by Elise Marion
Sylvia had finished half her sherry, and lost a good deal of the nervousness stiffening her spine, when the very air in the room seemed to run out. Her ribs constricted around her lungs, her breath catching as she found the source of the change in the atmosphere. She ought to have known without looking.
Without Lieutenant Davies at his side, he proved the tallest man in the room, his golden head drawing the eye like a beacon. The gleaming, wavy locks offered a sharp juxtaposition to his black eye-patch. He looked like some sort of romantic, gothic novel hero, and that effect was only enhanced by his mode of dress. He was swathed in black trousers and coat, his waistcoat a gleaming satin in a dark onyx shade, etched with a charcoal gray embroidery. Even his necktie was black, sharply contrasting with the only white garment he wore—a starched shirt that seemed to glow amid so much black.
Biting her lip, she snatched her gaze away from him and peered down into her sherry. After what he had done, she ought to despise the sight of him. In a way, she did, but there was something else, too—something deeper and more visceral. That part of her reacted so strangely to him, flaring hot and sending her blood fluttering wildly at her pulse points. It was difficult to look at him and see the man she’d fallen in love with and married in a single night, for just the sight of him showed her that he had changed. The physical differences were subtle, but enough that anyone who knew him must be able to see it. He’d been a brawny man, tall and wide in the shoulders and chest, and long of leg. He was still just as imposing, but there was a sleekness to him now, a hardness that showed even through the layers of his clothes. The difference was in his face as well, notching beneath his cheekbones and sharpening his jaw. His mouth was full and lush, but strained at the corners, even when he smiled.
He still does that as easily as he ever did, she noticed as she sneaked another glance in his direction.
He had joined the doctors in a growing circle of men who were having an animated discussion on some subject or another. Gideon laughed, the sound boisterous and belly-warming. He inclined his head politely to listen to what was being said, one hand moving about as he gestured while answering. Something sharp and painful stabbed through her middle, sending pained confusion echoing through her entire being. He was nothing like the man she had encountered a few days ago in the entrance hall of the home. He wasn’t morose or withdrawn or stammering over the words to explain himself. He was handsome and charming and magnetic, as much as before.
And here she stood, feeling as if she were falling apart and only the tight stitching of her skin held her together. Her belly roiled, her throat constricting and the sherry going rancid on her tongue.
Had the remorse and sadness he displayed a few days ago been a façade? How could he stand in this drawing room laughing and smiling as if he hadn’t a care in the world, after he had ripped her heart from her chest and crushed it?
As the Davies’ ushered the last of the guests into the drawing room, and dinner was announced, Sylvia told herself it didn’t matter. By not coming for her, he’d proven how he truly felt. The reasons were of no consequence, nor was his behavior since they’d encountered one another by chance. What did it matter that he offered his arm to one of the other ladies with a genial smile, while Sylvia was left to be escorted by Dr. Scudder? Why should she care that when he looked at her, he did so with barely a flicker of a glance before turning back to whomever he was speaking to?
However, as the first course was set before them, Sylvia found herself without an appetite. For, as much as she told herself it didn’t matter, she couldn’t help feeling otherwise. The people seated around them were the cream of society. There was a viscount, two barons, an earl, and several others who were nobility-adjacent. These were people of money and means, who had come from the same world as Gideon. Ladies and gentlemen with pedigrees as impressive as their fashionable clothes.
Gideon fit so seamlessly among them, with his polished manners and fine clothing. If she hadn’t met him that night at the Sheep’s Heid, seeing him this way might convince her that he would never stoop to consorting with lowly farmhands and peasants.
Could it be that time and distance had made him aware of just how different they were? He’d claimed to love her, but perhaps love wasn’t strong enough to erase the lines of class and station that had handed Gideon everything he wanted on a silver platter, while Sylvia had never gone a single day without honest, hard work. Perhaps he had returned from war wanting to go back to his life as it had been before. A life that a country Scottish girl could never fit seamlessly into.
Sylvia did her best to engage those seated nearest her, forcing smiles and taking a few bites of each course that was set before her. But every time Gideon laughed, or flashed his magnetic smile at the woman seated next to him, the pain in her middle became sharper.
She was grateful when they finished the dessert course and Josephine bid them all to join her on a tour of the home. At least, Sylvia would have now some distraction. Head Nurse Roberts suggested the party be broken up into smaller groups, each one led by a different member of the staff, which was well received by all. Sylvia silently prayed she would lead a group that would not include Gideon, but ought to have known better. Naturally, the same forces that had brought her and her recalcitrant husband under the same roof, had also pushed him into the party of five that she was set to lead through the various floors and rooms of the home. Along for the trek was a Mrs. Ruby Wolf, the woman who’d sat beside Gideon at dinner.
The lady was no older than thirty-five, and still retained her beauty as well as a lithe figure. Having been widowed a few years ago, she seemed on the prowl for a new husband, and at the moment had Gideon firmly in her clutches. Sylvia issued a derisive snort as Mrs. Wolf clung to Gideon’s arm, which drew his attention. His ears reddened with embarrassment when their eyes met, one shoulder raising as if in silent apology. Sylvia raised an eyebrow in challenge, pursing her lips. What did he expect—for her to treat them all to a jealous outburst? He might be her husband in name, but that was all. Let him explain to Mrs. Wolf that he couldn’t marry anyone because he was already wed. It would serve him right to be forced to reveal his own perfidy.
She breezed through the corridors, her tone as light as she could manage as she took the party through each floor of the house. Opening and closing doors as they went, she showed off a music room, a sun room adjacent to the library, a chamber stocked with charcoal, pastels, paint, and canvases for those wanting to try their hand at art, and a few small parlors where patients could congregate if they wished. They went upstairs next, where select patient rooms had been left open for them to inspect. Each one was stocked with supplies for the nurses, and Sylvia opened the cabinet in one room to flaunt this fact to her group.
This led to questions about the necessity for certain tinctures or supplies, prompting Sylvia to delve deeper into the duties of a nurse. Gideon leaned against the wall near the door and watched her in silence, his one good eye burning intently through her. It was something he’d done in every room, she realized—positioning himself near the door and refusing to turn his back on the others. His eye swept each room quickly before he entered, as if stepping through a doorway required a level of vigilance only he could understand.
“Dr. Scudder says that the war in the Crimea is what prompted you to take up your education as a nurse,” Mrs. Wolf said with an admiring gaze in Sylvia’s direction. “I find that to be commendable, if I may say so. Few women would think to undertake such bloody, backbreaking work in the midst of a war.”
This time, it was easier to smile at the woman, who really was very sweet. That she seemed to have taken a liking to Gideon didn’t count against her, for hadn’t Sylvia fallen for the man in the space of one night? Gideon’s easy charm would work on any woman with a pulse.
“No, I dinnae suppose many would,” she agreed. “But my brothers served in the 93rd Sunderland Regiment of Foot. Conall was sent home wounded, and there was only me to care for him when my da
brought him home. So ye might say I was motivated in part by those I love.”
She couldn’t stop her eyes from darting to Gideon, who was watching her with his eyebrows drawn together, his mouth a firm line. Sylvia swiftly tore her gaze away and returned her attention to Mrs. Wolf, who placed one hand over her bosom with a sigh.
“What a brave woman you are, Nurse Whitlock. The future patients of this home will be fortunate to have one such as you looking after them.”
Sylvia inclined her head, face flushing warm as the others chimed in with their agreement. All except for Gideon, who was still watching her. He didn’t look away when she caught him staring, which caused her to shift from foot to foot with nervous energy.
Clearing her throat, she motioned for them to precede her from the room. “I think the night is clear enough that we can tour the gardens by moonlight. Shall we?”
The others filed out one by one, passing Gideon who remained where he stood like a statue. Arms crossed over his chest, he pinned her in place with his gaze. Sylvia had faltered halfway to the door upon realizing he didn’t intend to move. He released his breath on a harsh exhale through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing a bit.
“I didn’t know about Conall.”
More words hung on the air between them unsaid, but Sylvia could read them all in the solitary eye burning into hers with such quiet intensity. He was changed again, becoming quiet and morose with just a hint of something else glimmering in the depths of his amber-green eyes.
“He survived,” she replied, her words coming out brusque.
He gave a jerky nod, his eye finally deterring from her and fixing somewhere beyond. “Was there any … lasting damage?”
Gideon winced as he said this, angling his head slightly to the right to hide his eye-patch—as if, unconsciously, it was his own permanent trauma he thought of just now. Her curiosity over the injury flared to life once more, but she tamped it down and reminded herself that she didn’t care.
“His hand was mangled and infected. He might have lost it entirely, or died from fever, but we managed to save both him and his hand. It isnae completely lame, but there is limited motion in three fingers. He is fortunate to still be able to grip wi’ his thumb and forefinger, at least. It was a better outcome than I might have hoped for.”
Moving to leave the room, she gathered her skirts to keep from brushing against him. He stood aside, turning to face her as she paused in the doorway and glanced at him over her shoulder. The words were spilling from her lips before she could think better of them.
“I became a nurse because of him, but also because of you. I couldn’t stop thinking of ye, hurt like Conall and far away from someone who … who loved ye.”
She paused, swallowing past the knot of grief welling in her throat.
Gideon took a step toward her, then faltered, as if thinking better of it. “Sylvia—”
“Every man I cared for was ye in my mind. I told myself that by caring for them, I was caring for ye. It was the best I could do until ye came home and I … I could be your wife in truth.”
Her eyes stung, but she blinked back the tears. The last thing she needed was for the other guests to see her with wet, blotchy cheeks.
“Sylvia, I want to apologize, but it would never erase the pain I have caused, and I wouldn’t want you to think I believe words are enough. I want to explain, but I am afraid I wouldn’t know how. At least … I wouldn’t know how to tell you why I stayed away in a way that you would understand.”
She squared her shoulders and narrowed her eyes at him, gathering the strength she needed to walk away from him yet again. “Ye could have tried. Even a letter would have been better than nothing. For months, I thought ye might be dead, but then … well, it doesn’t matter. I found out that ye had lived and simply failed to come for me. “
His voice came out harsh and gruff when he spoke, as if he, too were on the verge of tears. “I thought it better if you believed me dead. Sometimes I wish I were.”
His words hurt her more than she would have thought possible. No matter what he’d done to her, she hadn’t been able to help the overwhelming relief at discovering he had survived. A world without Gideon Whitlock in it would seem like a dark and dismal place, even if he wasn’t with her.
“I dinnae know what happened to ye,” she whispered, “but I hope you had someone to care for you as Conall had me. I truly do.”
With that, she stepped out into the corridor and caught up to the others. She glanced over her shoulder to find that he hadn’t followed. His shadow showed on the wall opposite the open door. He remained where she had left him, alone and as still as death.
Chapter 5
Gideon braced his head in his hand and stared into the dying embers of the fire. The patrons’ dinner had gone well, and Josephine and Maxwell sent their guests off with smiling faces, exchanging those meaningful glances that often pass between husband and wife. Their pride in each other, and what they had built together, showed for anyone looking upon them to see. Gideon had felt like an intruder bearing witness to the intimacy in the unspoken words traded with nothing more than the locking of eyes.
Something had tightened around his chest as he’d watched them and longed for what he might have had. If he and Sylvia had spent the past year together, would their bond be anything like the one his best friend shared with his wife? In times like this, Gideon liked to believe they might have. That thought only exacerbated his guilt.
But then, all it took was one glance in the mirror, one moment in which he could not control the shaking of his hands or the irrational panic that often flared with him without provocation. That was all he needed to be reminded of why he never returned to Duddingston. There was a part of him that longed for the comfort of the woman he’d married, and the love he had thrown away. But the instinct to protect her, to keep anyone from being hurt by things outside of his control, won out. It didn’t matter that they’d hardly known one another when they wed, or that he and Sylvia had spent more time apart than together. His love for her had taken him by surprise in its swiftness as well as its visceral impact. Time and distance had done nothing to dampen it. He loved her as much now as he had the night he placed a ring on her finger and spoken the vows he’d meant from the bottom of his heart. It was that love which had prompted his actions, and now he must accept that the lengths he was willing to go to spare Sylvia would be what caused her to hate him.
He wrestled with this as he stood alone in an empty drawing room, exhaustion leeching the strength from his limbs. Mental restlessness kept him from going to his bed, as well as the fear of what his dreams would hold. Ironic, that he feared dreams of Sylvia as much as he did those of war and carnage. Dreaming of the one night he’d had her in his arms, in his bed, proved just as torturous as memories of war.
Closing his eyes, he slipped a finger beneath his patch to rub at his itching right lid. The left one watered with fatigue, and he felt as if a lead weight had been dropped into his soul. How long before it weighed him down to the point he couldn’t function? How many months or years could he live like this before finally losing his tenuous hold on sanity?
A soft sound behind Gideon had him tensing, his heart going from a gentle cadence to a breakneck pounding in an eye’s blink. A premonition warned him seconds before a hand made contact with his arm, the hairs on his body standing on end and his field of vision narrowing to a pinpoint.
He reacted without thinking, instinct driving him as the panic swelled to the point of no return. Turning, he lashed out with one arm, swinging wildly at whoever had accosted him. Instead of the comforting smell of simmering coals in the grate, his senses became overwhelmed with the odor of charred flesh. His surroundings ceased to exist as his legs went out from under him, the impact of his knees hitting the floor resounding up his back and rattling his teeth. He shook his head to clear it, but could see nothing beyond billowing smoke and rivers of blood. He tasted it on his tongue, saw it on his hands as h
e gazed down at them, clutching at the rug as if for dear life.
A voice came at him, garbled as if through water. Gritting his teeth, he tried to calm his breathing but found it impossible. His lungs burned and his belly heaved and roiled, threatening to make him lose his dinner.
A shadow lurked in the periphery of his limited field of vision, and the urge to fight or flee overcame him. He scrambled backward but came up against the wall, trapped. There was no other recourse. His body screamed that he was in danger and he must fight his way up. Fumbling with one hand, he closed his fingers around the first thing he found—something long and hard like iron. A weapon. He rose with a desperate cry trapped in his throat and swung, but found his wrist captured in a tight hold.
Pain radiated up his arm as his hand was twisted at an unnatural angle, and the object fell from his hold. He ripped away from the crippling touch and backpedaled, coming against the wall again.
“Gideon!”
This voice was stronger, louder … familiar. He reached for it like a lifeline, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head as he doubled over, fighting against the urges that had propelled him to defend himself. It wasn’t necessary. He wasn’t in danger … despite what his body’s reaction to touch told him.
“Maxwell?” he rasped between panting breaths.
“Yes, it’s me, friend. I didn’t want to have to do that, but you put her in danger. Look at me … Breathe … Yes, that’s it.”
Gideon slowly lifted his head, struggling to stay on his feet as the aftershocks of his attack threatened to take him back to his knees. His vision became more focused, though the room seemed to tilt and sway as he locked eyes on his friend. Maxwell stood away from him, yet kept one arm extended, as if to implore him … but also to take him on physically if it became necessary. His walking stick had been knocked to the ground but he kept on his feet, legs braced to lunge.