Her breaths came in short gasps, and she shook her head, eyes staring past him. Even in the dim light of his candle, he could see just how pale her skin was.
“No. No. No. No. No.” She shook her head.
Thunder boomed out, and she recoiled as if she was struck. Her whole body shook, and Archer found himself picking her up, pulling her tight against his chest.
“It’s okay. It’s only thunder. You’re safe,” he murmured, the scent of her washing over him as he carried her down the stairs towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you somewhere quieter.”
Archer knew on a stormy night like this, the kitchen would be the quietest room in the house. More to the point, he would be able to find some sort of snack or tea, and that might distract his wife.
Her fists were balled into the fabric of his shirt, her breaths little more than shaking sobs that broke him with each one. “It will be all right Lydia. Just breathe.”
He kept his voice low and gentle, as though talking to a wild animal. “Breathe with me against my hand.”
He put his hand against her chest without thinking; he was so used to doing this to his sister’s or Iris when they were consumed by their fear. Her eyes widened, but she did not pull away.
He felt the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, and his mouth went dry. “In and out, Lydia. Nice and slow.”
His voice was hoarse, but she seemed not to notice. Her breathing slowed. “That’s it. You can do this.”
Gradually, the shaking stopped, and her breathing settled into a more predictable rhythm. Lydia collapsed against him, and Archer let her.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was raw with emotion as she moved out of his grasp, hugging her arms around her chest. “I… I am not very good at storms.”
“I can see that,” Archer murmured gently, running a hand across his chest where her tears had drenched his night shirt. He fished out a handkerchief and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” She took it and dabbed her eyes, blowing her nose loudly. “God, I must look a right mess.”
Archer looked at her, about to say that she was beautiful, but he stopped himself. “I don’t think you should worry about yourlooks just now. I’ll make us a cup of tea, I know cook always has some chamomile around here—that will be good for your nerves.”
He began to look through the cupboards, fishing out the bits he needed to make some tea for his wife. He turned to find her looking at him with a bemused expression.
“What?” he asked as he began to stoke the kitchen fire back to life so he could heat some water.
“I am just… I am surprised you know how to do this.” Lydia gestured to him.
“My mother used to convince my father to send us to bed without supper. I could weather a little hunger, but I refused to let my sisters. So, I learned a little about cooking and preparing things like tea and coffee. The cooks were always happy to help—even if it could cost them their jobs.” Archer put on a thick west country accent. “No sense in letting children starve, Master Archer.”
He saw Lydia smile and felt his heart swoop. “You are really rather good at voices.”
“You would be too if you read a bedtime story every night from the age of eleven.” He carefully poured the hot water over the chamomile, breathing in the scent.
He strained the leaves out and then handed Lydia a steaming mug of tea. “Tea is served.”
Lydia laughed softly. “Thank you, butler.”
Archer bowed low, holding his arm before him like he had seen his butler do all through his youth, his own smile broadening at the tension that seemed to be leaving Lydia. Some part of him murmured that he should not be doing this, but he ignored it.
“You must think I’m a total idiot. A grown woman who falls to pieces at a little thunder.” She moved away from him, wiping her eyes.
“Everyone is afraid of something.” He massaged the back of his neck.
Lydia nodded, her bottom lip trembling. “They just… they bring back bad memories. And they are loud and just… I hate them.”
“What happened?” Archer asked before he could stop himself.
For a moment, Lydia said nothing, and Archer wondered if she would refuse to answer him, and then, in a voice so small he could scarcely believe it was hers, she said, “My mother died in a storm.”
“I’m sorry. I can understand why they would affect you so.”
