A rebuke rose through Simon—how the children should have kept to their new chambers, how they should have listened to the nanny who placed them there, how they should not have slipped out into the hall to be close to Simon.
None of the reprimands made it to his lips.
Instead, he slipped his arms under both of them, carried them inside his chamber, and eased them on top of his bed. He tucked the bed linens around them. He kissed their faces. Then he undressed and joined them, warmed by Mercy’s soft curls tickling his arm and John’s low snores sounding in his ear.
Lord, what am I going to do?
Ruth’s face swam before him, her voice, her soothing touches, her gentle wisdom.Ruth, what do I do?
He did not know. Right and wrong were lost on him, and he was not certain if it was more worthy to be true to others or true to his own convictions.
He only knew that, no matter how much this felt the same, it was different than the decisions thrust on him twelve years ago.
He hugged his children closer to him. This time, he was not alone.
He had more to think of than himself.
Something was wrong.
Georgina lay still in bed, a chill shivering her body though a white-cotton counterpane was tucked under her chin.Wake up.Despite her frigid skin and the noise that had disturbed her, sleep drew her back.
Then it happened again.
A thump.
A creak.
Georgina lunged upright, raking in a breath of frigid air. Mercy, why was it so cold? Had the hearth gone out?
Teeth chattering, she pulled back the heavy bed curtain and glanced throughout her bedchamber. Blackness cloaked the room. Even the fireplace held no crackling yellow flames or glowing red coals.
Deed, I shall freeze to death before morning.She fumbled for her nightstand in the darkness, found the silver candlestick, and lit the wick. The tiny flame spread a feeble light throughout the room, illuminating furniture, deepening shadows.
Something moved in the corner of her vision.
Georgina’s heart thumped to her throat, as she scrambled from the bed and raised the candle higher. Someone was here. “Agnes?”
No one answered.
At the window, white curtains fluttered and billowed. Night wind breathed throughout the room, sending goose bumps along her skin, as she edged closer and peered out below. Why was the window open? Had someone climbed into her chamber? Was that even possible?
No, it was not.
She had imagined the noises, the thumps, the soft thud of footfalls. As for the open window, it was merely an accident, evidence of a maid’s idleness and nothing more.
Slamming the pane shut, Georgina re-situated the curtains, rubbed her hands up and down her arms, and moved for the hearth.
She stoked the ashes and coals until a small flame brightened the room, frightening away the last nonsense of invaders and nightmares. What a child she was. This was certainly an embarrassment she would not relate to Agnes in the morning.
She waited until the bumps disappeared on her skin and the warmth soothed away the last shiver before she grabbed her candlestick again and crept to the bed. Leaning in with her light, she reached to pull back the counterpane—
And froze.
Confusion splintered into fear as she drew in a breath, too afraid to move, too revolted to touch the object waiting for her on the feather pillow.
A yellow rose.
She reached for it despite her trepidation, the dry petals crackling and falling apart as quickly as her composure. What could this mean? Why had the same flower been left at Papa’s grave?
