Page 62 of The Work of Art

She pressed his hand. “And then you came home.”

“What was left of me.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I should have been thankful that I returned alive with no greater injuries, but I confess it gave me little solace to know that many men fared worse. For a time, I was cursed with blinding headaches, my leg was in a state of perpetual agony, and my hand… That scavenger cut my hand so deeply that I can no longer hold or fire a pistol with anything even approaching accuracy. The pain I can bear, but to lose all my abilities. To be left helpless—” He broke off, unable to finish.

“Could you not learn to shoot with your right hand?” Philly asked.

“I’ve always been able to shoot with my right hand, though never as competently as with my left. Under different circumstances I might have made an attempt to practice—to improve myself—but I must use my right hand to hold my cane. I couldn’t shoot with it if I wanted to.”

She continued to caress his hand as she held it in her lap. In time, Arthur returned her caresses, their hands slowly moving along each other, fingers twining together for a moment before once again resting quietly in each other’s grasp. “Maybe one day you’ll no longer have need of your cane.”

“I doubt that day will ever come. The musket ball did a great deal of damage. It took three separate surgeries to remove it. It was only by chance that I didn’t lose my leg entirely. No. I expect I’ll always need my cane. Although, for a time—”

“Yes?” Her blue and amber gaze lit with expectation.

He instantly regretted having spoken. The last thing he wanted to do was give her false hope. “It doesn’t signify, but by the end of my stay in London I had the impression that all the walking might be effecting some small improvement.”

“It didn’t increase your pain?”

“Initially it did, but on the last day it was a little better. I’m sure it was nothing, for it’s just as painful today as it was before I left Somersetshire. Indeed, I believe that all of my injuries are as well now as they’ll ever be.”

“And your nightmares? Do you think they’ll ever cease?”

He frowned. “They used to come much more often. Now, several weeks can go by without my having one. I still have some hope that one day I’ll be free of them. I only wish I knew when that day might be.”

Philly appeared to consider this for a moment. Her fingers threaded through his. “Arthur?”

“What is it, my dear?”

“Did you never wake up from a nightmare with anyone else the way you did with me last night?”

Heat rose beneath his cravat. A gentleman didn’t discuss such things with a lady. Not even his wife. But Arthur could be nothing but honest with her. “Philly, I haven’t shared a bed with anyone since I returned from the war. Believe me, if anything like this had ever happened before, if I’d had any warning at all, I would have never—”

“I do believe you.” She leaned against his chest, resting her cheek on the slightly rumpled fabric of his waistcoat.

Arthur wrapped her close. He was sure he’d overwhelmed her. Not only with his confessions about the war and his injuries, but with everything that had happened between them since he’d proposed to her so unexpectedly in the park.

“Three years ago, I was in Fox Cross with my grandfather. I didn’t even know you then. And yet…” Her voice thickened with emotion. “To think that I was safe and happy in Devonshire while you were suffering and in pain so far away from home. It’s almost more than I can bear.”

Arthur felt something deep within him give way. “Are these tears for me?”

“I’m not crying.”

“Of course not.” His hand moved soothingly on her back. “But if you were, I’d tell you that you mustn’t waste your tears. It’s all in the past. I’m no longer in pain. I’m home now.”

There had been no lady to weep for him when he was away fighting on the Peninsula. Not a mother, a mistress, or even his fiancée. It had made little matter. He hadn’t pined for the sympathy of a woman in his time of trouble. In truth, he’d never believed such feminine comfort could make any difference. But now, even these three years later, to know that the tears Philly shed were for him and for what he’d suffered moved him more deeply than he could have imagined.

“No wonder you’ve preferred to remain alone in the country all these years. How hollow and foolish everything else must seem after what you’ve been through.”

“Here, sweetheart.” Arthur held out his linen handkerchief to her.

She took it, drawing back from his chest only the distance necessary to blot her tears. “And then to come back to London at last only to be subjected to the ignorant speeches of a man like Lord Edgeworth. How could you endure all of those awful things he said at my uncle’s dinner?”

“I didn’t have to endure them. A very lovely young lady intervened on my behalf each time Edgeworth attempted to engage me.”

She sniffled into his handkerchief. “Were my efforts so terribly obvious?”

“You could hardly be subtle with a man like Edgeworth.” Arthur tucked a lock of her hair back into an escaping hairpin. It was a small gesture, but one that sent a surge of possessiveness through him. Philly was his now. Completely and irrevocably his. He felt it with every fiber of his being. “Do you feel better?”

She looked up at him, her eyes still shining. “Oh, Arthur, I meant to comfort you, and instead, you’ve been obliged to console me.”