Page 44 of Atone, Adonis

She saw the carriage in front of the Manor as soon as she came up the drive. She hurried her steps, worried that something was wrong.

“Gilbert,” she said as soon as she’d crested the still uneven front steps, her pulse leaping in her throat. “Has something happened?”

Gilbert gave his crisp butler’s bow. “His Lordship sent for the doctor.”

As if summoned by the words, a violent fit of coughing sounded from above. Julianna didn’t wait for any further explanation. She took the stairs two at a time and rushed into Thomas’s sickroom.

Fred was already there, standing beside Thomas’s bed, one hand braced on the carved post. Thomas was bent forward, his thin shoulders convulsing. A handkerchief hung from his fingers, stained that dreadful, ever-present red.

“Tom,” she breathed, going to him.

He forced his eyes open and managed a crooked smile. “Julie-bug.” He reached up to touch her face, his thumb swiping at something on her cheek. “I’d ask you where you’ve been but it’s rather obvious.

She took his hand and held it tightly. “I do not have dirt on my face,” she said, even though she was certain she did.

She looked at Fred. She wanted to go to him, to tuck herself under his arm, but she didn’t. Partially for Thomas. And partially because—while she’d understood his lie and why he’d done it—her understanding didn’t erase the fact that he had let her believe a falsehood for ten years.

And that her life might have been very different if he hadn’t.

The physician entered a moment later which saved them all from the growing awkward silence.

“Ah, my lady,” he said. “Let us speak now that you’ve returned.”

She turned to follow him and Fred out of the door. Fred leaned down and whispered, “You do have dirt on your face, Jules,” but caught her hand when she tried to wipe it away.

“No,” he said. “I rather like it there.”

They withdrew to the one sitting room that had been prepared for guests and sat, facing each other on the newly uncovered furniture.

“I don’t believe it is in Thomas’s best interest to remain here,” the doctor said without preamble. “The damp. The cold. The strain of recent agitation. All are worsening his condition.”

Julianna swallowed and looked at Fred, who simply nodded.

“But we are in luck. Your request was granted for a bed at a private convalescence villa in Torquay. I had my quill ready to pen you a note when your man arrived to fetch me.”

“Our request?” Julianna said.

The physician inclined his head. “Yes. It is quite fortunate you made it when you did. Beds in Torquay are very rare. The sea air, regimen, and most importantly the skilled, around the clock supervision will give him his best chance of survival.”

“I don’t understand—” she began but Fred cut her off.

“I requested the bed, Jules.”

She turned to him. “When?”

“After my first visit to Farrow Cottage.”

“And you never thought to mention it to me?”

“Not until I was certain there was a place for him. I didn’t want to get your hopes up without cause.”

And without asking me. Again.

The thought burned hot and bright in her, and she felt herself clutching the arms of her seat. He’d kept yet another truth from her.

“I have not yet accepted the place,” Fred said. “Not without your consent.”

“Does Thomas know? Has he agreed?”