Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

T he next day, as the pinks and oranges faded across the sky, Emily tipped her hat back and let out a satisfied sigh at her view. What a joy it was to be back in the countryside again, and to enjoy it with Morgana. The colors of the wild hills, and the fresh air that was not found in London, all left her rejuvenated for the afternoon ride. They had even kicked around in the cool water of the riverbeds and taken a nap under expansive tree branches.

Emily had decided to go out riding alone. She had not sought Alex's company, nor had she requested his presence. She'd had Morgana saddled on her own and gone to explore the countryside according to her pleasure. She had ridden out beyond the view of Markham Estate but had easily found her way back once she remembered Alex's story about following the river north.

All she wanted was to enjoy the time with her beloved horse again. Being with Morgana felt like home. Emily had never known home in the true sense of the word, so she could only assume it was the emotion she felt, the thing she sought. She'd had her friends in the boarding school growing up, then living with the duke and duchess both in London and at Wynnwood Park. And she had been content, but she had never felt she had found the place where she belonged. In truth, perhaps she did not belong out in nature with her horse either, but it was the place where she felt the most familiar and peaceful. Where she had some semblance of control in her uncontrollable life.

She made her way back up to the stable in the dusky evening glow, and Emily's thoughts continuously lingered on her husband. He had occupied her thoughts a good amount recently, to the point that she did not know how to proceed. Perhaps she could broach the subject again over dinner. She couldn't very well say, "If you're unable to love me, then living apart is our best option," but how else would she be able to make him understand? She would have to face him and have the hard discussion. She would have to tell him the truth.

Well, maybe not the whole truth.

She kissed her horse on the forehead and left her with the stablemaster. Emily returned to her room and dressed for dinner, moved to the dining room, and waited for her husband to appear.

But he never came.

Emily had grown accustomed to eating alone, whether in her room or in the dining room, but that didn't mean she enjoyed it. Now she dined in silence, disappointment rampant, pondering on what to do next. Had she angered him again with her incessant pushback? Had he decided her positive traits did not outweigh the negative ones? She probably deserved his avoidance, and perhaps the time apart would do her good. Isn't this ultimately what she wanted?

If they were both confused, then she knew it to be her own fault. She needed to tell him her reasons; that way, they both might have clarity and peace, and come to a conclusion suitable for them both .

Once Emily had finished eating, she wandered through the downstairs corridors, hoping to remember where Mrs. Barnes had taken her on their tour. Eventually she came to what she hoped was Alex's study, lifted her chin and knocked on the door.

There was no response, but she could hear a fire crackling on the other side, so Emily turned the gilded handle and pushed the door open. The room was lit with various candles. A fireplace indeed held a roaring fire, casting a glow on the wall of bookshelves, and making it feel cozy and inviting. Her husband sat at his desk, which she'd expected, though it was his appearance she found surprising. He must have fallen asleep at his desk, but her entrance had woken him in a startle. He gave a weary smile when he saw her, but Emily knew immediately.

The poor man was ill.

Even in the dark, she could clearly see he was unwell. His hair disheveled, his eyes puffy and tired, and his nose seemed red from perhaps too much use of a handkerchief. He sat hunched over the desk, and the long coat around his shoulders was tightly secured, as if he had been shivering.

"Mrs. Westcott," he greeted her in a groggy voice. "Good evening. What brings you in?"

His use of her married name made her feel even more wretched. Yes, she had told him not to call her Emily yet, which meant her regrets were multiplying. Had she driven him to this?

Any plans for confession now forgotten, Emily swallowed hard and thought quickly. "I enjoyed more of the countryside today on my horse, and I only came to thank you for bringing me here. It was very generous of you."

He waved his hand in response, but his dismissive sound came out like a stuffy groan. "Think nothing of it. I am glad you could find some semblance of happiness here."

She nodded, not sure how to proceed. She couldn't express too much care for him, could she?

"I also wondered if I might borrow one of your books." The thought had not actually crossed her mind, for it was just an excuse to linger.

"Yes, of course. Take your pick of the lot." He beckoned her to enter, then leaned forward to examine his desk. As she walked by him, she realized what he was doing. Miniature tools, small pieces of wood and twine, a bowl of paste, and a liquor bottle turned on its side.

So the hobby was his.

Emily picked up a candle and took to scouring his bookshelves, pretending to look over the titles, though she was more preoccupied with listening to him. He sniffled every so often and tinkered with his tools but let her peruse in silence.

"Have you a cold?" she asked over her shoulder, continuing her pretense of searching the shelves.

"'Tis nothing serious. I will recover soon."

Emily settled on a book of poetry that she wasn't certain she would enjoy, but it was an easy enough excuse. When she turned to leave, she slowed by his desk, eyeing his project. "And what's all this?"

A tired smile graced his lips. "A favorite interest of mine. Just as you long for your equestrian companion, I long for the simple puzzle of creating a ship that will fit inside a bottle."

She watched him a moment longer, as his fingers and forearms worked the tools. "None of this seems small enough to fit. In fact, it appears impossible."

"And that's the beauty of it," he said, looking up with a little wink. "It appears impossible, but with the right tools, and a little patience and effort, the impossible results in something beautiful and satisfying and completely worthwhile. I suppose many things in life are the same, wouldn't you say?"

She met his direct gaze, feeling the rush of his words, as though he had tried to express some deeper meaning to her. "I suppose so."

He sighed, returning to his work, but Emily was not ready to relinquish him yet.

"Has this always been a pastime of yours?"

He nodded. "Since I was a lad. My grandfather taught me."

Just as she was about to ask another question, he erupted in a cough, grating and rough. It repeated over and over again, enough to make Emily put her book down and press a hand to his back in concern.

When he finally stilled, his breathing was labored and he let out a moan.

"Alex," Emily said.

He looked up to face her, and her stomach dropped. He was so pale.

"You should be in bed. You're not well."

His body shivered, despite his closeness to the fire, and she placed a hand on the side of his face. Just as she suspected, overheated and covered in sweat.

"I'm fine," he said hoarsely, but his attempts to push her away did no good. Taking him by the lapels of his jacket, she brought him to his feet, even though she knew he would be unsteady.

"You are not fine." She pulled the jacket off his shoulder and one arm, then the other. "You're fevered."

"No, don't," he lamented the loss of his covering, but did not have the strength to fight her. "I'm actually quite cold."

"As I said, you're burning up despite having chills." She looked up into his dark eyes, hoping to express how serious she was. "You are sick and need to rest."

"Very well. Call for Nielson and I'll have him help me to my chambers."

Emily shook her head. "Don't be ridiculous. I am here now, so I will help you there myself." She moved his arm around the back of her neck and pulled him out from behind the desk.

"Undressing me and leading me to bed?" he mumbled close to her ear as he leaned against her shoulder. "What can you be about, Mrs. Westcott?"

Emily pursed her lips together, determined not to gasp or laugh or do anything to encourage such teasing, and she hoped he did not notice that her cheeks were overheated without a fever of her own.

She bore his weight as best she could, trying not to crumble beneath him, and determined to be a help instead of a hindrance. They managed up the stairs and she pushed in the door to his room. She did not have a moment to look around for she could only help him collapse into bed, which he did with a sigh.

"You must rest," Emily insisted. "Please."

"Yes, madam. Of course. As you wish."

He settled on his bed, and Emily sighed herself. "I'm sorry you've fallen so ill."

"Well, it's better that it's me instead of you," he said, cracking open one eye to look at her. "I'm grateful you have not succumbed to the darkness of this place."

Emily couldn't help but wonder if this was the same illness that had plagued him as a child. Or if it truly was the memory of his cruel father returning to torment him.

Or was it her own fault? Pushing him away time and time again?

The guilt swirling in her stomach did not diminish. "If this doesn't improve, then we'll need to call the doctor."

He groaned, shaking his head and turning on his side. "I am certain I will improve in no time. This is just a passing cold."

Emily clenched her jaw. She could only pray he was right.