walk. Exercise strengthens muscles and will make your foot better in no time.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I’ll come with you on the walk, of course.”
A long silence. “And supper?”
“I will stay for supper. And I will read you a