Chapter 68
Spring had arrived. But while white snowdrop buds pushed open outside Garraidh, Phoebe’s heart was still frozen in winter’s ice.
Waiting is a skill all spies must master, Falcon had said.
But worry was a heavy palpable thing, weighing her down.
Threatening to drown her. It was difficult to breathe without Slade.
She silently begged the heavens to keep him safe and send him back to her, like she’d done a million times before.
She hadn’t slept a peaceful night since he left.
Wasn’t he finished with Bolingbroke? Blue Jay had sent her a copy of the Daily Courant publicly condemning Bolingbroke for falsely transporting innocent soldiers as political favors. So why hadn’t he returned?
She replayed their last conversation in her head, like she’d done countless times before.
We must continue this conversation. We must discuss our marriage.
They needed to work out a solution where their lives weren’t in danger all the time.
Where they could cause less worry to each other while working for the Movement.
This is what she’d thought at the time. But what if Slade regretted marrying her?
What if he wanted a traditional wife, one who did what her husband wanted.
One who didn’t fight like a man or create unrest in a marriage.
What if he wanted a wife like Sylvia would have been?
She would selfishly do anything to keep him as her husband.
If he asked her to give up the Movement, she would.
Her fight had started because of her hatred of herself and of Faye Ross because of what he did to her, but it had since become a calling.
It wasn’t just to report weapons design and tactical advantageous information while exposing corruption in the British Army.
It was thwarting illegal raids and helping the victims wherever she could.
Could she simply abandon it now that Faye Ross was dead?
Yet, the very idea of losing Slade punched a hole in her heart so cavernous, so painful, she staggered towards the window, her breathing strained.
She could live without the Movement, but she couldn’t live without Slade.
She slumped, her forehead resting against the cold, smooth glass.
She had to tell him. If only she could tell him.
Regardless of how painful it was, she would give up the Movement for Slade.
Five months ago, the very idea would have bowled her over.
The very idea of having a husband would have made her laugh, or cry.
Phoebe swiped at something wet on her cheeks. She’d been crying all unaware.
A knock came at her door. “Come,” she said, absently.
Bright and bouncy Lucia and quietly confident Breena walked in, one after the other. Lucia carried a food tray, and Breena carried a small jar of salve. It was the same salve Breena had used on her leg to fade the scarring.
Lucia’s eyes fell on Phoebe with concern. “Aila just informed us you missed breaking your fast, again. And you are refusing food in your chamber. You have to eat. You’re wasting away.”
Phoebe lacked the energy to properly greet her dear friends. It seemed too great a task. She turned away from Lucia and Breena and returned to blindly staring out the window. “I’m not hungry.” Her stomach was heavy, like rocks had taken up permanent residence in her belly since Slade left.
She heard rather than saw Lucia placing the tray on the nightstand. Phoebe startled when a gentle hand touched her shoulder. She turned.
“Let me have a look at your leg?” Breena said, her voice low, her expression soft with friendship and commiseration. Phoebe swallowed against the thickening at the back of her throat. She didn’t want kindness. Kindness would make her fall apart, more than she already was.
Steeling herself from further tears, she favored her left leg more from habit of the past few months rather than pain and walked over to the bed. Phoebe sat on the edge and exposed her left leg for Breena’s inspection.
Breena crouched down in front of Phoebe, her wide spring-green skirts forming an inflated circle around her. Breena rolled down Phoebe’s hose. Her touch was warm and comforting, her expression pleased. “The scar is practically gone. How’s the pain?”
Phoebe had to think about it for a second before answering because it had been the farthest thing from her mind. “The pain stopped weeks ago.”
Lucia sat on Phoebe’s right, putting an arm around her shoulders. “I know you miss Slade, but you will make yourself sick if you continue like this. Has he written?” Lucia asked.
Phoebe let the crown of her head dip, too heavy to hold up. “No. I am sure he is taken up with work. But, not knowing if he’s well, all these weeks, is torture,” she whispered.
“I’m sure once he’s taken care of your former employer he’ll be back. These things take time.” Lucia said.
Phoebe blinked confusedly at Lucia. Had Slade told Lucia about Bolingbroke? “My former employer?” Phoebe asked.
“Why, yes. Slade asked for an introduction to my father’s friend, Magistrate Higgins, so he could make a formal complaint against your former employer. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Oh … yes. Of course,” Phoebe said, recovering, then adding. “But I don’t know if he will return. He’s not happy with … with our marriage.”
Lucia frowned. “Not happy? Why would you think that?”
Phoebe let out a weary breath, not being able to elaborate further without telling Lucia that Slade was worried about her dangerous lifestyle with the Movement. “He said we must discuss our marriage. He was displeased with it,” Phoebe said.
Lucia stood, going towards the food tray.
“Slade loves you. He can never keep that dark smoldering gaze of his off you. Whatever the problem is, you two will find a solution. You simply have to work together, and compromise. For two people so in love, problems are not impossible to solve. Difficult maybe, but never impossible. Now please eat so I can stop worrying about you,” Lucia said, her bottom lip pushing out in an endearing pout as she held out a small dish with a scone.
Phoebe attempted a smile. Not wanting to disappoint her friend she reluctantly took the scone. She bit into it, ignoring the fact that it tasted like sand, she chewed and swallowed.