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Dread solidified her breakfast into a rock, weighing down her stomach. When she spoke, her voice hardly reached above a whisper. “Is it Henry?”
How she knew that she could not fathom. But for Arthur to arrive without her husband was odd in and of itself—the two of them were hardly separated.
He nodded, crossing the room and lowering himself onto the seat beside her. He possessed himself of her hand, setting his hat on the empty cushion behind him, and entreated her with sorrow-filled eyes. Eyes that were so deep and green, they struck her as beautiful, even in the most difficult moment of her young life. They were made even more beautiful by the grief which made them glisten.
“There was an accident this morning. He’d only meant to race, and we traveled nearly to St. Albans with the intent of making it safe. The road was indeed deserted, but a hound ran in front of Henry’s curricle and he…he could not control the horses. They crashed, Amelia.” He paused, swallowing. “Henry is dead.”
Those words speared her heart like three tiny daggers, slicing repeatedly into her and tearing her apart one small syllable at a time.
Henry was dead? Her husband? It could not be true. They were young, they had yet to reach one month of marriage.
“That cannot be. You must be mistaken.” She rose, her pulse thrumming so hard she could not bear to remain seated any longer. “Please take me to him. I do not mind if he is injured. I can nurse him. Surely I can learn how.”
Arthur rose, following Amelia to where she stopped beside the cold hearth, her shaking hands gripping one another. “Amelia, I confirmed it myself. He is not returning.”
Tears would not do justice to the grief that filled her like a quick-moving fog, rolling over her and claiming every crevice in her body. She swayed, her vision blurring before her as strong arms swept under her knees and her husband’s cousin carried her to the sofa. Laying her down gently, he stroked the hair from her face.
“My heart is broken as well.” Arthur stood, leaving her alone in the drawing room as he went to fetch her maid.
The familiar scent of Cook’s roast duck permeated her sitting room, and she found herself staring at the vase on the mantel, the one gifted to her on her wedding day and holding a bouquet of flowers Henry had brought her just yesterday. Fresh tears gathered, and she buried her face in a cushion. It was kind of Arthur to attempt empathy, but he was wrong.
Amelia’s heart was not just broken, it had shattered. It would never be whole again.
