Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty-Four

It was happening all over again.

A horrific accident.

His wife.

Limp and broken in his arms.

Dead.

Once more, he had arrived too late.

Violent sobs tore out of the depths of his soul. "Catherine, my God. Catherine, Catherine."

"Your Grace. Your Grace. We must move her," an urgent voice said, but he did not register what was being said. "Your Grace, begging your pardon, but you must move aside." Someone grabbed his arm to pull him away from her, but it had taken a hold of him, the black despair of old, tearing through him with a pain stronger than a dozen swords piercing through his heart.

"Catherine," he gasped.

"We have to move her," the voice said urgently. "We can save her, but you must allow us to move her."

They separated him from her, and she was carried into the house. He stumbled after her, feeling as if he was trapped in an eternal nightmare.

The children huddled in a corner, weeping quietly.

Evie, red-eyed and shaken, attempted to comfort them.

Julius had refused to be separated this time. "I will not leave her," he'd bitten out, not allowing any contradiction. He was there when the doctor and the nurse had undressed her, examined her, and washed away the blood and bandaged her head. He'd held her hand, cold and limp, the whole time.

"A head injury," the doctor explained. "She is unconscious."

Unconscious. It took a while for the word to sink in.

"You mean, she is not—not dead?" It fell from his lips.

"No, Your Grace. Her pulse is beating, though faintly."

Relief spread through him and left him weak in the legs and he'd toppled into a seat.

"And now?"

"Now you must wait. God willing, she will regain consciousness soon. We must wait."

He nodded. "I will stay here and wait."

He remained by her side all night and all day, watching her white, immobile face, the soft curve of her lips, and the shadow of her long lashes as they lay against her creamy cheeks .

His hand shook violently as he rubbed his forehead.

Once again, he'd been too late to prevent disaster.

Too late to tell her the one and only thing that ever mattered, that he loved her.

Why hadn't he done it before? Why was he so consistently unable to protect her? Why was he always too late?

Why did she always die?

She, the only love of his life.

He'd barely survived the last time. He knew he would not survive this time. If she died, he would die right there with her. He would be done, and they could bury him right next to her. The mere thought of the yawning emptiness of a life without Catherine was so agonising that he gasped with pain.

"Oh God, let her live," tore from his soul.

Something hot rushed into his eyes and he blinked. It filled his eyes and trickled out, down his cheeks and onto the hands he clasped tightly.

At first, he did not know what it was.

His fingers touched his cheeks and came away wet.

Tears.

He hadn't wept in eight long years, not since he had broken down at Catherine's grave so long ago.

As he had then, he wept now.

It burst from him like a broken dam, shaking his whole body. He lowered his head and leaned it against hers and wept.

Maybe it was hours, maybe it was minutes, but he was sure that there was not a drop of water left in his entire body, and a despairing lethargy heavier than lead took over his body and dragged him down into a merciful blackness.

He slept.

In dreams, miracles happened.

In dreams, the dead came back to life.

In dreams, you could hear them laugh again, hear their sweet voices, feel their touch. Soft, gentle fingers ran through your hair in a rhythmic, soothing motion.

In dreams, ah, so much was possible in dreams.

He did not want to wake up, if only to continue feeling her fingers on his head. Caressing, stroking, playing with his hair…

His eyes popped open.

He stopped breathing.

And he felt it, still, fingers caressing the top of his head…

He turned his head, slowly, carefully.

And met her gaze.

Tired, sweet, and full of love.

"I'm afraid I bumped my head again," she whispered wryly, as if she'd merely banged it against a kitchen cabinet.

"Catherine," he whispered, incredulous.

"My head is quite hard, you see, and not easily broken. I might forget a thing or two, at worst it might take me eight years to remember that I am married. Aside from that, I think I am perfectly fine." She winced as she moved her head.

"My God. Catherine."

And he burst into tears again.

Later, much later, after the doctor had been called and the bandage had been changed, she had been examined once more and told to remain in bed for observation. Though she declared that she was otherwise as fit as a fiddle, he climbed into bed and cradled her in his arms.

"I thought you'd died," he said, his voice cracking.

"I am sorry. It was a stupid thing to do, to run across the road without looking." She sighed. "I keep warning my children not to do that, and there I was, doing just that."

She licked her dry lips. "Pray, a favour?"

"Anything."

"Would you tell the children that I am well, and I shall be very cross if they stopped their studies and music practice because of me?"

He stared at her for one moment, blinked, then he said with a hoarse voice, "I will tell them, in these very words."

He went to Hector's room.

The boy was in bed, his bedclothes on the floor, thumping a ball against the wall. It was a small, irregularly shaped ball made of a pig's bladder wrapped in leather and tied with string.

He did not stop when he entered the room but staunchly ignored Julius and continued to bang the ball against the expensive silk wallpaper .

Julius sat down on the bed beside him. "She is awake and fine."

The ball dropped to the floor. "Mama?"

Julius nodded. "She will recover. She says you must continue your studies, or else she will be very cross."

The boy's face contorted. His eyes filled with tears, and he buried his face in his elbow, sniffling.

Julius stared at him helplessly for a moment, then reached out awkwardly and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Hector wrapped his arms around him and wept loudly into his chest. "I thought she was going to die and go away. Like Papa Simon."

"I know. I know," Julius said thickly. "I thought so too."

He allowed the boy to finish crying, then tucked him into bed and brushed a strand of dark hair out of his face. The emotion he felt for the boy was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. Catherine was one thing, but this boy, this child, was his. He felt a fierce protectiveness, pride, and love for the boy.

"Sleep now," he said. "Everything will be well."

He went to the door.

Shortly before he reached it, Hector called out, "Your Grace."

"Yes?"

There was a pause, then so quietly that he thought he'd misheard, "May I call you Papa?"