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“Did someone hurt you? Your skirt is torn.”
She looked down and brushed at the blackened fabric. She brushed and brushed until he realized she was crying. “No one has hurt me,” she sobbed. “I am fine.”
James collapsed onto the seat beside her and pulled her to his chest. “You must tell me what is wrong before I go mad, Sarah. Please, you’re scaring me.”
Nodding, she sniffed into his jacket. “I’ll tell you. I must. I should never have hidden it from you in the first place. Only call off the doctor, please, and I’ll tell you the truth.”
Reeling at her words—what could they mean?—James nodded and went to speak with Crawford before shutting the parlor door. He stood there for a moment, head bowed, hand pressed to the door, and tried to calm his heart. What had she done? Could there possibly be another man? Some secret love she’d have preferred to marry eight weeks ago?
If so . . . if so, James would murder him and toss his body into the river. Or perhaps just have him pressed into Her Majesty’s navy. Yes, that would be a more reasonable solution. And then he’d convince Sarah that she could love him just as well as this other man.
He heard her rise and walk toward him, and turned to meet her gaze. As he watched, she put her shoulders back and straightened her spine. She would have looked regal if not for her torn skirt and disheveled hair. Instead, she looked even more vulnerable.
“There’s something I should have told you before we married, James.”
Christ. Whatever terrible thing she was about to say, he wanted to stop her.
She nodded as if he’d spoken. “I should have told you and now I cannot live with it.”
“Go on,” he ground out.
“I . . . My mother was not a well woman.”
James blinked. “Pardon?”
“My mother. She was ill for many years before she died.” She paused to take a deep, shaky breath. “And there’s a possibility I could have inherited her illness.”
He cocked his head, totally confused. “Her illness? Sarah, have you been unwell? Does this have to do with your headaches?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. My mother . . . You must understand, it went on for years. It was quite mild at first. I saw her doctor today, and he says I’m exhibiting some of her symptoms.” Her fingers twisted her skirts.
“I don’t understand. Are you speaking of something other than your mother’s lunacy?”
Sarah drew back as if he’d slapped her. Her face faded to the colorless white it had been only moments before. “What?”
James reached for her elbow. “Why don’t you sit down?” Actually, he needed to sit down himself. This had nothing to do with her loving another man, and his knees wanted him to drop down and say a quick prayer of thanks.
But she didn’t move toward the chair, she only looked down at his hand and then back at his face. “You knew?”
“About your mother? Of course.”
“But how?”
“Your father told me when I asked for your hand.”
“You knew she was mad? You knew she took her own life?”
“Yes.” When she only gaped up at him, he touched her cheek, stroking the line of the bone beneath. “And I’m sorry for it. You were so young. It must have broken your heart.”
“But . . . but I thought you didn’t know. I thought I should have told you.”
“Well, I have never revealed how my father died. Apoplexy, by the way.”
“James,” she gasped. “You knew? And you still married me?”
“What in the world have you been thinking? And you still haven’t explained what happened today.”
“As I said, I went to see my mother’s doctor.” She finally headed toward the chairs nearest the fireplace and James followed gratefully. He needed to sit down.
