Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
For the next four weeks, Mark and Ellen moved around one another carefully.
No longer cautious, still quite gentle, as if both feared breaking whatever fragile friendship formed between them.
In many ways, the camaraderie they had now was much sweeter and more intimate than before, because now they were meeting mind to mind.
Christmas drew nearer. Gray clouds hovered above London, heavy with the promise of snow.
The carpenters finally returned with his bookcases and left muddy footprints all over the floor and rugs.
Mrs. Gaye and the housemaid scowled and made pointed comments as the men tracked dirt back and forth, but Mark twitched with excitement to finally have his study exactly the way he wanted it.
He’d dreamed of this ever since he was a student at Oxford.
Just after the entry floor was cleaned again, Gaye stomped more muddy ice on the floor when he retrieved a telegram and brought it to Mark in his study. “From Cottesloe, sir.”
Mark grabbed the telegram and adjusted his spectacles, ripping it open with a sick feeling. Was Matthew well? Had an infection set in?
He scanned the thick, heavy block letters.
SHOULD THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR HELP THIS AUTUMN STOP DID MUCH WHILST I WAS ABED STOP MOTHER SAYS YOU RECONCILED WITH ELLEN STOP BULLY FOR YOU STOP REGRET I PUT HEIRS ON YOU STOP AT LEAST ESTATE WILL STAY IN FAMILY STOP MOTHER WANTS YOU HERE FOR EASTER STOP
Mark sagged with relief. Matthew was alive, well, and blunt as ever. Sending a telegram thanks instead of a letter was just like him. Then Mark read it through a second time. The sick feeling returned.
Ellen wasn’t ready for the subject of heirs yet.
And he didn’t want to frighten her away, not when he was just getting into her good graces.
He didn’t want to hurt her, either. He wasn’t going to push the issue.
It hurt, setting this duty down, knowing he’d be a disappointment to his family.
To the estate and title. His chest tightened with sadness.
This would hurt until he resolved it. But Ellen mattered, too.
The conflict made his stomach ache all the more.
He’d let the topic come up on its own—if it ever did.
If making love to her ever became more than a fantasy he tortured himself with at night.
They were on track toward amiable housemates, but nothing more than that.
The connecting door between their rooms remained locked, as it had for eight years.
That evening he stood in the library, slowly organizing his books on shelves with deep contentment.
It was such a foreign feeling it took him several moments to recognize it.
The Navy hadn’t been a bad choice—he’d certainly grown and matured there–-but neither did it fill him with the delight that being surrounded by scholars and ancient works of literature did.
It wasn’t snatching babies clear of the jaws of death, but he hoped it made the world a happier place.
The door creaked open behind Mark. He set Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea on a shelf above his head, where he was putting modern literature. “No tea,” he said without looking. “Just have James let me know when he and Mrs. Glenfall return safely.”
There was no response. He turned, expecting to see one of the Gayes. Instead Ellen, tired and frustrated but whole and healthy, stood here, in his favorite room of the house, willingly.
“Ellen.” Happiness fluttered in his chest. You translate ancient poetry for a hobby, and that’s all you’ve got? Her name?
“Do you mind if I sit here a bit?” Her nose and cheeks gleamed pink from the cold air outside.
Mark gestured to a leather wingback chair near the roaring fireplace. “Please, make yourself at home.”
Instead, she sighed and stepped toward him. She stopped beside him, and leaned forward, reaching for his hand. Mark’s entire body tensed.
She picked up a book from a teetering pile.
Mark’s heart plummeted. For a moment there, he’d thought...but no, of course not.
Unaware of the effect she was having on him, Ellen read the spine, then flipped open the book. “Greek myths.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes.” It came out husky and ragged.
She turned the page.
“Are you well?” Mark looked her over, seeing the dirty hem of her gown, the way her fingers were pale and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the book. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” She sighed again. “Yes. It was a hard day.”
His stomach clenched in preparation for bad news. “How are your patients?”
“The Baggins baby, the one with whooping cough I mentioned? He died.” Ellen studied an illustration of Zeus and Leda, her voice austere. “A few days ago. I just found out. Frankly, I’m surprised the poor thing lasted as long as he did.”
Sympathy surged through his veins. “Those poor parents.” He turned to face her fully and clasped her hands, still clutching the book, in his. “I’m so sorry you lost him.” Her hands were still chilled from the night air, and he resisted the desire to chafe them warm.
Ellen froze at his touch, but didn’t pull away. “It is not the first nor the last time a child I know will die of that. But it is still hard.”
“Of course it is.” Mark’s thumbs, apparently, had minds of their own, because they began to rub small circles against the back of her hands. “You care so deeply.”
She gripped the book tighter. “A few of the babies I saw today are struggling with the cold. I always lose more babies in winter than other seasons. And Mrs. O’Malley has a bad, rattling cough.
I don’t think she’ll last this pregnancy.
She may not last the winter. It was just...
hard.” She finally looked at him, and his breath caught as her brown eyes met his. “I’m glad today is over.”
“You need to get warm.” Mark backed her to the leather chair and eased her down. It was a testament to how badly her day had gone that she let him do it. He went to the bell pull near the door and rang it. When the housemaid appeared he requested mulled wine, then returned to Ellen.
She sat, holding the closed book to her chest as she stared at the fire.
“What can I do?” Mark ached at the sight of her. She looked so vulnerable, so sad.
Ellen looked up at him, as if surprised to find him still in the room. “Oh! You’re wearing spectacles!”
Mark flushed and took them off. “Just for reading,” he said gruffly, beginning to slide them in his breast pocket. He’d so far avoided wearing these in front of her, drat it.
“No, don’t take them off.” She wrinkled her nose with a smirk. “You look terribly distinguished with them.”
Mark’s embarrassment faded. “Distinguished?” He slid them back on and stared at her through the lenses.
“Very. When did this happen?”
“A couple of years ago?” He smiled hesitantly at her. “You don’t think they make my eyes look too small?”
“You’re the perfect image of a scholar with those. Quite dashing.”
Trying not to burst with ridiculous delight, Mark sat on the ground beside the chair. They stared into the fire together. “Christmas is in a week. We should probably make plans.”
“Plans?” Ellen looked at him with surprise.
Mark was so close to her he saw her pulse beating in her neck. He swallowed hard. “Usually, if I had leave around Christmas for the past few years, I went to Cottesloe to celebrate with my family. I suppose you stayed here, with your parents.”
“Oh.” Her brow furrowed. “We’re celebrating? Together? Why?”
Heart plummeting in disappointment, Mark fumbled for a response. “We’re married,” he attempted. “Married couples usually spend holidays with one another.”
She made a skeptical sound in her throat.
“I have eight holidays to make up for,” he admitted. “It’s nice not to be alone, though, isn’t it? Especially at Christmas.”
“I usually work on Christmas.” Ellen stared at him as though he was a puzzle she couldn’t figure out.
Confusion was much better than disdain, so he considered it progress. “So we stay in London then.”
Ellen shook her head. “I don’t want to keep you from your family. Especially with Matthew still in a fragile state.”
Mark picked his words carefully, holding his breath. “If you will allow it, I’d prefer to spend Christmas with you. And try to make us family.”
Thankfully, the maid came in with two glasses of mulled wine, breaking off whatever Ellen had been about to say.
When the wine had been distributed and the maid left, Mark looked back over at his wife.
The fire’s glow lit up the edges of her profile, making it look like she was limned in gold.
His groin tightened. Abstinence on a ship had been hard, but Mark was finding this even more difficult now he saw his wife every single day. I need her.
“We could exchange gifts,” Mark suggested. “Nothing large. Just something between us.”
Ellen took a deep breath, shifting in her seat to angle toward him. The book of myths in her lap slid toward her knees. “I believe you’ve already given me a gift.”
His stomach flipped as though he’d swallowed a nest of hornets. Mark didn’t dare look at her. He stared down into his cup.
“Mark.” She so rarely said his name he couldn’t help himself, he looked up at her. “It was you, wasn’t it, that purchased the frame for my photograph by my bed?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes.” I did it weeks ago, he wanted to tell her. But you never said anything. I was too cowardly to bring it up myself. Do you like it?
“Thank you.” Her gaze warmed, and Mark found himself leaning his shoulders and face against the arm of the chair to be a little closer to her.
“It was nothing.” His face flushed, and it wasn’t just from the heat of the fire. His chest swelled with pride that he’d gotten something right. Delight that he’d done something that pleased her.
“It means a great deal,” she whispered. One handed drifted free from her mug and rested on her thigh. It was scarcely an inch from Mark’s face. He wished more than ever he could nuzzle her hand. Or lean his forehead into her touch.