Chapter 17
Three long days. Three longer nights … and this one wasn’t even over yet. Juliet yawned large and long as she swung around to the corridor leading to the kitchen. A stout spot of tea would be just the thing to keep her awake the rest of the night. Hopefully.
A slight glow crept out of Henry’s study as she walked past. Apparently Molly had forgotten to bank the fire, which would make it harder for the young maid to refresh it in the morning.
Juliet backtracked, then hesitated. Should she go ahead and do the task herself, or did Henry hold his study as sacrosanct?
And why was she even considering carrying out such a duty as if she herself were the maid?
She pressed her hand against the doorframe, taken aback by just how much she’d changed over the past year.
Menial chores didn’t seem degrading anymore, but rather a mark of endurance, of a strength she would not have known she’d possessed had she not been forced into such a situation.
Maybe this change—this situation, even—was not an obliteration of who she was but rather a foundation of who she might become.
“Juliet?”
She froze at the deep voice. “Henry?” Tentatively, she stepped past the threshold, holding out her lamp.
The master of Bedford Manor slouched in a chair near the hearth, his long legs stretched towards the flames.
Spare light flickered across his features, riding the sharp cut of his jaw and accentuating the furrows carved into his brow.
His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, skin and muscle exposed.
Stubble darkened his face, the weariness in his eyes even darker.
His tousled hair caught what little light there was, the golden strands painting a halo.
Her breath caught in her throat, and it took several tries to get words out. “Why are you sitting in the dark? You should be abed by now.”
“So should you.” He rose like a panther, silent and sleek, jabbing at the fire with a poker until flames licked upwards.
After tossing on several logs, he lit a thin twig of kindling and then set the candles to life on each side of the mantel mirror, significantly brightening the room before dropping back to his chair.
“Come. Sit with me a moment. I would speak with you.”
She took the small sofa opposite him, wary as she settled the folds of her skirts.
They’d hardly said a thing to each other since that horrible night when, in spite of his words, she’d read flickers of doubt in his eyes about her green ribbon, and Charity had taken ill with bilious fever.
He’d never accused her of anything outright, but even if he’d wanted to, there’d simply been no time.
When he wasn’t sitting with his sister, she was.
They were two ships merely passing in a sea of worry over Charity’s welfare. What prodded him to seek her out now?
He steepled his long fingers beneath his chin, his grey-green eyes solemn as a clergyman’s. “I wanted to thank you for caring so tenderly for my sister. You have gone beyond anything I have asked of you.”
She blinked. Gratitude was the last thing she expected from him. “I want to see Charity recover every bit as much as you.”
“I believe you do.”
“Do you?” Heat crept up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. “I thought perhaps you might not trust me anymore, I mean since the ribbon incident, and … well … I suppose you have reason not to, considering how we met.”
“You had cause,” he said gently. The fierceness in his eyes softened enough to disarm her.
“I am sorry, you know.” She shifted on the cushion, gown rustling, leather creaking. “I do not remember if I told you that yet, but regardless, it was wrong of me to steal from you. From anyone, actually. I should have …”
Words stalled on her tongue, tasting like ashes.
She should have what? No answer had come to mind when her stomach churned with emptiness this past year, nor did any solution present itself now.
A huge sigh deflated her. “I do not know what else I could have done, but I should have figured out something other than resorting to thievery.”
He rose, cracking his neck one way and the other, then strode to the small cart near the door.
Lifting a carafe, he directed a raised brow at her and, at the shake of her head, poured only himself a drink and returned to his seat.
“So, tell me. Why the sudden change of heart? About poaching, I mean.”
“Honestly? It doesn’t feel sudden to me.
Deep down I always knew I ought not, but …
well, desperation and all that, you know.
” Aimlessly, she trailed her finger in loop-de-loops on the arm of the sofa, the action giving her time to collect her thoughts.
“I suppose what it comes down to is that being here with you and Charity this past month has reminded me what it is like to live with integrity—the kindness and friendship both of you have offered, seeing how you look out for your sister, how you strive to do what is right despite the difficulty of doing so …” Her eyes lifted to his.
“You make me want to be a better person.”
Something unreadable flared golden in his eyes, something that vanished with a quick shake of his head. “Not me, Juliet. Anything good in me—any strength or virtue—comes from God alone. Without Him, I would not even try to do what is right. And that is the thing …”
Gripping his glass in both hands, he planted his elbows on his thighs, firelight casting his face in an amber glow.
His unwavering gaze bored into her, like a warrior seeking to breach a wall.
“The truth is none of us are good on our own. Every last one of us falls short. I know that better than most. And I suppose such is the whole point of forgiveness, though I admit I have my own dragons to slay in this respect.”
Her whole frame went taut as her father’s face the last time she’d seen him came to mind.
Oh, he’d been sorry enough to have been caught, but had he ever really felt bad about ruining their family?
Ruining her? How could she possibly forgive someone who had knowingly committed such a heinous act?
Of course she knew she must … she just didn’t know how.
She looked away from Henry’s all-seeing eyes, the hollow ache in her throat making it hard to breathe.
At length, she whispered, “I know.”
For a long while silence reigned, broken only by the occasional snap of the fire and soft clink of Henry’s glass as he set it down. Thankfully he didn’t push her for any further elaboration.
Eventually, his voice came low and soft. “Those demons you are wrestling, Juliet—they can be vanquished. You don’t have to carry them alone. All you need do is relinquish them to God.”
Hah! Did the Reverend St. John not say as much every blessed Sunday?
She jerked her face back to him. “But what of you? You speak of relinquishing burdens as if yours are neatly packed away. I have seen the weight you carry. Yes, you press on—but you do so by sheer force, not surrender. You don’t ask for help. You command it. There’s a difference.”
She leaned forwards, fingers laced tightly in her lap. “I may be a poacher with no claim to wisdom, but I know a thing or two about traps. And the worst kind are the ones we set for ourselves.”
His brow furrowed, gaze flicking to the fire—away from her.
She let her voice soften. “You can’t protect Charity, or this house, or even your own soul, if you’re the only one standing guard.”
He didn’t speak, but something in his posture shifted—shoulders loosening, the rigid line of his jaw easing just a fraction—as if her insight had pierced some hidden armour.
But she wasn’t finished.
She crouched in front of the fireplace, holding out her hands on the thin pretense of warming them, though the real heat burned in her chest. “There’s something else.
About your sister.” Her voice stayed low, steady.
“Please let me go to my aunt tomorrow. I mean no disrespect to Dr. Branch, but all his cupping and bloodletting is doing Charity no good. I think you should dismiss him.”
“He is the most respected doctor in all of Bedford.”
“Maybe so.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Yet that does not mean his practices are helping your sister. Rather, I see the life draining from her. I have also seen what my aunt’s remedies can do. She has the wisdom of generations. At least give her medicinals a chance.”
His lips flattened, and for several beats he said nothing.
Not surprising. Dr. Branch had a certified education to back up his methods, while all to recommend her aunt was a lifetime of tending the sick and injured with roots, leaves, and flowers.
Minds such as Henry’s discarded ancient remedies as old wives’ tales.
Finally, he nodded. “Very well. But I am not discharging Dr. Branch. Administer what your aunt recommends, but he will still oversee her care.”
A concession, but not enough. She rose, spreading her hands.
“But Charity will not thrive if her life seeps away by fleam and blister!” Her voice rang overly passionate in the small room, but so be it.
She’d watched her brother slip from this world by just such atrocious means.
She would not see a woman she’d come to love suffer the same cruel decline.
“Henry, please.” She dropped to her knees at the side of his chair, skirts pooling around her.
“I have seen the damage bloodletting and cupping accomplish. My brother, cut down by disease, wasted away by such treatments. Do not let that happen to your sister. At least give my aunt’s remedies a solid try.
You have met her. You know she is keen of mind.
She doesn’t guess—she simply knows, after so many years tending the sick. ”
Late-day stubble roughened his jaw as he pressed his mouth into a tight line. A battle raged behind those green eyes. Good. At least he was considering it.