Lucas shoved some more stew into his mouth. He wasn’t good with words but soldiers weren’t trained to be sympathetic listeners. “You must have had something live?”
“The hedgehog. Prickly bastard. Fed him milk and worms. And then one day, he just disappeared. He didn’t say goodbye or thank us – he just went.”
“Well, that must have been worth it.”
“I think at eleven years old, I thought it an ungrateful wretch and Daphne cried for a week.”
“Oh.” Lucas considered just keeping his bloody bone-box shut, but Stone was dismally staring into his stew, as though he was deliberating whether it was deep enough to drown in. “I can try and talk to her if you like? Although maybe Rosalind would be better? Their pasts are similar, in some ways.”
“Maybe. You won’t find it easy going with Rosalind, either. Her need for autonomy makes her stubborn as a mule, although if you can teach her to ride, you must have the patience of a saint. She screamed in my ear and called my beloved Vixen a bloody horrible bonesetter, even threatened to make her into pie.”
“I saw Vixen, and I have to say that prancerisa spirited mare.”
“Thought she’d appreciate the challenge. Part of her name means horse, did you know that? Funny, as she hates them, apart from Goliath it seems.”
Lucas spooned up the last of the cider sauce and returned to the ale. “I was told you were surly and brusque, but you’re really quite talkative.”
“Hmm.” Stone signalled for another tankard and sat back. “Without Daphne, I sometimes felt as though I was walking in a fog these past eight years. Nothing seemed important or exciting. Only when I saw her in the forest did I suddenly feel animated again – every nerve felt sensitive, every breath important. Everything became clear and…alive once more.”
Lucas nodded. What a superb way to explain how he felt. “Tell Daphne exactly that. The rest will come, but you need to tell her. She will not condemn you to live in a fog again, if she loves you.”
“I hope you’re right, although I won’t be able to stand, let alone speak after drinking four tankards of Ole Grim. I believe the record is eight by the blacksmith, and after that, no horses got shod for a week.”
A cry echoed through the west wing, and Rosalind broke into a run down the cold passageway. Spiced milk slopped from the mug she was carrying, but the sound had been so desperate and wild.
Entering Daphne’s room, she could see Mrs Mereworth stroking the woman’s forehead, making hushing noises; it didn’t seem to be working, as the lady still whimpered, her head thrashing on the pillow.
“What happened?” she asked, rushing over.
“I admit I fell asleep and then awoke to her crying out. A nightmare, I believe.” Mrs Mereworth was perched on the side of the bed, whispering to Daphne that it was a bad dream and she was safe. Rosalind sat opposite, placing the milk by the bedside.
Slowly, Daphne calmed, and helped by the two ladies, she sat up to drink. “I’m sorry. It was so silly. I was in the woods again, being chased by dogs, but this time it was Hector who found me.” Rosalind watched her hand shake as she brought the milk to her lips.
“He can’t find you here,” Mrs Mereworth said, gently patting her cheek. “Lord Stonebridge would do anything to keep you safe.” But instead of helping, the words seemed to hurt Daphne, as her head drooped and she fell silent.
“I have to leave,” she said finally. “I have asked Benedict to help me travel to Wales, as I have some relations there.”
“I heard, but I thought you were going to Scotland…with Benedict.” Rosalind’s face scrunched in confusion.
“I can’t. I’ll never be the same. I can’t be the woman he needs.”
Rosalind gazed at her distraught face and remembered that she had thought the same, and yet Lucas had stood outside her door for three hours, telling her he still loved her. Of course, Daphne had both visible and hidden wounds to overcome but Benedict was kind, and she felt they had to try.
“I have had a similar experience, Daphne.”
The lady looked slightly scornful. “You have never been married to a man that beats you for the slightest thing.”
“No, but…” She realised she had to do it, to say it…to empathise, to help. She looked down and continued, “My father put me in an asylum when I was fourteen. I was there for five years.”
Silence met her pronouncement, and she almost didn’t want to look up…to see the disgust, but she did. Daphne’s mouth hung open and her eyes held horror and pity.
“You poor child.” Her hand rested on Rosalind’s arm. “’Twas my father that made me marry Hector. I was bullied and blackmailed into it. But why did he have you confined? You are as sane as I.”
“I…I dream, sometimes of the future…they come true. Occasionally terrible, horrible things.” She felt a soft hand on her cheek and realised that a tear had fallen. She hadn’t even noticed; she was turning into a weeping ninny lately.
“Oh, Rosalind. I dream of the past. Ugly, brutal things. Is there a difference?”
“Maybe not.” Daphne’s simple acceptance of her curse both surprised and relieved her, but that was not the point. “What I am trying to say, though, is that I do understand the fear. Maybe not the physical side but the rejection and the abhorrence, I have felt that all too well. I love Lucas Mainwaring, but I’m so afraid that one day he will suddenly realise he is with someone…not quite normal and hate me for it.”
