“I have already mourned.” He had not intended to say that aloud. “The first time. I had forgotten how…” He had forgotten how constant the threats and degradations were, but that was not what he meant to say. “I thought that if I had another opportunity, then perhaps—” Perhaps his father would finally be proud of him. “It was foolishness.”
With an uncomfortable degree of understanding, Frank gestured to the door. “He is across the hall, if you want to see him.”
“I cannot. Jane is—” His voice cracked again, but Vincent could not care. “She is not well. I cannot leave her while she is—” His control slipped again, and he had to stop, staring at the ground with his jaw tight around his fear.
“I understand.” Frank’s voice was as calm and soothing as if Vincent were a skittish yearling.
He tried to tie off the strands of fear and consider what the appropriate responses were. “Forgive me. How are you taking it? He is your father, too.”
“No.” Frank shook his head firmly. “No. He sired me, but he was never my father. The man who raised me, when Lord Verbury was not here, was a field slave and a cousin to my mother. He taught me what was good and honourable and decent. Lord Verbury was not a bad master, in the relative scheme of things, but he was never my father.”
All Vincent had learned from his lordship was who he did not want to be. “Then perhaps he was not mine either.”
The person who had taught Vincent who he wanted to be was lying on the bed behind him, limp and horribly pale.
*
Vincent’s own shout woke him. Tension ebbed out of his body as he understood where he was. He lay curled on a pallet on the floor next to Jane’s bed. His heart still beat quickly as he lifted both hands to his face and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. The wine barrel dream again. Vincent stretched to his full length, trying to erase the memory of childhood confinement. It had been a long time since he had cried out loudly enough to wake himself. Jane usually woke him, though he had no idea how she knew the nightmares were happening.
He extracted himself from the knot of bed linens and rolled to his knees to check on her. The poorfire web surrounding Jane made her white chemise glow a pale violet. Part of him hoped he had not disturbed her, but every other part prayed her eyes would be open.
They were not.
She was breathing, though. It killed him that he needed to be certain of that. It was fast and shallow, but breath.
Kneeling by the bed, Vincent rested his head against the cool linen of her pillow. Her hair still smelled of smoke. “Jane … Muse. Please wake up.” In the night, his only answer was the echo of his voice off the plain white walls. “I am lost.”
He traced his finger down her nose and let it rest against her lips. They were dry and cracked. Nurses, midwives, and Dr. Jones had been in and out of the room all day, trickling broth into her mouth with care not to choke her. He did not say it again, but he silently pleaded for her to wake. Only to open her eyes, the way she did after Sir Ronald had bled her. It had troubled Vincent then to see her half-lidded eyes open without seeing, but he would take that now. He would take any sign that she was improving.
In the darkness, it was difficult to keep his fear bound up. He would not weep. To do so would be to mourn for her, and he must think that Jane would get well. The web surrounding her twinkled at the edge of his vision. He stood. The tension must have loosened on the poorfire threads if they had shifted to violet. Vincent reached for the ether and, with a few twists, spun the threads tight again and out of visible sight.
It barely quickened his breath, but the feel of doing something helped steady him after the nightmare. Bless Nkiruka for giving him a task.
And Frank had brought a distraction as well, with the reports from the great house. Frank needed no help in running the place. The only use that Vincent served was to be the nominal head of the household, who was respected solely because of an accident of appearance. Bringing the reports and the clothing had been an unlooked-for kindness. Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose and bent his head, grateful that there was no one to watch him. He had done nothing to deserve the consideration of these people.
But he would accept it with gratitude. Pulling the chair up to the little table, Vincent prepared to work. He lit the room’s single candle and settled into the chair. Frank’s tidy handwriting marched across the page, detailing the initial estimate of property lost.
It was dull going, and he was grateful for it.
*