Chapter Fourteen #2
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled loudly. He was so exhausted he could have fallen asleep right there. Instead, he left the study, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door to his parents’ chambers. “Come in,” his mother’s voice answered.
Slowly, he opened the door and stepped into the room.
To his great surprise, he found both his mother and father seated in overstuffed chairs, facing a blaze in the hearth.
His father’s feet rested on a footstool, and a heavy blanket was draped across his lap.
He still looked thin, fragile, and pale as a sheet.
His mother, draped in a shawl, looked less tired, with color in her cheeks.
Seeing them like that, he felt his emotions explode.
He wiped the tears from his eyes and felt his chest ease.
He nodded his head to the nurse as she tidied the bed.
“Doesn’t your father look well?” his mother said.
“Yes. It’s good to see you out of that bed, Father.”
“It feels good, too. It took two footmen to carry me over here, but it was worth it.”
“You’ve lost weight. I hardly think it was a strain on the footman carrying you,” Greyson said.
His father laughed, but it came out as a snort. “I am rather thin. Tell me, son, what have your sisters been up to?”
“Hunter proposed to Anastasia, and Lord Warren is proposing to Aurora in a few days.”
“Proposing? Proposing what? They are only fourteen. They are too young for marriage. And Lord Warren is as old as I am. Perhaps when she comes of age, she can marry his son.”
Greyson and his mother shared a sad look.
He might look better today, but his mind wasn’t.
His mother, once the belle of the debutantes with many suitors vying for her hand, looked ten years older than her forty-seven years.
His father looked in his seventies, not fifty-five, with thinning gray hair and creases from weight loss.
Greyson pulled a small chair from across the room, put it beside his father, and sat down.
He sat for a spell just enjoying the silent company of his parents, as he did often, knowing time with them was limited.
He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he swore he’d dozed off.
He stood and said, “Can I help do anything before I leave?”
His father didn’t say anything, but his mother said, “We’re fine, Greyson.”
He bowed and left, shaking his head. He had no idea why he’d bowed to his parents.
Only that he wanted to show his respect, and bowing seemed the only way.
He made his way down the hall and past the staircase to the hall where his chambers and his sisters were.
His eyes fixed on the door to his rooms, willing his body to move faster and faster.
He was desperate for some time alone, where he could let his feelings come to the surface.
Where he could relax from being Lord Greyson, head of his sick father’s household and chaperone to his twin sisters.
His shoulders were as tired as the rest of his body.
Finally, he was inside his chambers, behind a closed door.
He tugged off his riding jacket, waistcoat, and his cravat as though they offended him, then left them lying on the floor.
He sat in a chair near the fireplace, tugged off his boots, and sent them flying against the wall with a thud.
Bending at the waist, free from the constraints of most of his clothing, he tried to take small breaths as his chest tightened, making it hard to get in the air he needed.
Closing his eyes, he willed his body to relax rather than fight as he tried to draw air into his lungs.
He’d learned long ago that panicking when he couldn’t breathe only made everything worse.
He repeated the words, “I’m fine. I can breathe.
My chest is tight, but I can breathe.” Thankfully, these episodes didn’t happen often.
He kept them secret. Even his family didn’t know.
If he could, he would go to his grave without anyone finding out.
“Ahhh,” he inhaled deeply and exhaled, feeling his chest rise and fall as his lungs filled with air.
He leaned back in the chair, his eyes still closed, focusing on his even breathing.
His chest was no longer constricted, and his muscles relaxed.
His lungs thanked him for the air passing through them.
The sounds of the room, the wood crackling in the hearth, and the clock ticking on the wall began to fade as Greyson fell into a deep sleep.
*
The day dragged on for Letitia. After taking her breakfast in the family drawing room, she spent several hours with Simon until it was his naptime. She found herself back in the drawing room, taking afternoon tea alone. She had skipped luncheon because she’d taken breakfast so late.
The beautiful, fragrant red roses Greyson had delivered did brighten her mood for a spell.
However, the thought of not seeing him for possibly a fortnight or longer pushed her bright mood aside, making room for self-pity.
That was what she was feeling now. Brooding wasn’t good.
She couldn’t rely on Greyson to be with her at all times.
She needed to be happy and enjoy her life without him.
That way, when they were together, her happiness and enjoyment would spill over into their time together.
During her marriage to Rutherford, she’d spent many hours each day alone.
During her year of mourning, she had Simon and Clarice, yet she still spent much time alone.
What had she done to fill her time? Whatever it was, she needed to do it now.
She couldn’t sit and agonize over him as she was.
Indeed, she remembered what she’d done. She had done needlepoint and embroidery for which she had a cedar chest full of completed works.
Perhaps she should take up watercolors. No.
She was a terrible painter. Play the pianoforte?
After the other night when Aurora and Warren played, and she sat with Greyson, she feared in this state of mind it would only remind her of him, taking the enjoyment she used to get from playing out of her.
She leaned back against the settee and sighed. If she truly put her mind to it, she would come up with something. She had to. Needed to.
She must have dozed off because when she opened her eyes, the sun was dipping low.
Tonight she would have a supper tray sent to her room, take a nice hot bath, and perhaps read.
Perfect. That was what she would do. And that’s what she did.
But now she sat in bed, propped up on pillows, a new gothic novel in her hands.
It was a good book, but she couldn’t concentrate.
She couldn’t get Greyson out of her mind.
How come no one told her that being in love, truly in love, was all-consuming and painful?
After a while, she gave up trying to make sense of the words on the page.
She closed the book, set it on the table beside her bed, snuffed out the candle, and lowered the pillows until she lay on her back.
Staring up at the ceiling, she couldn’t see it in the dark.
It was a long time before her mind and body relaxed enough to let her fall asleep.