Chapter 11 #2
“So it sounds.” Her chest tightened with worry, which made her even more determined to see him as soon as possible.
Thank goodness she’d already met his parents, though it had been some time since she’d last seen them.
Had Henry told them they were courting? She hoped so, or they might wonder when she appeared on their doorstep.
The sergeant looked as worried as she felt. “After I see Henry to his parents, I’m going in search of Marcus to check on him. Henry will want to know how he is.”
“Good. The poor lad must be frightened after the experience.” A bomb at Scotland Yard. It was too much to take in, the more she thought about it. “Are there any clues as to who set the bomb?”
Fletcher scowled, his large moustache twitching. “More than likely, it was the Fenians, the Irish Republican Brotherhood. And it wasn’t the only one that went off last night.”
Amelia gasped as unease crawled down her spine. “Truly?”
The sergeant shook his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, though I’m sure the news sheets will be full of the details already—and what they don’t know, they’ll make up.”
“More than one. How many?” She’d read about the bombing campaign in train stations in February when there had been three set, though not all had exploded, but hadn’t expected the Fenians’ efforts to strike so close to home.
“Three in total. Luckily, no one was killed, though several were injured.” He heaved a sigh, weariness and worry in his eyes.
“The whole situation is a mess. They can’t go around blowing up things and hurting the public without having the law come after them.
I will say they’re getting good at the blasted things.
” He sent her an apologetic look. “Pardon my language, ma’am. ”
Good at making bombs. How terrible to become an expert at something that caused such harm. To use science to wage war.
“I wonder where they will cause harm next,” Amelia murmured, half to herself.
The sergeant grimaced. “Aren’t we all? Then again, that’s their hope. To stir the public until the government gives in to their demands.”
“Such a difficult situation.” And one she didn’t fully understand. “I know you’re anxious to return to check on Henry, and I’m sure Mrs. Appleton has something ready for you by now.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Greystone.”
“Thank you for taking the time to tell me yourself, Sergeant. I truly appreciate it.” To think, she might have read about it in the newspaper.
“Henry wouldn’t have it any other way as he couldn’t tell you himself. I’d wager he’ll settle in at his parents’ by this afternoon, if you have a mind to visit him.”
“I do, but if you’d please give him m-my regards—” Her voice broke with the words, even as he nodded.
“Of course.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Fletcher. And please take care of yourself.”
He nodded and strode out of the room, leaving Amelia to draw a deep breath. Still her thoughts churned.
Henry, hurt. Injured. Concussed with broken ribs. It shook her more than she cared to admit. Still, she closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, grateful that it hadn’t been worse.
Her eyes flew open with the question of what would happen if it were. If next time...
She couldn’t bear to finish the thought or ponder an answer to the unspoken question.
Instead she lifted her chin and moved to the stairs.
Though she intended to see Henry as soon as possible, with the hope that doing so would remove a portion of the doubt and worry holding her in its grip, the soonest she could do so was directly after luncheon.
Determined to pass the time as quickly as possible, she worked in her laboratory, even if her current scientific projects failed to truly hold her attention. At last, luncheon arrived, not that she was able to eat much of it when anxiety still held her so tightly.
Once it was done, she climbed the stairs for her bedchamber and rang for Yvette, her lady’s maid. It wouldn’t do for her to call on Henry at his parents’ home in widows’ weeds.
She brushed the sleeve of the gray gown she wore as she waited for the maid, realizing how often she dressed without much consideration.
A year and a half had passed since Matthew’s death, and they had grown apart before that after Lily’s death.
While she wanted to honor his memory, and they’d both always have a place in her heart, she also wanted a happy life. A second chapter.
Was that selfish? She couldn’t say at the moment.
For now, wearing a different color of gown whenever she was with Henry felt like an easier step than deciding what more to do with Matthew’s study or Lily’s bedchamber. Small steps were all she could manage.
Funny how venturing to Henry’s parents’ home to see him felt like a monumental leap.
“I’m so very sorry to hear Inspector Field was injured,” Yvette said quietly as she retrieved a fresh gown—a lavender one—from the wardrobe. “Fernsby said he’d hurt his head?”
Amelia nodded numbly. “It sounds as if he struck it when he hit the pavement and damaged his ribs and shoulder.”
“Imagine the headache the poor man must have.” Yvette grimaced as she laid the gown on the bed to look over.
It was a good point. “I should bring a tonic or two in case he needs them.” Having a father who was an apothecary, as well as being a chemist herself, meant her household’s supply of remedies was well-stocked.
“Good idea, madam. The poor man surely hurts most everywhere.”
The remark had Amelia grimacing as she turned to allow Yvette to unbutton the back of her gown.
Thank goodness he had a comfortable place to recover with a warm bed, plenty of food, and whatever else he needed to aid him.
She took comfort in knowing how closely his mother would watch over him, even if she would’ve preferred to do it herself.
Hopefully Mrs. Field wouldn’t mind if Amelia visited to lend aid and support.
Amelia glanced at the clock. Surely by now, Henry had settled in. Yvette offered to accompany her, but Amelia didn’t think Mr. and Mrs. Field would look poorly on her for not having a maid with her when she called. She was, after all, a widow with no formal need for a chaperone.
Soon a hansom cab deposited her before the Field residence just off Marylebone Road. She hoped he’d arrived—and that she could control her emotions when she saw him.
With a trembling hand Amelia knocked on the door, pleased when the butler remembered her and showed her in with the semblance of a smile.
“Master Henry is resting in his former bedchamber,” Stubbs advised.
Amelia didn’t know the man well, but could detect the worry in his expression. “How is he?” Though perhaps the question would be better posed to Henry himself or his parents, she couldn’t help but ask.
“Suffice it to say he’s not his usual self.” He escorted her to the small reception room near the front door. “I’ll let Mr. and Mrs. Field know you’re here.”
Only a few minutes passed before the rustle of fabric caught Amelia’s attention, and she turned to see Mrs. Field approach with hands outstretched.
“Mrs. Greystone. I’m so pleased you called.” The older woman squeezed her hands, her usual smile somewhat dim and worry in her eyes.
Mrs. Field was lovely, with brown eyes that usually sparkled with curiosity and life, dark hair swept into a loosely elegant chignon, and a slim figure. Amelia had found much to admire about her during their past visits.
“I hope I’m not intruding, but I was quite anxious to see Henry.” So anxious that the sight of the stairs behind Mrs. Field was tempting.
“Of course.” Henry’s mother released her hands and gestured to the staircase. “He’ll be happy to see you, I’m sure.”
“How does he seem?” Amelia asked, having already noted the deep line between Mrs. Field’s brows.
“Hurting more than he’d like to admit.” She sent Amelia a rueful look as they climbed the stairs together. “He didn’t argue even once when his father suggested he come here to recuperate—not once.”
“That is concerning.” She fisted her hands as worry claimed her once again. “A bomb. I can hardly believe it.”
“Nor could we,” the older woman said quietly. “Though we’re grateful it wasn’t worse.”
“As am I.”
Mrs. Field turned down a hallway when they reached the landing and paused to knock before opening the door, perhaps to make certain he was awake. “Henry? You have a visitor.”
Amelia’s heart leapt to her throat at the sight of Henry in the four-poster bed, and all else fell away. His head was wrapped with a bandage, several cuts marking his face. But it was his eyes that revealed the pain he was in, along with the smudge of shadows beneath them. Eyes tight with agony.
“Amelia.” His expression lightened, a smile coming to his mouth, temporarily masking the pain. “How…how kind of you to call.”
Though tempted to rush into his arms, Amelia stood rooted to the spot. Emotion threatened to choke her, all too aware of his mother looking on. She needed to stay strong—for Henry.
Yet she couldn’t keep her thoughts from racing. What if he hadn’t survived the blast? How could she go through that kind of loss again?