9. CHAPTER 9 #2
Ah. Yes. The domestic crisis he had created by arriving without warning. He could imagine the speculation belowstairs. His servants were loyal and discreet, but curiosity was a powerful force, and his wife's return from the dead was not an everyday occurrence.
"You are right. Would you like to come with me?"
She was shaking her head before he finished. "I wouldn't know what to tell them. They are your servants. You do it. "
"They are your servants too. But do not fret, I will handle it. Is there anything you wish to keep private?"
A pause. Then: "I would rather you didn't mention my wedding to Paul. They might think poorly of me."
"You are not to blame for that." He meant it. As much as it burned. "But I will do as you wish. Though I cannot guarantee your friends will not disclose it themselves."
"I will speak to them." She moved toward the door. "Where are they?"
"In the West Wing, where the guest rooms are located. The East Wing is family apartments only — your suite, mine, and my sister's."
"Your sister." Her expression shifted and became careful. "You mentioned her. Does she live here? Do any other relatives live here? I… I don't think I can face anyone yet."
"My sister lives in London most of the time, and there are no other relatives living here. We will take it slow. But you must consider notifying your parents soon. They suffered greatly, Vivi. They deserve to know."
"I will. Just let me settle. I cannot handle the expectation or disappointment of more people who knew me. Not yet. I want to be more sure of myself."
"It will be as you wish, and not a moment before.
" He moved toward the corridor. "If you need directions anywhere in the castle, ask any servant.
If you need me, at any moment of the day or night, just send for me.
I will send a maid to attend you now. Would you like a proper tour of the castle tomorrow? "
"Of course." She paused. "And Dalton — "
He turned. Waited.
"Thank you. For everything. For being so patient with me."
"No thanks are necessary. You are my wife. I would do anything for you."
He left before he could say what he was not ready to disclose and she was not ready to hear.
The study steadied him, as it always did. The familiar piles of papers, the locked drawers, the brandy on the sideboard. And beside the brandy, incongruous and untouched, the small bottle of crème de violette he kept because it had been her favorite.
He didn't drink it, but he could not bring himself to throw it away.
Prowse and Mrs. Trevena arrived on time. They stood before his desk like stoic soldiers who didn't wish it to show how much the events had shaken them.
"Sit down, both of you."
They sat, and Dalton told them what they needed to know.
The amnesia. The seven years Vivienne had spent on Guernsey believing herself to be someone else.
He omitted the marriage to Harrison, explaining the doctor's presence as that of a trusted physician and friend.
He described the condition in plain terms: she had no memories of her life before the accident. Nothing of this house. Nothing of them.
Mrs. Trevena pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. Prowse stared straight ahead, jaw working.
"She is overwhelmed," Dalton said. "She does not remember any of you, and being surrounded by people who know her when she cannot return the recognition is distressing.
I need you to communicate this to the staff.
No one is to treat her with excessive familiarity or remind her of things she ought to remember.
Kindness, patience, and discretion. That is all I require. "
"Of course, Your Grace." Prowse's voice was rough. "I shall personally inform every member of this household. You have my word."
"The staff loved her, Your Grace," Mrs. Trevena added, dabbing her eyes. "They will be gentle. I will see to it myself."
"Good. One more thing." He leaned back. "Dr. Harrison and Mrs. Carteret are her guests. They are to be treated with every courtesy, regardless of how long they stay."
Regardless of how much I wish them gone.
"Very good, Your Grace."
He dismissed them and sat alone .
The evening light came in long and low, stretching shadows across the desk. He poured a measure of brandy. Did not drink it. Looked instead at the crème de violette, its color catching the last of the sun.
On his desk, beneath the household correspondence, lay the telegram from his contact in London. He drew it out and read it.
UNABLE TO LOCATE THE SUBJECT. TRAIL LOST IN NANTES. OPERATIVES REDEPLOYED. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.
Alfred had vanished. The man he had planted inside the ship that took them to Guernsey said he never returned. Which meant his cousin had another vessel, a plan, and a head start that grew with every hour Dalton sat here sorting domestic affairs instead of hunting him.
His cousin had slipped away during the chaos at the church.
Dalton had seen it, and had chosen Vivienne over pursuit.
He would make that choice again. A thousand times.
But the cost was not small. Alfred was loose.
Alfred, who had sold Crown secrets to foreign handlers.
Who had likely engineered the shipwreck that nearly killed Vivienne, hidden her for leverage, then bartered her survival for thirty thousand pounds and his own freedom.
Alfred, who carried in his head the names of compromised peers and the threads of a conspiracy that reached deep into the Foreign Office.
Dalton should be on a ship right now, chasing his cousin across whatever stretch of water Alfred had put between himself and justice. The officer in him tallied the days lost, the widening radius.
But Vivienne was here. Alive and breathing. She needed him. The husband had overruled the spy without hesitation before. And it did so again now. He would deal with Alfred in due time. But not today. Today, she came first.
She would always come first.
Instead, he did the only thing he could do from here. He wrote dispatches alerting contacts in every port from Cherbourg to Lisbon. He drafted a response to his agent's telegram. Deployed his remaining agents. Set the machinery in motion .
Dalton called for his trusted secretary and handed him the telegrams to send immediately.
Later that night, when the house had settled into its nighttime quiet, he stood in his bedchamber before the connecting door that led to her chambers.
Carved oak, thick and solid. A brass handle he had turned a thousand times. Faint sounds were coming from beyond the closed door. Soft footsteps and low voices where before there had been seven years of silence.
He raised his hand and lowered it again. He wouldn't knock. Not yet. It was too soon.
He just stood there for a long time, until the sounds faded. Until the light spilling under the door went out. Only then did he go to his bed. But he was not alone anymore. He was accompanied by the knowledge that she was here. Under his roof. Alive.
For now, it was enough. More than enough. It was a miracle he had not dared hope for.