Chapter Fifteen

When he found his wife in the library to tell her about his conversation with Irene, she gave him that same radiant look that nearly knocked his knees out from under him, and he again gave thanks that he had a cane. As they sat together the rest of the afternoon, Elena, rather adorably reading in her spectacles and him looking over several business notes Sophie had given him, David could not keep the warmth out of his chest. Goliath was resting on a rug, though David was sure the beast had one eye open as if constantly on the lookout for danger. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn't quite pinpoint who. Even with Goliath's wariness, the scene was so cozy and idyllic that he sighed in spite of himself, knowing full well that both Michael and Henry would be sick at his domestic bliss. It was as if he had found a piece of himself he never knew he had been missing, but now that it belonged to him, he would treasure it forever.

"What are you reading there?" he asked Elena, who seemed like she hadn't turned a page in almost an hour.

She held up a large book for him to see. It was old and a little decrepit like the binding might give way any second. " Le Morte d'Arthur ."

"Oh?"

"I wanted to understand more about this Round Table before we attend Lord Gaius's dinner, but I cannot make much sense of this."

David didn't even know his library had a copy of that particular work. He was touched that she was trying to understand a story he had told her, one that had bound them when they first met, but also terribly amused at her choice of text.

"Elena, I don't know how to tell you, but depending on the edition you are reading, it is likely in Middle English. If you are interested in the Round Table, you might want to try Wordsworth or Tennyson. Or even Morris."

"There's a Middle English?" she asked, the look on her face saying quite clearly that she was fed up with the entire language.

His lips quirked up as he thought about how to explain it. "Well, it's an earlier version of the language."

"So we are speaking Late English?"

He had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling. They never had a dull day. "I don't really know. I ought to ask Michael or Lord Gaius."

Her dimples were showing, which he knew meant she was trying not to laugh. "I did think something looked different about the writing."

They stared at each other in a silent and mutual competition to maintain a serious composure, which was interrupted when Fields entered with the afternoon post. Mostly business, though David was intrigued by a letter crudely addressed to "The Baroness" and nothing more.

He handed it to his wife, who raised an eyebrow and opened it slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her read the letter over twice, hands shaking as she removed her spectacles.

"Elena?"

He took the letter as it fell out of her hands. He hated breaking her confidence by reading it but picked it up and glanced it over. Of course, he could make neither heads nor tails of what it said, as it appeared to be written in Russian.

Elena looked as if she had seen a ghost. He grabbed her shaking hands and began to massage them in his own. Goliath had risen and laid his head in her lap.

"It…it is from Anatole. He says he has information about my family. He says I need to meet with him to obtain it." She was breathing in deep gasps and put a hand to her chest as if to steel herself. She straightened suddenly and stood. "It says tonight. This letter must have taken some time to get here. I must go."

David tightened his grip on her hands, which he was still holding. "Elena, stop. Think. Why did he write to you?"

Her eyes looked unfocused, and she shook her head as if in a trance. "I don't know. Perhaps he felt guilty for separating me from them. I don't…"

"Well, then I'll go with you."

"No!" she exclaimed, then drew a long breath before she spoke again, and her words sent a chill through him. "He said to come alone." Her eyes seemed to refocus, and he noticed her pupils were dilated. David knew this look. He had seen it on his men when they were on a singular mission. Usually, one that led to death…

"Elena," he repeated her name as if saying it would calm the rising panic in the air. Even Goliath was not immune as he began frantically pacing the room. "Think, please. Why does he want you alone? There is no good reason for that. Why didn't he write the government? Why—"

"It doesn't matter why. I need to know!" She tore her hands away and made for the doorway. David grabbed her hand again and pulled her back.

"Please, Elena, listen, there is no reason he would need you to go by yourself."

"I'll take Goliath—"

"Goliath can do nothing against a gun." The words came out harsher than he meant them to, but he was truly afraid now.

"You don't understand!" She pulled on her hand, but he didn't let go. "You don't want me to find them. You don't want me to have to choose between them and you because you fear I will choose them." Her next words were clipped and quiet as if saying them softly would take away the sting. "Anatole said he loved me, but he tried to control me. And because I thought I loved him, I let him. Aren't you doing the same thing, claiming that you love me and not giving me a choice?" Her composure began to break, and he could hear the pain and panic in her voice. "This is why I can't love anymore because it muddies everything!" She broke away and disappeared through the door, leaving David standing, gutted, in front of Goliath.

He looked down at Goliath and rasped, "Go after her!"

Goliath moved as quickly as a dog with three working legs could go, gone in a black and tan blur. David sat back in his armchair, his shoulders sagging in despair.

While he knew he was right about how suspicious the circumstances were, he had to admit there was some truth in her words. He had given her an out to this marriage if she desired it, and he was a man of his word. He knew how much she longed to be with her family again, and no scandal nor distance would stop her from being with them if she could. Alone now, he could admit that in his heart of hearts, he was afraid she would choose her family over him and leave him forever. How empty his life would be without her, just like those days in Balaclava when he would wake up and remember his legs didn't work, and he would cycle through long days and endless nightmares until she would come read to him again. But he would have no hope of ever seeing her again if she left. He knew with the same absolute clarity that had moved him to ask her to marry him that there would never be anyone else for him. This was it. His heart was inextricably tethered to her. But what would happen to that tether if she put thousands of miles between them? His mind went to a newspaper article he had read about the telegraph wire laid across the ocean that was almost completed. Could that tether survive across seas and oceans like the telegraph wire? He stood and began to pace the hall with his cane.

He thought she was coming to care for him, but he knew her heart was still closed off. He had thought loving her would be enough, but a small voice inside reminded him that loving her meant listening to what she wanted. To working toward her happiness, even if it came at the cost of his own.

As he arrived at this conclusion, he was still convinced that the note was suspicious and that she should not go alone or at all. How did Anatole know she was looking for her family? Did he speak to the ambassador? That was unlikely. Perhaps he actually had news, but that seemed doubtful as well. The most probable case was that he had heard Elena talk about her family and wanted to lure her out, which meant he had gotten close enough to her in London to eavesdrop. That thought chilled David's blood to ice. He would protect her, even if she hated him for it, he vowed to himself.

By this point, he had walked to her bedchamber and found her face down at her vanity, Goliath's head in her lap. He was reminded of statues of weeping angels in graveyards, so still and sad she sat. He stood in the doorway, unsure of what to say or do.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was soft, but it carried across the room. He walked in, set down his cane, and sat on her bed. He had to put some distance between them. He didn't think he could touch her, or he would fall apart.

Slowly, she lifted her head. She didn't look like she had been crying, but she looked hollow and defeated, the light gone out from behind her eyes. He hated to see that look on her face.

"You are right. There is no reason he should ask me to come alone. It…it would likely not be wise to go." Her chest shook as if she were crying, but no tears spilled. He realized he had never seen her cry before.

As his need to hold her trumped his self-preservation, he moved so that he was kneeling at her vanity and took her trembling body in his arms.

She was still shaking, but she managed to get the words out. "My family, they are a powder keg for me. I am sorry I could not see reason. I saw it as you trying to control me. I became afraid, and that fear made me lash out."

"I just wanted you to be safe, Elena. I don't want him to hurt you again. I don't think you can trust him."

"I know. Sitting here, I remembered he had come to my village and lied to everyone. He lied to me. He did this." She gestured to her face. She spoke distantly as if she were outside herself.

"He didn't deserve you." He nestled his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling that sweet scent of honey and amber. He knew he hated this man as he had never hated anyone from the first time she told him what he had done, but suddenly, that hate felt real and tangible.

They sat in silence for a moment. Elena seemed numb and devoid of emotion, so he wrapped himself around her more deeply, trying to ground her, to bring back the light in her eyes. He had an idea but wasn't sure how she would take it.

"Elena, I am going to make a suggestion. You may not like it, but I hope you'll hear me out." She turned her head to look at him. Some of the warmth was returning to her eyes, which he took as a good sign.

"I think we should leave London."

She seemed to drink this in and took a breath. He continued quickly. "Irene wants to get away from the Season, and you, I want to get away from Anatole. This letter makes me think he wants to hurt you. To enact some kind of revenge. Otherwise, why couldn't he have written you from Russia or the Ottoman Empire or wherever he ended up with information about your family? There was no reason to see you in person. It chills me to the bone that he found you and wanted to get you into the open." David could not put into words how terrifying the thought of her being hurt was to him. " I will send something to the Foreign Office immediately to see if they can apprehend him where he was supposed to meet you if he is here as a spy or otherwise."

"They can do that?" David pulled back a little and regarded her, still struggling with what to do or say next. He knew he had to do something productive with all his hate and fear, as his primal side wanted to rip Anatole to shreds. He did not think Elena or Irene would appreciate it if he were found guilty of murder.

He noticed her hair had come down and pushed a lock behind her ear. He kept his hand there and was struck as he once was by the steel of her. Even sad and shaking in his arms, she was so resilient, this beautiful warrior angel.

Finally, she met his gaze. "I suppose I wouldn't mind getting away from the Season either. But the hospital—"

"It should be safe in Mrs. Raeburn's very capable hands for a while. We still have a few more events, like dinner at Lord Gaius's, but after that, we should be able to leave town."

She hummed in agreement and laid her head against his shoulder. "I have only been to the estate but once. It would be nice to go for a little longer, I suppose. Give Goliath some room to run once his legs recover."

He grasped that same lock of her hair and let it run through his fingers. He had won this round.

"I love you." It felt so good to say it, even if he didn't hear it back. "But I am trying not to control you. I'm trying to listen, Elena. It's a work in progress. Like a coat."

He had really just added that last part to try to make her smile again. She nodded, seeming beyond words at the moment. He wished he could take some of the grief and longing from her, the torture that not knowing wrought on her soul. He hoped the country air and the beauty of the estate could help convince her to stay, to put down roots. He felt a small burst of hope as he felt her turn her head as if to hide a smile against his shoulder.

"Like a coat again?"

"Elena, please, I have already admitted to my lack of poetic inclination."

She nodded again, and as he pulled back to look at her, he saw a faraway look still in her eye. He didn't think she would speak again, but she looked back up at him after a few moments.

"I thought about what you said. But I-I don't know how to forgive myself." "I don't think anyone does exactly."

"How can I possibly be a confessor to myself? Give myself forgiveness? It sometimes feels impossible." She said the last word quietly, and he felt her swallow.

David thought for a long time before he began. "Did you come across the story of the Fisher King in your perusal of Le Morte D'Arthur ?"

Elena pulled back and shook her head. "In truth, I couldn't follow the story, so I probably sat there for an hour staring at the same page. I was just embarrassed that you might think I could not read in English."

She looked up so earnestly that something pulled at his heart in that moment, even as the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You sweet, beautiful madwoman. I will never think you are lacking because you cannot read Middle English. I don't know if I can read Middle English."

She ducked her head as if still embarrassed and leaned back against his shoulder.

"The Fisher King," he went on, "in some versions of the story, was a king tasked with protecting the Holy Grail. You know the story of the Grail and Joseph of Arimathea?"

He felt her nod against his shoulder.

"The Fisher King also had a mortal wound. It's always different who gave him the wound, depending on the story." He didn't think explaining all of the different versions of the story would help, so he quickly continued. "But the wound made his kingdom fall to wreck and ruin all around him as shame and pain consumed him." As he went on, he began to play with the end of her hair, twirling one strand around his finger.

"When his grandson, Galahad, first saw him, it was said he had one question for the king, but he was afraid to ask it, and he lost his chance. It was only later that Galahad learned that if he had asked one question at the right moment, it would have healed the king and saved the kingdom." He paused for a moment and reached for her hand before he continued.

"In most of the myths, the question was what was paramount, but I always thought it was the timing that was so important, almost equal to the question." She leaned back to look at him, and he noticed a glimmer in her eye as the gold that rimmed her irises watered for a second, but her eyes stayed dry. Someday, she would trust him enough to cry in front of him. When the time was right.

"S o ?" sh e began softly.

So, he thought as he drew a breath and prayed that he would have the strength to let her go if that was what she wanted. "So, when the time is right, you will ask the question when it comes to you, and the answer will help heal your soul."