They were all a little dead without her.
Returning to the bed, he slipped Baby into Mercy’s arms. “Go to sleep now, child.” He smoothed back the scruffy curls, pulled the counterpane around her neck, then leaned over her to do the same to John. “Are you warm?”
“Yes, sir.” His young face had lost that pleasant, sunburnt ruddiness, and the cheeks so often dimpled and smiling back home now appeared thin.
The journey had been hard. Harder than Simon had expected. The first few weeks, both children had been ill and lightly fevered—and although meals were plentiful for two months, the rations eventually lessened to meager amounts of peas, stale cheese, and boiled salted meat.
Simon swiped his hand across John’s forehead, tousling the brown hair. “It will be easier for us now, Son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are a good boy.” He smiled. “A little man.”
At the praise, a sweet glow of pleasure brightened John’s features. “One day I’ll be big like you and Blayney, won’t I?”
Simon nodded.
“I’ll live in the mountains like Blayney did, and I’ll fight bears. I won’t be afraid. I’ll trap things too. Like you do. I’ll sell them and have lots of money to buy a gun.”
“A gun?”
A cloud struck John’s eyes, a sickening look. “If anyone tries to hurt Mercy…if anyone tries to make her die like Mama, I’ll kill them.”
“Son, I told you before. There was nothing you could do.”
“She was screaming.” His chin bunched, but he wrestled so hard against the tears that his face reddened. “When I was in the loft…she screamed and screamed. I think she wanted me to come.”
“No.”
“She needed me to—”
“John, no.” Simon cupped his face. “She needed you to protect your sister. She told me you did right, hear? You did right.”
Sucking in a breath, John rubbed hard at both of his eyes. He did not say anything else. Merely turned over on his side, crammed his eyes shut, and curled deeper beneath the soft counterpane.
Simon strode to the hearth and sat on the floor before the warming flames. He prayed he could erase the guilt from his son’s mind.
But the truth was he could not even erase the guilt from himself.
She could not sleep.
Twice, she climbed from bed and lingered at the window, where she pressed her fingers to the frozen glass. The cold ran deep. She was tempted to rush to Agnes’s chamber, slip in bed with her cousin, and weep away the confusing thoughts swirling through her.
Even if she did, Agnes would not understand. No one would.
Georgina did not understand herself.
She only knew that they stayed with her—those quiet summer carriage rides—like a pendant necklace locked about her neck. Endless times, she had tried to yank it away. She had promised her heart apathy. She had sworn to herself and to the world around her that Simon Fancourt meant nothing and never had.
But he did.
Why should that be? He had never uttered affection to her, and despite their promised marriage, he had never so much as grasped her hand. Indeed, at many social events, he seemed distracted and almost indifferent to her presence, nearly a stranger.
Yet sometimes, on those few and seldom rides, his shoulders had lost their rigidity. The carriage had swayed and jostled, the movement lulling, and the sky had burned pink and orange hues across the hay-scented countryside.
He had spoken of paintings and colors and ideas.
She had listened and said nearly nothing at all.
