Page 36 of Rescuing Lord Inglewood

“I cannot believe it,” his wife whispered. “He made it through the entire war to end this way. It cannot be, Silas.”

“I felt the same. But, Esther, the War Office has rarely been wrong. They do not send notice to family, or print their lists, unless they are very certain.” Silas looked down at the top of her head, realizing her hair had fallen victim to their way of sitting. Half of it was as it had been when he saw her, but on the other side of her head curls had come loose to cover her cheek and neck. Without thinking, he reached up and brushed them aside. “I am sorry, Esther. I wish I had reason to doubt the news.”

Esther’s eyes filled again, over the brim, until the tears were falling once more. She raised the handkerchief and buried her face in its blue and green stained lace. “What shall I do without him?” she asked, her voice plaintive.

At least he could reassure her on that score. “You must know, Esther. You are safe here with me. I will care for you the rest of our lives. I promise.”

“Because you loved Isaac like a brother,” she said somewhat raggedly. “Of course, you will look after his sister.” Her chin jutted forward; her pale pink lips pressed firmly together.

He needed to correct her implication, but it did not seem the right time or place to do it. Nothing in his thoughts for her, before or after their wedding, was particularly brotherly. Silas had every intention of their marriage being real, in every sense. That was supposed to be something they discussed when he came home. But Isaac’s death changed everything. Nothing concerned him except Esther’s well-being, Esther’s need to mourn her brother.

“Esther,” he said quietly, cupping her damp cheek in one hand. “My dear wife, I will look after you because you are mine to protect and care for. Even now, when all the world is dark and you must mourn. I am here to see to your needs.” He sealed his words, pressing a kiss upon her brow. “You have but to command me, my lady.”

She sniffled into the handkerchief and peered up at him, tears still trembling upon her lashes. “Me? Command—? Silas, you are in mourning, too.”

“I have already had more time to think on things,” he said, attempting to sound strong, hoping all his years pretending to be made from marble would aid him when he needed such a showing the most. “I will manage.”

Her eyes searched his, perhaps looking for a chip in his stone. “You forget, Silas,” she said, raising her hand to his cheek as he had touched her but moments before. “I made promises, too.” Then she amazed him by producing a smile. It trembled, wavering like a flag in an uncertain breeze. “Have you looked after yourself at all? Have you slept or eaten?”

“Those were not my main concerns.” He had done neither since boarding that boat in London. He hadn’t been hungry and had had no food with him. The fishermen might have shared with him whatever repast they had, but he did not bother with it. And he had remained awake on deck, all the night long, even when he was offered a cot to sleep upon.

She pulled away from him, gently, and his arms immediately felt the loss. The ache returned full force, burrowing deep inside his chest, while she walked away from him. She moved as though she had not fallen to the ground, her walk certain and her shoulders squared.

The bell pull was her destination, and she gave it a fierce tug before turning back to look at him. “I am feeding you, my lord. And then I am retiring to my room.” She raised her hand to her brow, her skin pale again.

His mind rebelled at the idea of her leaving, of being without her. Isaac’s loss had been a hole in Silas’s heart, gaping open wider and wider with each moment he was upon the boat. Holding Esther had not healed that hurt, but it had soothed him. Did she not feel the same with him? Her grief, raw and newer, pulled her away.

Respecting her desires had become his purpose, as he told her. If she needed rest, he must understand and see that no one disturbed her. Silas rose from the sofa. “Please, do not trouble yourself. I will see to my needs. Might I escort you to your room?”

She stared in his direction, momentarily looking beyond him. “We must tell everyone what has happened, mustn’t we?” Her voice trembled again, and her body sagged beneath the weight of that realization. “Over and over again, we must tell people, and accept their condolences.”

“No,” he said, already stepping forward to take her in his arms again, to steady her. “I will write notes to our friends. They will tell others. And you need not see anyone unless you wish it.”

“That is not how things are done.” Her words were heavy, her emotional fatigue fully evident. “I must write Hugh, and I must receive callers—”

“No. You are a countess. You needn’t do anything that makes this more painful.” He must ease her burdens somehow, though it added to his own. “I will see to it all. Just rest, Esther.”

Despite his insistence, her bearing weakened further. “You will not let me care for you?”

How could he? What a question. He knew what Isaac meant to her. Silas knew his duties as a husband. He would care for her. Nothing would disturb her peace. He bowed. “I am your servant, my lady. Not the other way around.”

The door opened behind him at that moment, the summoned maid at last appearing. “My lord, my lady.” She curtsied in the doorway and waited for their directions.

Silas spoke before Esther could. “The countess wishes to retire. Please send her maid up and send Bailey to me in my study.” Esther’s eyes met his once more, a helpless, lonely look within them that made his heart ache.

“Yes, my lord.” The maid curtsied and disappeared again.

“I shall take my leave of you.” Esther’s words held her weighty sorrow and she moved to leave the room, walking completely around him. Politely rebuffing his offer to escort her to her room. He longed to reach out, to touch her one more time.

“Rest well, my lady.”

“I must, for you have commanded it.” Her answer puzzled him, but she curtsied and left him behind without another word.

Though the room remained full of her presence—her artwork, her scattered belongings—it felt as empty as a tomb. Silas went to the painting of Inglewood Keep, standing before its gray skies and shadowed building. Was this how she saw his beloved home? Cold and dark?

Was that how she saw him?

He turned his mind away from the thought. It was selfish and self-serving. What mattered was Esther’s needs and mourning Isaac Fox.