She swung her feet to the floor. She had never been good at staying put. And echoes of George’s words, of being lonely, haunted her. If she could be with him in this moment, perhaps it would give him peace of mind that marrying in a month was a perfect idea. She did not want him to go into their marriage with regrets or hesitations. She would help him. She would hold her own. She would prove she could be his equal and his partner in every way, even in the dark, shadowed corners of his life.
She found her shift and threw it over her head, sticking her arms into the sleeves. She did not bother with her stays but pulled her gown up. She could not hook it closed in back, but it would offer some coverage, with its long sleeves and high neck.
She padded down the hall, but… where to go? Which direction?
Another scream, blood-curdling but convenient. She followed it.
Whimpers and cries increased in volume with each running step she took. She headed in the correct direction. The whimpers told her so. As she ran past a door, the screams grew lesser in volume. She’d gone too far. She stopped, backed up, and pressed her ear to a door.
Muffled voices and thumps. They were in there. Her fingers hovered over the door handle, then grabbed hold and turned. Holding her breath, she inched the door open and stopped. Her body seemed able to go no farther. She closed her eyes and held her belly, willing herself to calm. A deep voice—George’s—speaking so softly she could not make out the words, swam to her in the thick midnight air. She opened her eyes and peeked through the crack in the door.
George stood beyond a pool of moonlight, cloaked in shadows. He held his arms out straight before him, palms flat out, the gesture of a man facing a wild animal. Jane could see no more than George in the small sliver of the room open to her, but she knew it was no animal he faced. His eyes were pools of love and fear. He faced his uncle. Those kind, scared eyes widened, and Jane widened the crack in the door enough to glimpse another figure. Neville. Something glinted in his hand.
When the moonlight caught the knife’s edge and sent silver shattering across the room, Jane knew. She must run to George, help him. Save him. She could barely restrain her body from flying to him.
But she did.
She had no business going in there, no way to help. She was not scared to do so. But it was not her place. She could help better if she walked away.
Every muscle cried as she left him to fight this never-ending battle with his uncle. She cried, too, as she retraced with numb legs the route she’d taken so recently and recited facts.
“Twenty years handling such situations. Two strong arms. One agile brain. Surely the screaming had roused some footmen to help. He’ll be fine. Fine. Fine.” She reached his room, curled up in the middle of his bed, and waited.
Was she a coward? Had she abandoned him in his time of need?
Christiana would have run from the danger. But she would have done so because she did not care. Jane ran because she cared with every bit of who she was. Perhaps there was more than one way to be brave and daring. Christiana’s way was scandalous and impulsive, it did as it pleased and damn the consequences. Jane had done things like that.
But another way looked much more like Martha, quietly strong and determined in the face of risk and danger to the heart and to the body, daring to love even when loving was the most difficult thing one could do.
Chapter 24
George’s legs felt like logs. No, they felt like entire ancient trees uprooted and felled, impossible to pick up even for a god, let alone a mortal like himself. But somehow, he made it to his room. His back hit the door as it clicked closed, and he slid to the floor with a soft thump. He hung his head between his knees and pressed back the tears with measured breaths.
His uncle had trembled over visions of Christabel, Coleridge’s monstrous maiden who often haunted Neville’s dreams. He’d ranted about raven-haired ladies. Jane inspired? God, he hoped not.
But now Neville was dosed and sleeping, a hopefully dreamless slumber. And George applied a different meter to quiet his nerves.
“She was a phantom of delight,” he recited, “When first she gleamed upon my sight.”
“George?”
He jerked his head up.
Jane sat in the middle of his bed, rubbing sleep from her eye. “Is that you?”
He rose and was by her in a single breath, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close. He pulled her on to his lap.
She looked up at him and lifted her hand to trace the brackets around his mouth, soothe the furrow he made between his brows.
“You are too young to have such lines of sorrow,” she said. Her breath hitched. Her eyes watered. “I’m being such a ninny. Do not mind me.”
“Do not cry. Please do not cry.” He rained little kisses onto her head, into her hair, wherever he could reach. They were not the sensual deep kisses that promised more but simple comforting little pecks.
She laughed. “I’m well. Truly. It’s you I worry about.” She pushed him away as much as she could sitting atop him. “And Neville. I should be comforting you. Not the other way around.”
“I thought seeing you cozy with my uncle earlier was my worst nightmare, but I was wrong. This is it. Having you see me, hear the terror… I cannot take that back from you. Were you scared?”
She nodded. “But not entirely. I was scared for you. Not for myself.”
