by Anna Bradley
There hadn’t been any blood, not like with Andrew, but for that one frozen moment when he’d struggled to pull breath into his lungs, that still form at the bottom of the staircase hadn’t been Thea at all.
It had been Andrew.
He’d seen his brother lying on the floor, and he’d known, even before he reached him, it was too late.
But it wasn’t Andrew. It was Thea, and it wasn’t too late. Not this time. He wouldn’t let it be. Whatever he had to do, whatever he had to say, and whoever he had to pray to, he’d do it.
Whatever it took.
He wasn’t letting her go.
This house had seen enough tragedy. The nightmares, the memories that haunted him, the ghosts he couldn’t lay to rest . . .
It all ended here.
He dragged his chair closer to the bed, gathered her limp hand between both of his, and drew a shaky breath.
“I do remember the picnics on the west lawn with my mother, sweetheart. I remember everything we did together. The picnics, and swimming in my father’s fishing pond late at night. Searching for mistletoe with Andrew, and my mother’s Christmas Eve parties. I remember one year she tried to teach you to play the pianoforte, but you didn’t have the temperament for it. You always wanted to be in the kitchens, or exploring the woods with Andrew and me, and you couldn’t bear to sit still for hours.”
He smiled a little now, thinking of it.
“You only ever did learn one song. “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. I had to hear you play that song over and over again. For a long time I thought that was the reason it drove me mad, but I don’t think so anymore.”
He pressed her hand to his cheek. “I think I’ve always hated it because it reminded me of everything I’d lost. When you wake up, you’ll play it for me again, won’t you? I think I could love it now.”
He wrapped his arms around her and let his head fall to the bed to rest on her chest. “I want you to know I remember everything, Thea—all my happy memories of Cleves Court. There are so many of them, and all of them . . .” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “All of them include you, Thea. You’re part of every one of them. Part of me.”
He didn’t move for a long time, but stayed there, holding her, trying to take comfort in the steady movement of her chest under his cheek. He didn’t look up when he heard the door open. Becky, the children, the other servants, and the villagers who’d heard about Thea’s fall—they’d been in and out of her room all day. Aside from pitying looks and whispered prayers and reassurances, they’d kept away from Ethan, but this time a small hand touched his shoulder.
“Miss Sheridan is still asleep.”
He sat up, startled, to find Martha standing next to him. “Yes. She is.”
Martha’s lower lip trembled as she looked at Thea. “Why won’t she wake up?”
Ethan shook his head. He’d never felt so helpless in his life. “She’s hurt herself, and her body needs to rest to feel better, but the doctor thinks she will wake up.”
“But what if she doesn’t?” Martha turned dark, fearful eyes on him. “What if she never wakes up?”
Ethan looked at Thea, his heart heavy as a stone in his chest. “She will.”
Martha was quiet for a moment, then, “Lordship?”
“Yes?”
Tears were running down Martha’s cheeks. “I’m scared.”
He didn’t think about it, he just opened his arms, and Martha never hesitated. She went to him, climbed into his lap, grabbed his shirt in her little hands, and buried her face in his chest.
She felt tiny in his arms, her thin back shuddering with sobs. Ethan wished with everything in him he could reassure her, tell her Thea would wake, any minute now she’d open her eyes, but all he could manage was a choked whisper. “I’m scared, too.”
After a while Martha’s sobs quieted, and then she fell asleep, her small body exhausted with weeping. Ethan continued to hold her on his lap, stroking her hair as the shadows lengthened and gathered in the corners of the silent room.
“The golden rings . . .”
A soft voice broke the silence, and Ethan’s hand froze in mid-stroke. His gaze darted to the bed, but he was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, even.
Thea stirred in the bed, a faint frown on her lips. “That song . . . it’s about birds.”
Ethan jostled Martha gently to wake her, never taking his eyes off Thea’s face. “Martha, quickly. Run and tell Becky to send for the doctor. Miss Sheridan is waking up.”
Martha woke with a start, took one look at Thea, who was still murmuring about birds, and flew from the room, shouting for Becky as she ran down the hallway.
Ethan dropped to his knees by the side of the bed, his heart in his throat. “Don’t go back to sleep, sweetheart. Open your eyes, and tell me more about the birds.”
“Pheasant.” She did open her eyes, but they were glassy, and she looked confused, as if she didn’t recognize him. “The golden rings around its neck.”
He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm. “What else, Thea? Are there any other birds in the song?”
“Geese, and swans. Others too, I think.” Her voice was growing stronger.
“French hens, isn’t it?” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, going dizzy with relief when her eyes opened wider and focused on him.
“Ethan?” She closed her fingers around his, her grip weak, but growing stronger every moment. “Are you all right? You look tired.”
“Yes, sweetheart. I’m fine now. I’ve been . . .” His voice broke, and he laid his head on her stomach, tears of gratitude burning his eyes. “You had a fall, and I’ve been so worried for you.”
A frown creased her brow, then, “I remember now. I lost my balance on the stairs. I thought . . . were you there? I thought I heard you say my name just before I fell, but . . . oh, no. Oh, Ethan, your mother’s crucifix. I’ve lost it—”
“It’s around your neck.” He lifted her hand to her neck and helped her close her fingers around the fine gold chain. “I found it next to you where you fell. Once we got you to bed, I put it back on you.”
She ran her fingertips over the cross, and her face relaxed. “The letter? I wrote you a letter, too.”
“I know, love. I read it.” He swallowed back the ache in his throat. What did you say to someone who’d torn off a piece of themselves to give it to you? “I don’t know what to say, how to tell you—”
“You don’t have to say anything.” She touched her fingertips to his lips. “Ever since Andrew gave it to me, I’ve thought of it as yours.”
“I can’t take it from you, Thea.” He touched the cross nestled in the hollow of her throat. “My mother would have wanted you to have it, and it looks beautiful on you.”
“No, Ethan—”
“Yes, love.” His tone was gentle, but firm. “I’ll get so much more pleasure from seeing you wear it than I ever could if I kept it for myself. Every time I see it on your neck, I’ll remember . . .”
He stopped and shook his head, and Thea’s brows drew into an anxious frown. “Remember what?”
He drew a deep breath, and held her gaze. “That some things are too precious to lose.”
Her green eyes went softer than he’d ever seen them, and her hand came up to stroke his hair. “Oh, Ethan. It must have been terrible for you to see me at the bottom of the stairs, after Andrew—”
“Shhhh. It’s all right. You’re all right, and that’s what matters to me. You matter to me, Thea, more than anything.” He raised his head and clasped her face in his hands, because he needed to be sure she heard him, and saw the truth in his face. “Last night, those things I said to you. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I knew the moment I said them they weren’t true, and I should have told you so right away. I love you, Thea. I’ve always loved you.”
&
nbsp; She smiled. “And I’ve always loved you. All I ever wanted was you, Ethan.”
“I’m yours. Wherever you are—at Cleves Court, or in London, or even at the Duke’s Head Inn with the damp sheets and the mice—that’s where I want to be. Always, Thea. My heart belongs to you, and my home . . .” He leaned forward to kiss her, and touched his forehead to hers. “My home is wherever you are.”
Epilogue
Five months later
“Henry and George set fire to the drawing-room carpet this evening.”
Thea was relaxing against the mound of pillows propped against the headboard, but at this she straightened with a sigh, and threw her feet over the side of the bed. “Again?”
“Yes. Don’t get up, sweet.” Ethan tossed his coat onto the floor, jumped onto the bed and grabbed her around the waist before she could stand up. “It’s all right now.”
“If it’s all right, then why do I smell smoke?”
He eased her onto her back and stretched out beside her. “Because I used my coat to smother the flames. It’s ruined, of course.”
“Oh, dear. Another ruined coat. Poor Fenton will be hysterical. He still hasn’t recovered from Martha’s last accident with your cravat.”
He shrugged. “I’ve got other coats, and Martha can do no wrong in Fenton’s eyes.”
Fenton and Martha had spent a few weeks circling each other warily when Ethan’s London servants arrived at Cleves Court, but somehow—no one quite knew when, or how it had happened—they’d struck up a curious but fierce friendship.
Thea laid her head on Ethan’s chest, sighing contentedly when he ran his fingers through the loose waves of her hair. “They’re an odd pair, aren’t they?”
“Mmmm.” He tightened his arm around her. “You smell delicious, love.”
Thea gave his chest a distracted pat. “How did the fire start this time?”
He rolled her over onto her back and nuzzled his face into the curve between her shoulder and neck. “Fire? What fire?”
“Henry and George’s fire, of course. I almost don’t want to know, but . . . Ethan? Are you listening to me?”
“Mmmm.” He nibbled on her neck, then pressed a dozen light, open-mouthed kisses to her throat. “Did you say something, love?”
She had, hadn’t she? Yes, something about . . . oh! “The fire. How did it start?”
He let out a low laugh. “We were playing hide and seek, but when I left the room to hide, Henry and George took a sudden interest in the fireplace poker. By the time I got back to the drawing-room, they’d rolled a burning log out of the grate.”
“What?” Thea had been arching her neck for his kisses, but now she pushed against his chest and sat up. “Why, those naughty boys! Whatever would possess them to do something so foolish?”
He chuckled. “I couldn’t say, sweetheart, but we’ve run out of settees to hide the burn marks.”
“Do you find this amusing, my lord?”
“They’re ten-year-old boys, love. They’re curious.”
“Curious, indeed. They’re naughty rascals, and you know it as well as I do, Ethan.”
“They are.” Ethan tried to frown, but he couldn’t quite disguise the pride in his voice. “Heathens, the both of them. Martha too, come to that. Three little demonic imps, and not a moment of bloody peace to be had while any of them are about. Let’s have them come live with us here forever.”
Thea blinked at him, certain she hadn’t heard him right. The children spent nearly all their time here, but they were still wards of the parish, and Ethan hadn’t said a word about taking them in permanently.
But before she could reply, he eased her backwards against the bed, then slid his leg between hers to hold her there. “How it is that I find even your nose enticing?” He dropped a kiss onto the tip of her nose.
“When you say you want them to live here, do you mean—?”
“Your lips, too.” A low growl rose from his chest as he pressed a kiss to one corner of her mouth, then the other. “I can’t look at your lips without wanting to ravish you.”
“Ethan! You said—”
“Your throat, and your neck, and your breasts . . .” His voice lowered to a throaty rasp. He plucked at the neck of her nightdress, sliding it off one shoulder. “Show them to me, love.”
“But . . . the children . . .”
He skimmed his mouth over the tops of her breasts. “They’re not invited.”
Oh, dear God, his lips were so firm, and yet so soft.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and was one kiss away from succumbing to his seductive touch when she remembered the children. “Ethan, wait.” She sank her fingers into his hair and tugged his head up so he’d look at her. “You want the children to come live with us forever?”
He was quiet for a moment, then. “I do. What do you think?”
“I think,” Thea said slowly, a smile curving her lips, “you were telling the truth when you said you don’t like your great-great grandfather’s Aubusson carpet. It won’t survive another month with Henry and George in the house.”
He laughed softly, but then he sobered as he held her gaze. “A few burn marks, some spilled jam . . . those things mean a family lives here. The boys remind me of myself and Andrew, and Martha, with that sharp tongue and those wild dark curls—she reminds me of you when you were a child, Thea. Having them here feels right.”
Thea’s heart swelled in her chest as she looked up into his perfect face. She’d never thought him more beautiful than she did right now. “I know just what you mean.”
“My mother . . .” he traced his fingertip over the crucifix resting in the hollow of her throat. “I think she’d be pleased with the idea if she were here. Don’t you?”
“I think she’d be proud.” She brought his face down to hers and kissed him, her lips soft and tender against his. “So proud of you, Ethan.”
He gathered her close against him, so close she could feel his heartbeat inside her own chest. “With all of us here together, Cleves Court isn’t just a house anymore, Thea. It’s a home. Our home.”
Author’s Note
Ethan’s brother Andrew was an epileptic, a condition which, during the Regency era, was unfortunately still regarded as a mental disease akin to insanity rather than a neurological condition. It wasn’t until the mid-nineteenth century that neurology emerged as a separate medical science from psychiatry, and at that time there was a shift away from an insanity diagnosis and into a clearer understanding of epilepsy as a brain disorder.
Andrew would have been born too early to benefit from the more humanitarian approach, however, and would have been kept out of the public eye as a result of his disease. As a member of an aristocratic family who would have wished to conceal his affliction, Andrew might have escaped being institutionalized in a madhouse, but he would not have been permitted by his father to take his proper place as the heir to a wealthy and powerful earldom. He would not have attended university, but would have spent his life at Cleves Court, hidden from society, and Ethan would have been groomed to supplant Andrew as the Earl of Devon.
In 1857 the medical community discovered bromide to be an effective anti-epileptic treatment, but Andrew’s condition would likely have been left untreated throughout his life. In the novella, his tragic death is the result of a head injury from a fall down the stairs triggered by a seizure.
Epilepsy: Historical Overview. The World Health Organization. www.allcountries.org. 2008.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anna Bradley is the author of The Sutherland Scandals novels. A Maine native, she now lives near Portland, Oregon, where people are delightful and weird and love to read. She teaches writing and lives with her husband, two children, a variety of spoiled pets, and shelves full of books. Visit her website at www.annabradley.net.
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