He opened his eyes, pain shining in their depths. “That doesn’t matter. He saved me, and I wasn’t there when he needed someone most.”
There was no easy answer, no comfort that would erase the guilt etched in his voice. So Dorothea simply reached for his hand again. It was not to drag answers from him, but to offer what comfort she could.
“You’re still here,” she whispered. “And I’m grateful for that.”
Dominic looked down at their joined hands and, for once, didn’t let go. “Why is it fair that I am here but John is not?”
Dorothea’s brows drew together in quiet sorrow. “I cannot say why,” she said. “Some questions have no answers.”
His gaze darkened as it dropped once more to their entwined fingers. “I was ready to die, but I was not prepared to live,” he admitted. “How does one even go on after that?”
Still holding his hand, Dorothea eased herself down beside him on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, bringing her closer to him, close enough to see the exhaustion etched in every line of his face.
“You take one day at a time,” she said. “And then another. You move forward—even when you don’t think you can. Especially then.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“No,” she agreed. “It’s not. It’s never easy. But if you keep looking behind you—if you let yourself live in the past—you’ll never see what’s ahead. You’ll never give yourself the chance to heal.”
Dominic turned his face away, jaw clenched. “How do I accept that I’m here because a braver man died?” he whispered, the confession edged with torment.
“You honor him by living. By making your life matter,” she said, her voice trembling with conviction. “You carry him with you—not as a burden, but as part of your strength.”
A comfortable silence descended over them. After a long moment, he looked back at her, and there was something in his eyes—something raw and searching. “Why are you here?”
Caught off guard, she began, “I heard you shouting. I thought?—”
“No,” he said, cutting her off. “I mean… why are youherewith me? Still. After everything. Why haven’t you walked away?”
The question struck deep, bypassing pretense and landing squarely on truth. She could have told him everything—how she had loved him since France, how her heart twisted every time he looked away, how she ached for the version of him he didn’t believe still existed.
But she knew he wasn’t ready for that kind of truth. Not yet.
So she offered the piece of it he could carry for now. “Because I care about you, Dominic. I always have. And I always will.”
He looked down again at their hands, his fingers tightened around hers once more. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
Her brows rose. “You are?”
A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I don’t know why you look so startled by that.”
“It’s just…” She gave a soft, rueful laugh. “You often seem like you’re barely tolerating me.”
That earned her a full, if weary, smile. “I more than tolerate you, Dorothea.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, returning his smile.
Unexpectedly, Dominic asked, “Would you care to go riding tomorrow?”
Torn between the abrupt change in subject, she replied, “I… um… yes.”
He seemed pleased by her answer. “Before breakfast?”
“I’d like that very much.”
The faint crow of a rooster drifted in from the fields beyond the manor, breaking the quiet with the first herald of dawn. The sound drew her gaze to the window, where the edges of the sky were just beginning to lighten with the promise of morning.
“I should at least try to get some sleep before we go riding,” she said, slipping her hand out of his and rising.
