Chapter 42
Lord Tolliver did not die.
I begin with this assurance because I wish to rob the reader of suspense, and because the Tolliver family has already endured quite enough of it, and there are only so many times in one week that a young lady may confront mortality before she becomes either philosophical or French.
His lordship had suffered, according to Dr Bell, “a most serious seizure about the heart,” which was a phrase sufficiently alarming to terrify everyone and sufficiently vague to comfort no one. He was to be kept warm, still, quiet, and entirely free from agitation.
Lady Tolliver, upon being told that agitation must be avoided, immediately became so agitated by the importance of avoiding agitation that Dr Bell was obliged to administer drops to her first.
Throughout the next day, Lottie sat in the little chair beside her father’s bed and did not run.
She was not feeling very well, if truth be told.
She had not slept, and was feeling relieved, guilty, tired, and haunted by the image of a small valise sitting upon the counterpane across the corridor, still packed for America.
But Papa was alive. Perhaps she should wash her face, and sleep for a few hours.
“I shall be back shortly, Papa,” she whispered, kissing his hand.
“Do not go far,” he murmured, and she jolted, for she did not realise he was awake.
The words destroyed her. “No. I shall not.”
Lord Tolliver seemed to understand none of the significance of this promise, or perhaps all of it, for he patted her fingers weakly and said, “My darling girl.”
Lottie walked back like a ghost to her chamber, where she was surprised to find Jasper waiting, sitting upon her bed in the very place he had occupied the night before, when they had made their clandestine plans.
He was dressed for the day with his usual care, though no amount of tailoring could quite conceal that he too had slept very little.
“You cannot be here,” she said without feeling.
“Pish posh. We were about to run away at midnight together.”
Despite herself, Lottie smiled.
“How is he?” Jasper asked.
“Dr Bell says he shall recover.”
“And you?”
She nodded and stood before him. “I cannot go, Jasper.”
He smiled sadly. “I know. I would not ask it of you.”
She searched his countenance. The man must be furious, and so she would meet his fury head-on. “Are you angry with me?”
“Never.”
“Disappointed?”
“Yes.” He held her gaze. “But not in you.”
Kindness, she was discovering, could be a dreadful thing when one had no armour prepared for it.
“I am disappointed,” he continued, “because for a few hours I allowed myself to imagine a very pretty madness, and now I must fold it away like a coat unsuited to the weather.”
Her mouth trembled. “America was a coat?”
“A handsome one. Recklessly cut. Entirely impractical in rain.”
She gave a broken laugh. How did this man disarm her so very easily? “For what it is worth, I am sorry.”
“Do not be. It was always your choice to make, little Lottie.”
She rolled her eyes at the name. “But I did not choose it. Papa collapsed.”
“Then perhaps life chose with appalling timing, as life is often inclined to do.” He stood. “Let me unpack for you. Lie down and rest.”
She had no energy to argue with the gentle command, and so she sank onto the edge of the bed with a nod and a sigh.
He placed the valise upon the floor and took out her cloak, her purse, her books, and her pistol (at which he raised a brow). When he came upon the chemises, he handled them with such exaggerated solemnity that Lottie almost laughed again.
As he closed the valise, a great weariness came over Lottie, so sudden and complete that she scarcely knew how to remain upright.
Jasper noticed at once. “You should sleep.”
Under ordinary circumstances, she would have objected, but the coverlet looked terribly soft, and her bones felt as though someone had removed them, shaken them, and put them back in the wrong order. She nodded and climbed under the covers.
Jasper drew the folded coverlet over her with care.
Lottie watched him through half-closed eyes. “Are you leaving?”
“Of course. Sleep now and we shall discuss it all on the morrow.”
“Stay,” she murmured, sinking further into the pillows. “Lock the door and stay.”
She closed her eyes, and after a time, the mattress dipped behind her. Jasper lay atop the coverlet at first, stiff as a saint.
Lottie endured this for perhaps ten seconds. “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered, without opening her eyes. “You are not a plank of wood. Hold me, and sleep.”
A breath of laughter warmed the back of her neck as he settled behind her, fitting himself to the curve of her body. His arm came around her waist and stopped there, light and questioning.
Lottie placed her hand over his.
Not a cage, she thought as exhaustion crept over her in slow, velvet waves. No, it was not a cage at all.