“I know. And so do they.”
With a minuscule nod Witty closed his eyes again. Drawing in another wheezing breath, he let it out. And then…he wasn’t.
Rosie’s sniff sounded, and her familiar hand rested on his shoulder. “I’ll see if I can catch Alain. No call for bringing the doctor now.”
“Thank you, Rosie.” He gave her hand a pat and then stood. He turned, expecting to find his mother hovering in the doorway.
But it was Gwyneth who leaned into the post, gripping it with white knuckles. Her eyes were as wide and damp as the sea, looking toward the table but glazed in a way that made him think she saw Whittier no longer.
Had he known it was she in the doorway, he would have ordered her away before she could have caught a glimpse of the horrific wound. Thad slowly eased forward, afraid she would yet again go weak-kneed. “Gwyneth?”
“Who was he?” Her voice emerged like a spring breeze, nothing more than a soft stirring.
“An old friend.” He took another step, this one to put himself between her and the table. To block her view, to force her to focus on him instead.
She did, with a blink and a lift of her head. “I am sorry. I never…Papa always said war was an ugly thing.”
“’Tis that.” Thad lifted his chin, motioning behind her. “You ought not be in here. It will only unsettle you.”
What thoughts were those that flashed through her eyes like lightning? They were too swift for him to make out, too much cloaked in those shadows that marred the depths of her gaze, but at least she seemed to hear him. She nodded, loosed the door frame, and half turned.
And then she had to grip the other side. ’Twas more convulsion than tremor that swept up her figure, and she squeezed shut her eyes as if to hold back tears.
“Gwyneth.” He went to her side, ready to catch her should she fall, ready to rescue her should she be overcome.
But the moment he touched a hand to her shoulder, she lifted her chin and swallowed, fighting back whatever demons chased her. And then she strode away.
Thad could only lean into the post and shake his head. It was as though she were a pane of glass, shattered yet still in its frame. What tragedy had struck to destroy her so?
And what strength must she have within to still hold herself upright?
He turned back toward the table and the prone body upon it. He had a family to notify.
And a message to the congressman to revise.
Ten
Gwyneth stared into her mirror, willing the image to change. Willing the circles under her eyes to disappear, her skin to regain its color, her hair its luster. She looked like a beggar who had stolen fine clothes.
Mrs. Wesley tugged on a lock of Gwyneth’s hair and then jabbed her scalp with a pin.
“Ow!” She jerked away, pressing a hand to the sore spot. “Take care!”
The woman’s face appeared beside hers in the mirror, consternation etched upon it. “My apologies. I am so poor at doing another’s hair.”
Heat bubbled and churned, moving from her stomach to her throat until it erupted from her lips. “Then perhaps Papa should have sent me with my lady’s maid instead of you.”
She slapped a hand over her mouth, but it did nothing to stop the hurt from settling on Mrs. Wesley’s face. Dear, sweet Mrs. Wesley, who had stayed faithfully by her side. Always there, waiting to be needed. Hovering. Chiding. Suffocating.
No. Gwyneth squeezed her eyes shut and tried to push down the bilious thoughts. Where did they even come from? “Please forgive me. I am so very grateful you are here with me. Truly I am.”
“You are not yourself yet.” Though it looked as though it took effort, Mrs. Wesley smiled at her reflection. “’Tis the exhaustion, love, not you. I only wish I knew why the sickness still plagues you. We have been on land over a week now.”
And had it been the sea that caused it… Gwyneth shrugged and focused her gaze on the curling tongs Mrs. Wesley removed from the small built-to-purpose fire. “Could we forego the curling? It is so dreadfully hot already.” She wanted to add that if the woman could not be trusted with pins, she certainly didn’t want to put her head near scorching metal, but she bit her tongue.
She would not be a slave to exhaustion and its moods. She would not.
Mrs. Wesley sighed. “But this will be the first you have gone out since you arrived, love, and it was so kind of Captain Lane to offer to take you to the shops. Ought you not look your best?”
She had no “best.” Not anymore. Only varying degrees of awful. Where on the scale could she hope to land today, after seven straight nights of terror that combined that poor felled soldier with Papa?