Page 35 of Rescuing Lord Inglewood

“No. Not your stepbrother, not his family.” Silas came all the way into the room, to the back of the sofa. The furniture stood as ineffectual walls between them, keeping them apart, yet not guarding against what Silas’s words might do to her. “Esther, there was a battle in France. After the surrender. Your brother was there.”

Her heart gave a painful shudder. “No,” she whispered. “No, the war is over.”

“It was at Toulouse. They did not know it had ended.” His words were hollow. They meant nothing. Explained nothing. Her throat started to close up, the tears started to come. “His name was on the list of fallen officers.”

“F-f-fallen.” She echoed the word faintly, with fear and dread taking hold of her tongue.

Silas appeared pained, as if each word he spoke was a knife driven into him. “Isaac was killed in battle.”

Esther’s knees buckled and she made a horrible, dreadful sound. Her hands gripped at the chair, but her body fell beneath her. Dimly she saw Silas leap over the sofa. The table crashed, shunted aside. Then his arms wrapped around her body, a body that shuddered and quaked without her giving it leave to do so. He turned her so she could bury her face in his cravat while her sobs wracked her frame.

“He cannot— No. It isn’t Isaac. No. The war is over.” She repeated the words as a monk might chant a prayer, over and over, not hearing anything but her words and willing them true. She clutched at the lapels of her husband’s coat, holding on so tightly her fingers ached and her knuckles turned white.

Silas had drawn her into his lap, while he sat fully upon the floor, holding her close and rocking her. She did not know how long she stayed there, weeping, crying out against the world in denial of her brother’s fate. Her voice cracked, her throat scorched, and her eyes burned from her salty tears.

There would never be enough tears to express the measure to which her heart had broken. Isaac, her only brother, the last of her family, the last person who might care for her unconditionally, was gone.

Vaguely she heard Silas speaking to her, his voice rough with his pain. “It will never be right,” he was saying, more to himself than to her. “It should not have come to this. Oh, Esther, I am sorry. So sorry. I will miss him. We all will miss him.”

The first storm of her grief abated, for how long she did not know, but she became aware of the world again. Had it been hours or years since Silas had given her the news?

The room had grown darker. Had the whole world put on mourning for her brother?

Thunder rumbled overhead. Esther’s sobs now came infrequently enough that she could hear Silas’s heartbeat beneath her ear, pressed against him as she was. His arms did not loosen, and his lips hovered above her ear, speaking quiet words of reassurance and grief.

“When?” she croaked, then pushed away and cleared her throat. Esther raised her eyes to his, the evidence of his own tears upon his unshaven cheeks. How had she not noticed that detail before? “When did it happen?”

“April tenth,” he said, his voice as hoarse as hers. “Outside of Toulouse. I received word a little over a day ago.”

Her mind hitched at that detail. “A day—?”

“I came by boat,” he said. “As swiftly as possible. There was some delay—but I could not rest until you knew.” He lifted a hand to her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushed at the trail of tears upon it. One of his arms remained around her, securing her to him as though she might fly away if not anchored.

“The war is over,” she repeated again, helplessly. “Are you certain—?”

“The news came to me directly from the War Office,” he said, his words falling heavily upon her.

Esther shuddered, the storm welling up within her again. She leaned forward, and Silas pulled her close once more. Nothing felt real within or without her, except for the solidity of her husband’s body. She wept into his chest, without shame.

He would not mind. Silas had loved her brother, too.

∞∞∞

Somewhat haltingly, Silas raised himself and Esther from the floor and moved them to the sofa. There he kept his arms around her, and Esther kept her head resting upon his shoulder. She clutched a paint-splattered handkerchief in her hand, one Silas had plucked from a nearby table. As he held her, running his hand up and down her back in an attempt to comfort her, Silas took in what he had not before.

The mantle, the shelves, the walls, were covered in sketches, paintings, paints, blank canvases, and any number of things which appeared to have been laid down almost without thought or organization. He winced slightly, dully wondering how Esther found anything she needed in the chaos. Then his eyes fell upon a painting of the house, all in watercolors and dark charcoal lines. It was not finished, judging by the smear of gray for the sky and the lack of grass, but it caught his attention at once. The house did not look quite right, though he recognized the Keep’s unique architecture. The house looked…sad.

No. Of course that could not be right. It was Silas’s emotion making him think such a thing.

“I do not know what to feel,” Esther murmured within his arms.

Silas adjusted his hold on her enough to lean back a little, looking down into her red-rimmed eyes. “What do you mean?”

Esther chewed her bottom lip. “I am heartbroken. I do not know—” Her voice cracked, and she averted her gaze to his cravat. “I do not know how my life shall be without him in it. Yet I am angry, too.” Her face paled beneath the admission. “He did not have to be there, Silas. He is—was a titled lord.”

“I know.” Silas felt the cold stab of regret more keenly, holding her. “I have regretted his decision since the moment I found out what happened.” He released his breath slowly. “But you know Isaac. When he believed in something, he was terribly stubborn about it.”

“A family trait,” she murmured, laying her head back against him, as though too exhausted or too weak to do otherwise. Silas enjoyed the feeling, craved the contact actually. Sharing the pain with Esther, as much as he had dreaded telling her of what had happened, somehow made it decrease. Or perhaps holding her in his arms acted as a buffer, blocking the brunt of the pain while they were in one another’s company.