“There is a spirit lamp and I’ve learned to use it.” She came forward, lifted the empty tray from his lap, and looked at him a moment, as if he were a shipwrecked stranger who’d washed up before her. “I’ll let you rest.”
She was on her way out when he remembered to ask, “What are the daisies doing here?”
“The chamomiles?” She glanced back at the riotous bunch. “I’ve heard chamomile tea helps one fall asleep. I’ve no idea how to make chamomile tea, so I hope you like looking at them.”
The chamomiles were so bright they hurt his eyes. “I can’t say I do, but thank you.”
She nodded and left him alone.
Night was falling—without quite knowing it, Fitz had slept most of the day away. It was too late to set out, find the village, and secure himself a new supply of whisky. But even if he had plenty of daylight left, he was still far too depleted to make the trip on foot.
Although, had he known that his second night would be as wretched as the night before, he might have made an attempt. The headaches roared back; tremors, palpitations, and roiling nausea, too, returned en masse. An eternity passed before exhaustion overtook him. He slept, holding on to someone’s hand.
His third night was far better, his slumber deep and dreamless. And when he awakened, more or less clearheaded, it was morning, not afternoon or evening as it had been lately.
The sheet still blocked the window. With one hand shielding his eyes, he yanked it off and let light stream into the room. What the sun illuminated was not pretty. All the walls were splattered with gouge marks, some large, some larger, as if a rabid beast with spikes and yard-long tusks had been penned in, desperate to get out. He rubbed his fingers against some of the rougher gouge marks, vaguely surprised that he’d been capable of such violence.
The chamomiles, droopy but no less cheerful, were still there; his wife was not. She had, however, left behind another pot of tea that had gone cold. Since he was well enough to move about on his own, he went out of his self-made prison cell to look for the spirit lamp that she’d mentioned.
He found it, but it had run out of the methylated spirits used as fuel. So he started a fire in the grate, pumped water into the kettle from the pump outside, and put it to boil—the first thing a junior boy learned at Eton was how to make tea, scramble eggs, and fry sausages for his seniors. While the water heated, he set chunks of bread on a toasting fork.
When he had tea and toast both ready, Lady Fitzhugh was still nowhere to be seen.
He found her in bed, fully dressed—walking boots included—sleeping facedown on top of the covers, her arms at her side, as if she’d reached the edge of the bed and simply pitched forward into it.
He hadn’t meant to spy, but as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on an unfinished letter on her desk. It was addressed to his sisters.
Dear Mrs. Townsend and Miss Fitzhugh,
Thank you for your warm missive of last week. I apologize for our late reply: Your letter reached us only three days ago, along with our other semiweekly supplies from the village of Woodsmere.
The weather here remains delightful. And of course the lakes are ever so blue and lucid. I find myself constantly astonished by the beauty of my surroundings, even though it has been weeks since we first arrived.
Lord Fitzhugh had every intention of writing himself but alas, in the last few days, he has been under the weather—due to something he’d ingested, most probably. But he has bravely faced the rigors of his ailment and is now very much on the mend.
To answer Miss Fitzhugh’s question, I do plan to drive out and see Mr. Wordsworth’s house in Grasmere, as soon as Lord Fitzhugh is fully recovered.
With the exception of his intention to write—he hadn’t even known they’d been receiving letters—she’d managed not to lie, no mean feat when this honeymoon must have been some of the grimmest days she’d ever known.
He glanced back at her and noticed that her left hand bore several deep scratches. Alarmed, he approached the bed and lifted her hand for a closer look.
She stirred and opened her eyes.
“What happened to your hand? I hope I didn’t—” He couldn’t imagine he’d harm a woman, drunk or not. But there were some gaps in his memory.
“No, not at all. I cut myself a few times when I was learning how to use the tin opener.”
He’d opened tins for her in the beginning, when he opened tins for himself. But lately, bedridden, he’d forgotten that task altogether.
“I’m sorry,” he said, ashamed.
“It was nothing at all.” She pushed herself off the bed. “Are you better?”
He was still tired and sore, but it was a cleansing fatigue. “I’m all right. I came to tell you breakfast is ready if you want it.”
She nodded, this girl who’d seen him at his very worst, who’d remained a rock of sanity and good sense when he’d nearly given in to a self-indulgent wretchedness. “Good. I’m hungry.”