Page 42 of Truly, Madly, Daring

“That proves nothing!” he said crossly.

“It proves it is not a certainty, and if you had not fallen and struck your head, you may not have ever succumbed, either. We will never know. I do know one thing though, and it’s that life is uncertain, Wrexham. There are no guarantees for any of us. Some children never live to take a breath, others die in infancy. You cannot be certain what is in store for anyone, not yourself, or me, or any children we may have. But I will always believe in the best possible outcome and live in hope. If you do not look for happiness, for the opportunity of happiness, you will never recognise it when it arrives.”

“A sweet sentiment, pet, but in my position, a harder one to believe in.”

“Even now? Even after… never mind,” she said, getting to her feet before he could stop her again.

Wrexham scowled, irritated. That wasn’t fair. She wasn’t being fair. How could she understand what he had lost, how difficult his life was? Yes, this evening had been wonderful, astonishing even, more than he had dared hope for but it did not mean his life would suddenly become sunshine and roses. But she would see that for herself soon enough. She was deceiving herself if she believed they could live a normal life and it would only lead to resentment and disappointment. Far better that he put her straight now, and then they could find some measure of contentment until….

He pushed thoughts of the future away. They were too grim, too horrifying to dwell upon and he felt a sudden surge of fury with Emmeline for putting him in this mood when everything had been so perfect mere moments before.

Wrexham stood, wondering if she was angry enough to leave him to his own devices, but he ought to have known better.

“Here,” she said, her voice crisp as she pressed a towel into his hands.

He dried his torso and wrapped the towel around his middle.

“Give me your hand.”

Wrexham did as she told him, taking four careful steps to the bed.

“I’ve laid your nightshirt on the end of the bed. The jug and basin is on the left bedside table, your tooth powder and brush and a glass of water to the right. I believe I laid it out as Humboldt did.”

“Thank you,” he said, wishing she could understand how galling it was to be reliant on her when he was cross and out of sorts. But she never would understand that. How could she?

Once he’d finished readying himself for bed, he climbed in, viscerally aware of her warm body just inches from his own. The desire to reach for her, to hold her against him and take comfort from her nearness was an ache in his chest, but his stubborn pride would not let him breach the distance between them. Instead, he turned on his side and tried to sleep.

Chapter 12

My lady,

Forgive me if I am presumptuous, but society has always tongue enough for two sets of teeth. Is it true you will be taking up residence at Connaught Place? If so, I shall be the first to welcome you, as we shall be neighbours.

Yrs etc,

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble Peregrine Bancroft to The Most Hon’ble Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ St Just, Marchioness of Kilbane (daughter of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

17th of February 1845, Boston, Lincolnshire.

The next morning was dismal, and Emmeline walked to the carriage with a heavy heart, and with a chill wind buffeting rain into her face. Doubt nagged at her as she wondered if she’d been in the wrong last night. She’d not slept well, her mind turning their conversation over and over and becoming increasingly uncertain. She thought perhaps Wrexham had also slept little.

Certainly, his mood was far from that of yesterday, and the light-hearted, good-natured fellow she had enjoyed being with so much had been replaced with someone who glowered and snapped, and became surly at the least provocation. Though, Emmeline had to admit, some people seemed to go out of their way to provoke him.

They stopped briefly to change horses and get something to eat when they reached Boston. Humboldt, who had borne the brunt of Wrexham’s bad mood for most of the morning, had become increasingly vexed and was obviously at the end of his tether. Indeed, everyone was beyond weary and sick to death of being crammed together in a carriage that had seemed determined from the start to seek out every rut and pothole from Gretna Green to Kings Lynn. It was perhaps for this reason that Humboldt neglected to instruct Wrexham to duck beneath the lintel as they entered the coaching inn.

Wrexham staggered back, uttered an oath that made a lady inside give a gasp of horror, and then tore Humboldt off a strip for having allowed him to brain himself.

“For the love of God! Are you trying to kill me, too? Is my father paying you to finish the job he couldn’t manage himself, you incompetent fool?”

Emmeline itched to step between them and tell Wrexham off for being such a bad-tempered devil, but then she saw the lump rising on his forehead and could feel nothing but compassion. How it must vex him. A man who had once fenced and boxed and been skilled with the ribbons and on horseback, reduced to relying on others to guide him into a building. Sympathy rose in her chest, and she almost went to him, wanting to take care of him and see to his comfort, but then she remembered how he disliked being babied and held her tongue.

It only grew worse when they reached the private parlour. They were getting closer to home here, and it had not taken long for someone to recognise Wrexham. Soon enough, word had spread that the blind marquess was among them. The innkeeper’s wife, a Mrs Enderby, hurried in and cast Wrexham an awed and rather anxious glance, before addressing Mr Humboldt.

“Does he want gammon? Or should I prepare some milk toast?”

Emmeline’s mouth dropped open, staggered that the woman could look at a vital man like her husband and see an invalid in need of nursery food. Though he sat on the far side of the table from her, Emmeline was rivetingly aware of the fury vibrating through him.

“Damn the stupid bi—”