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Megs bit her lip, but she obediently sank into the settee cushions. “I don’t think him weak. He’s hurt. And I do so wish he’d let me stay with him when he’s in such pain.”
“Mmm,” Mrs. St. John murmured in agreement. “But gentlemen are terribly stubborn and rather illogical when they’re hurt, you see. Godric’s father had the gout in his later years and he was an absolute bear about it. Wouldn’t let anyone near him, including me.” For a moment she looked wistful. Then she glanced down at her hands, folded in her lap, and said, “This is my fault, you know.”
Megs blinked, confused. “What is?”
“That.” Mrs. St. John waved a hand toward Godric’s bedroom. “I knew he was alone after Clara died, knew he was hurting, but I let his stoicism keep me away.” She grimaced. “He’s always been so very self-sufficient, so cold when I made any overtures, that it’s hard to remember he’s a man like any other. That he needs the comfort of family as much as any other.”
“I don’t see how that’s your fault,” Megs said. “You did try, and if he rejected your attempts, then surely the fault lies with him, not you.”
“No.” Her mother-in-law shook her head. “I love him as surely as if I’d carried him within my own body. A mother never abandons her child, even when he seems to want it. It was—is—my duty to break through the barriers he surrounds himself with. I should have kept trying until he gave in.” Her look softened as she watched Megs. “I thank God that you decided to seek him out, to make your marriage a true one. He needs you, Megs. You’re the one who can save him.”
Megs looked away, feeling ashamed. Mrs. St. John praised her falsely: She’d come to London, made their marriage “true” for purely selfish reasons. But she couldn’t explain that to her mother-in-law.
Instead she focused on the last part of what Mrs. St. John said, uncertainty a tight band around her chest. “Can one save a man who seeks willful self-destruction?”
The older woman’s brows arched. “You think that’s why he goes into St. Giles?”
Megs looked at her with sorrow. “Why else?”
Mrs. St. John sighed. “You have to understand that it took years for Clara to die—years in which Godric could do no more than stand idle and watch. Perhaps his dressing as the Ghost is his way of doing something good after so long being unable to do anything at all.”
“He does do good in St. Giles.” Megs frowned as she fingered the tassel on one of the settee cushions. “But, ma’am, whatever good he does others must be balanced by the evil he does himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“He may help people in St. Giles, but I think he does it at the expense of himself.” She yanked overhard on the tassel and the thing came off in her hand. She stared at it, her lips trembling. “It can’t be good for a man such as Godric—a sensitive, moral man—to deal in violence so often. It’s as if he’s chipping away at his own soul.”
“Then you must find a way to stop him,” Mrs. St. John said quietly.
Megs nodded, though she had no idea how to do that. She’d made a pact with him—a pact that forced him to wear the Ghost’s disguise. How could she have everything she wanted and save Godric as well?
The door to Godric’s room opened behind her.
“We are done, my lady.” The doctor was an odd, bent fellow with an Italian—or maybe French?—name. Isabel Makepeace had said that he was a refugee of some type and could be trusted not to talk about Godric’s injury.
Megs stood. “Will his arm heal cleanly?”
“I have done all that I can. The rest is in the good Lord’s hands.” The doctor made a very foreign-looking moue and shrugged elaborately. “Mr. St. John will need bed rest for at least a week, preferably more. A simple diet of fish or chicken, fine, soft bread, clear broth, and wine will suffice, I think. A few vegetables such as turnips or carrots and the like. No onions or garlic, naturally, nor any overspiced foods.”
“Of course.” Megs nodded before looking up anxiously. “May I see him?”
“If you wish, my lady, but please make your visit a short—”
She was already past the doctor, not waiting for him to finish his sentence. Godric lay in the big bed, his left arm atop the covers. Two flat wooden boards had been strapped on either side of his forearm so that he could not move his hand independently of his arm.
She tiptoed to his bed and stared down at him. His face still shone with sweat, his short hair plastered to his head. He’d not shaved and his beard was dark against the pallor of his face.
“Megs.” He didn’t open his eyes, but his right hand moved, reaching for hers.
“Oh, Godric,” she murmured, tears filling her eyes as she placed her hand in his.
He tugged on her hand. “Come lay beside me for a while.”
She resisted even as he pulled her closer. “The doctor said you mustn’t be disturbed.”
“Damn that French quack.” A corner of his mouth twitched wearily. “You don’t disturb me, Meggie mine. Besides, I’ll rest easier with you beside me.”
Carefully she crept onto the bed, fully clothed, and lay beside him. He shifted until her head was on his right shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around her, and then he sighed.
