Will’s eyes traveled over my face, as if hungry for the sight of me, of anything outside the nightmarish memories in his mind. I forced a smile to my lips, even as I felt the first hot tear slip free from my eye and slide down my cheek. Will focused on it for a moment before returning his gaze to my eyes.
I reached out carefully to take his hand, removing the charcoal from between his fingertips. He stared down at it in confusion and then allowed his eyes to slide up the wall beside him at the drawing there as I held fast to his chilled fingers, grimy with charcoal residue. His gaze trailed over me to the men standing behind me. I did not turn to see their faces, absorbed as I was in watching the play of light and thought across Will’s. He seemed all too willing to accept the fact that so many virtual strangers had observed his odd behavior. I wondered if he was simply resigned to it or if embarrassment was now beyond his ability to feel.
“Will,” Michael said, his voice husky, “you didn’t eat your dinner. Shall I have Mac bring you another plate?”
Will’s shoulders suddenly seemed to slump under the pressure of holding his head up. He shook it listlessly. “No. Too tired.” The tone was gravelly and broken, either from fatigue or disuse.
I heard feet moving across the floor and then Michael stood over us, leaning down to help Will up. “You have to eat something, Will. Please.”
Will looked at his brother and then me. He nodded.
We guided him toward a wingback chair positioned near the hearth, and while Michael settled him comfortably, I turned to call out to Mac.
“He’s gone for his dinner,” Philip told me from the doorway. At some point, he and Gage had retreated to the parlor.
I nodded and turned back to help Michael. We righted the overturned chairs and began gathering up the papers scattered across the floor. And all the while, Will’s gaze seemed to float about the room as if unable to focus on anything. Suddenly feeling like an intruder, I touched Michael gently on the back and told him I would wait for him in the parlor.
Will’s head perked up at the sound of my voice and his gaze sought out mine. “You’ll return?”
Stunned by the request, I could only stare at Will’s earnest face flickering in and out of the amber light cast by the fire. His face was so gaunt, his eyes shadowed.
Michael paused in his tidying to stare first at his brother and then at me.
“Please,” Will added as the silence stretched.
“Of course,” I replied, feeling ashamed that my astonishment had forced him to utter such a word, so close to begging. “Yes. I’ll return. Soon,” I promised him, hoping he could sense my sincerity.
His gaze held mine another moment before sliding away. I took that as my cue to leave, exiting through the doorway just as the surly manservant returned with Will’s dinner. He glared at me as we passed, shutting the door to the bedchamber behind him.
I stared at the wooden barrier for a moment longer, unable yet to face Gage or Philip. My insides felt scoured and raw, and dark emotions bubbled too close to the surface.
“Do not take it personally,” Philip said to my back, forcing me to turn. He leaned awkwardly against the back of a Hepplewhite chair, his body still taut from the scene in the bedroom. “Ole Mac is always like that.”
I wondered if the man even remembered me. After all, if I hadn’t recognized him immediately, how much more must I have changed in the last ten years from age fifteen to twenty-five. “Is he really the best person to be looking after Will?” I questioned, unaccustomed to servants displaying such blatant aversion for those they served.
“Oh, aye. You won’t find a more loyal man to the Dalmays than Mac, particularly when it comes to William. He was his personal servant during the war,” Philip explained.
I knew that much, but loyalty wasn’t the only thing to be considered.
“And he’s not the only one Michael hired to assist his brother.” Gage’s voice was stiff, and I couldn’t tell whether it was because he was angry or merely uncomfortable with what we had just seen. “There’s another man, named Donovan. I met him the other day. He seems to have some kind of medical experience.”
I nodded. Perhaps a former surgeon’s assistant or an apothecary’s apprentice.
I worried my fingers and glanced back at the door to the bedchamber. I couldn’t help but wonder how many times similar events had played out in the last nine months since Will’s release. Michael had told us that he was improving, that these . . . lapses . . . were happening less and less often. But how many times had they occurred to begin with?
The memory of Will crouched in the corner scrabbling away at the wall with a stub of charcoal kept flashing before my eyes and made my chest ache. I wrapped my arms around myself against a sudden chill.