Chapter Twelve
January 5, 12:30 p.m.
Twelfth Night
“Why hasn’t she woken up?” Ethan sat next to Thea’s bed, her hand in his, his heart filled with dread and hope as he watched her eyes flutter under her pale lids. “Her eyes are moving. Why doesn’t she open them?”
Please, Thea. Open your eyes.
“As I told you before, Lord Devon, head wounds are complicated. I see no reason to believe Miss Sheridan’s injury is severe. If you hadn’t broken her fall, well . . . it could have been much, much worse. It’s a good sign her eyes are moving, but beyond that, we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“She was murmuring earlier.”
His name.
It was soft, the word indistinct, but she’d said his name. “I thought for certain she’d wake up then, but she hasn’t said anything since.”
“It’s another good sign she’s speaking. I’m hopeful she’ll make a full recovery, but she needs rest.” The doctor laid a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “You should rest yourself, my lord. You haven’t left her bedside since her fall. You’ll be no use to Miss Sheridan if you make yourself ill.”
Ethan didn’t move. “No. I won’t leave her.”
The doctor sighed. “Very well. I’ll come back this evening, but send for me at once if there’s any change.”
Ethan nodded, but he didn’t answer, and he didn’t turn when he heard the door close quietly behind the doctor.
This wasn’t happening. Not again. Not to Thea.
You should ask me how far I’d go to save you, Ethan.
As soon as she’d left the study last night, he’d known he’d made a mistake. Thea was honest down to the very depths of her heart, and he knew her too well to believe she could pretend a love she didn’t feel. She’d taken him into her bed because she loved him, and whatever promise she’d made to his father, she’d made for the same reason.
Because she loved him. And he . . .
There’d never been anyone for him but her. Nothing else mattered. Only her.
He should have begged her to forgive him at once, and told her he’d never leave her, but he’d let the same fears that had controlled him for too long overrule his heart, and now he may never have the chance to tell her again how much he loved her.
When at last he’d stumbled from his study into the dim entryway last night, he’d seen Thea at the top of the stairs, near the first floor landing. He’d called out to her, but she hadn’t seemed to hear him. Her shoulders had been hunched into her chest, her feet heavy on each stair, and then . . .
Even now he didn’t understand how he’d known—why he’d shot up the stairs after her, his heart in his throat, and every hair on his neck raised in sudden panic. Had she made a noise before she fell? Had he heard it, or had he just sensed, somehow, that something was about to go terribly wrong?
It had happened so quickly, and yet at the same time he’d felt as if he were moving underwater, battling against a sucking current determined to drag him back, to hold him down as he fought to reach her in time.
Five steps. Perhaps six, but no more. That was as far as he’d gotten before she lost her footing and began to plummet to the hard marble floor below. He’d known at once he’d be too late to stop it. He’d only had time to throw himself in her way, and pray his body would break her fall. The impact had knocked him backward those few steps, but Thea had fallen the entire way, down all those stairs . . .
There hadn’t been any blood, not like with Andrew, but for that one frozen moment when he’d struggled to pull breath into his lungs, that still form at the bottom of the staircase hadn’t been Thea at all.
It had been Andrew.
He’d seen his brother lying on the floor, and he’d known, even before he reached him, it was too late.
But it wasn’t Andrew. It was Thea, and it wasn’t too late. Not this time. He wouldn’t let it be. Whatever he had to do, whatever he had to say, and whoever he had to pray to, he’d do it.
Whatever it took.
He wasn’t letting her go.
This house had seen enough tragedy. The nightmares, the memories that haunted him, the ghosts he couldn’t lay to rest . . .
It all ended here.
He dragged his chair closer to the bed, gathered her limp hand between both of his, and drew a shaky breath.
“I do remember the picnics on the west lawn with my mother, sweetheart. I remember everything we did together. The picnics, and swimming in my father’s fishing pond late at night. Searching for mistletoe with Andrew, and my mother’s Christmas Eve parties. I remember one year she tried to teach you to play the pianoforte, but you didn’t have the temperament for it. You always wanted to be in the kitchens, or exploring the woods with Andrew and me, and you couldn’t bear to sit still for hours.”
He smiled a little now, thinking of it.
“You only ever did learn one song. “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. I had to hear you play that song over and over again. For a long time I thought that was the reason it drove me mad, but I don’t think so anymore.”
He pressed her hand to his cheek. “I think I’ve always hated it because it reminded me of everything I’d lost. When you wake up, you’ll play it for me again, won’t you? I think I could love it now.”
He wrapped his arms around her and let his head fall to the bed to rest on her chest. “I want you to know I remember everything, Thea—all my happy memories of Cleves Court. There are so many of them, and all of them . . .” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “All of them include you, Thea. You’re part of every one of them. Part of me.”
He didn’t move for a long time, but stayed there, holding her, trying to take comfort in the steady movement of her chest under his cheek. He didn’t look up when he heard the door open. Becky, the children, the other servants, and the villagers who’d heard about Thea’s fall—they’d been in and out of her room all day. Aside from pitying looks and whispered prayers and reassurances, they’d kept away from Ethan, but this time a small hand touched his shoulder.
“Miss Sheridan is still asleep.”
He sat up, startled, to find Martha standing next to him. “Yes. She is.”
Martha’s lower lip trembled as she looked at Thea. “Why won’t she wake up?”
Ethan shook his head. He’d never felt so helpless in his life. “She’s hurt herself, and her body needs to rest to feel better, but the doctor thinks she will wake up.”
“But what if she doesn’t?” Martha turned dark, fearful eyes on him. “What if she never wakes up?”
Ethan looked at Thea, his heart heavy as a stone in his chest. “She will.”
Martha was quiet for a moment, then, “Lordship?”
“Yes?”
Tears were running down Martha’s cheeks. “I’m scared.”
He didn’t think about it, he just opened his arms, and Martha never hesitated. She went to him, climbed into his lap, grabbed his shirt in her little hands, and buried her face in his chest.
She felt tiny in his arms, her thin back shuddering with sobs. Ethan wished with everything in him he could reassure her, tell her Thea would wake, any minute now she’d open her eyes, but all he could manage was a choked whisper. “I’m scared, too.”
After a while Martha’s sobs quieted, and then she fell asleep, her small body exhausted with weeping. Ethan continued to hold her on his lap, stroking her hair as the shadows lengthened and gathered in the corners of the silent room.
“The golden rings . . .”
A soft voice broke the silence, and Ethan’s hand froze in mid-stroke. His gaze darted to the bed, but he was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, even.
Thea stirred in the bed, a faint frown on her lips. “That song . . . it’s about birds.”
Ethan jostled Martha gently to wake her, never taking his eyes off Thea’s face. “Martha, quickly. Run and tell Becky to send for the doctor. Miss Sheridan is waking up.”
Martha woke with a start, took one look at Thea, who was still murmuring about birds, and flew from the room, shouting for Becky as she ran down the hallway.
Ethan dropped to his knees by the side of the bed, his heart in his throat. “Don’t go back to sleep, sweetheart. Open your eyes, and tell me more about the birds.”
“Pheasant.” She did open her eyes, but they were glassy, and she looked confused, as if she didn’t recognize him. “The golden rings around its neck.”
He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm. “What else, Thea? Are there any other birds in the song?”
“Geese, and swans. Others too, I think.” Her voice was growing stronger.
“French hens, isn’t it?” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, going dizzy with relief when her eyes opened wider and focused on him.
“Ethan?” She closed her fingers around his, her grip weak, but growing stronger every moment. “Are you all right? You look tired.”
“Yes, sweetheart. I’m fine now. I’ve been . . .” His voice broke, and he laid his head on her stomach, tears of gratitude burning his eyes. “You had a fall, and I’ve been so worried for you.”
A frown creased her brow, then, “I remember now. I lost my balance on the stairs. I thought . . . were you there? I thought I heard you say my name just before I fell, but . . . oh, no. Oh, Ethan, your mother’s crucifix. I’ve lost it—”
“It’s around your neck.” He lifted her hand to her neck and helped her close her fingers around the fine gold chain. “I found it next to you where you fell. Once we got you to bed, I put it back on you.”
She ran her fingertips over the cross, and her face relaxed. “The letter? I wrote you a letter, too.”
“I know, love. I read it.” He swallowed back the ache in his throat. What did you say to someone who’d torn off a piece of themselves to give it to you? “I don’t know what to say, how to tell you—”
“You don’t have to say anything.” She touched her fingertips to his lips. “Ever since Andrew gave it to me, I’ve thought of it as yours.”
“I can’t take it from you, Thea.” He touched the cross nestled in the hollow of her throat. “My mother would have wanted you to have it, and it looks beautiful on you.”
“No, Ethan—”
“Yes, love.” His tone was gentle, but firm. “I’ll get so much more pleasure from seeing you wear it than I ever could if I kept it for myself. Every time I see it on your neck, I’ll remember . . .”
He stopped and shook his head, and Thea’s brows drew into an anxious frown. “Remember what?”
He drew a deep breath, and held her gaze. “That some things are too precious to lose.”
Her green eyes went softer than he’d ever seen them, and her hand came up to stroke his hair. “Oh, Ethan. It must have been terrible for you to see me at the bottom of the stairs, after Andrew—”
“Shhhh. It’s all right. You’re all right, and that’s what matters to me. You matter to me, Thea, more than anything.” He raised his head and clasped her face in his hands, because he needed to be sure she heard him, and saw the truth in his face. “Last night, those things I said to you. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I knew the moment I said them they weren’t true, and I should have told you so right away. I love you, Thea. I’ve always loved you.”
She smiled. “And I’ve always loved you. All I ever wanted was you, Ethan.”
“I’m yours. Wherever you are—at Cleves Court, or in London, or even at the Duke’s Head Inn with the damp sheets and the mice—that’s where I want to be. Always, Thea. My heart belongs to you, and my home . . .” He leaned forward to kiss her, and touched his forehead to hers. “My home is wherever you are.”