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Chapter Twenty-Three
There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in allthings.
—Shakespeare,Henry V
Nicholas gasped forair, leaning back against the door. It was true. All of it. Daniel had not been writing fanciful fiction. He had been confessing. To Nicholas. His stomach churned, and he pushed away from the door.
He had known men in the army like this. But not his brother. Surely to God, not his brother. He could not reconcile the playmates of his youth with reality. He’d thought his father would deny the truth, but he hadn’t. It lay blatant, splayed like a whore at a brothel and equally disgusting.
He paused beneath the staircase.God’s blood!He leaned against the cool stairwell, trying to calm his body so he could mount the stairs and get away from the truth that lay behind him. In front of him. All around. He straightened, grabbed a vase, and slammed it against its pedestal. Shattered fragments flew. The piece that remained in his hand had sliced his palm, and blood dripped on the floor, marring the white marble.
“Master Nick?” The voice was quiet, unobtrusive, and entirely welcome.
“Fredericks.” Suddenly drained of all emotion, it was all Nicholas could manage.
Fredericks pulled the handkerchief from his inside pocket and wrapped it around the cut. “Come on, son. Let’s get you to your room.”
*
Catherine left LordWoodfield as she had found him, staring morosely at the fire. She had tried to provoke him, to see if he would speak with Nicholas, but he’d refused to respond. Frustrated, she’d finally given up.
A young maid quickly stood when Catherine exited Lord Woodfield’s chambers.
“My lady.” She bobbed, a rag in hand.
“You’re working late tonight,” Catherine said, taking in the scene. The pedestal stood empty with a bucket of broken china at its base. Had Nicholas run into it in his hurry to get away from them?
“Not so late,” the girl said, drawing Catherine’s attention back to her. “I’m always ready to care for my lord,” she said, adding, “no matter the hour.”
“Thank you. I have no doubt Lord Woodfield appreciates it.”
She left the girl to her task and moved to the entrance hall, staring up the stairs. He was in his chambers. He was hurting. She wanted to go to him, to ease the ache. An ache she herself had nursed alone. But he didn’t need to heal the wound by himself. She could tend to him. Did he want her to?
Ignoring the stairs, she headed down the hall, toward the kitchen, too unsure of her welcome to head up straightaway. She needed to gather her wits. Nan would help her figure it out. She always did.
Nan took one look at her, wiped her hands on her apron, untied it, and laid it over the back of a chair. She sat before the fire and picked up her knitting. Catherine hesitated.
“Come, child. Sit with me. Just like old times.”
Gratefully, she took the other chair. Nan’s needles clacked rhythmically, calmingly. The world turned, life went on, and Nan’s knitting remained ever constant. Catherine closed her eyes, listening to the soft clicking, remembering the eternity of years she had done so in her life. Where would any of them be without their Nan?
“A cup of tea, lass?”
“Not tonight. I but needed to see you.”
Nan laid aside her wool and stared at Catherine intently. “He knows the truth.”
Catherine fought tears and nodded.
“It is for the best. You know that, love.”
Nan reached out, her warm hand covering Catherine’s cold one. She could only nod again in response.
“A man hurt is a wounded animal. He must be tended. While it may be fraught with danger, when he is healed, you will have his loyalty for life.” Nan squeezed her hand. “Have no doubt, lass, he loves you. He has loved you for too long for that to be extinguished because of your brothers’ folly.”
Catherine stood.
“That’s my girl. Go remind him about the gold he mined long ago.”
