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Rowles turned to the woman, noting her stained clothing. They hadn’t even changed before they’d sent word to him to notify him of the events.
Never before had he felt so helpless, so responsible and unable to do anything about it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the nurse. The words seemed so empty, but it was all he had the strength to say.
She blinked, as if unable to understand why he would apologize to her, but he was already moving on, opening the door and stepping into the faint light of his mother’s rooms.
Her form was still.
Her breathing shallow.
And as he knelt by her bedside, he looked for any semblance of the woman who had borne and loved him…
And found none.
Twenty-four
You say that you are my judge. I do not know if you are! But I tell you that you must take good care not to judge me wrongly, because you will put yourself in great danger.
—Joan of Arc
Joan tapped her finger on her book, not seeing the words. Happiness coursed through her like waves on the shore, and she was certain she even slept with a smile on her face.
The only damper on the joy that filled her was the question of if and when she should tell Rowles about her involvement with the War Office, and why. It was a simple conversation, no need to make it drawn out…but fear threatened to linger there.
What if he didn’t understand?
What if he was unwilling to let her continue?
So many possibilities, yet not telling him… She couldn’t. It would be dishonest and that was not a way she could live, having that between them.
“The Duke of Westmore,” the butler announced, and Joan stood, her book slipping through her fingers and hitting the floor with a thud. She quickly retrieved it and was setting it on the sofa as the duke entered.
She was expecting a joyful expression, a secretive glance.
What she received was a frown, worried eyes, and a distressed countenance. Immediately she strode to him. “What is it?”
He met her eyes, his body relaxing slightly, as if her very presence calmed his soul.
“My mother.” He spoke softly. “She…isn’t healthy.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” Her brow puckered with empathy as she waited for the rest of the story. It was widely understood among thetonthat his mother wasn’t in good health, but Joan suspected there had been a turn of events.
“And I have a request for you.” He reached down and grasped her hands. His fingers were chilled; even through the kid leather of her gloves she could feel it. “My mother may not survive the night, Joan. And I am torn between wanting to protect you from what her illness has made her become and wanting you to at least have met her…even if she will not respond. And I don’t know the right answer, or what to ask…” He closed his eyes.
“Let’s go.” Joan tugged on his hand, leading him toward the open door of the library. “For better or worse, I want to know the woman who bore you, and thank her. Even if she doesn’t know me or respond or even hear me. It’s a gift I wish to give toyou.”
His expression softened as if her words had lifted a weight off his very soul. “Truly?”
“I’m not one to lie,” Joan replied, the truth of her words echoing deep in her soul.
“My carriage is out front.” Rowles escorted her from the room. “Where is Morgan?”
Joan turned back. “He’s attending to some business. Allow me a moment to call a maid to accompany me, and we shall be off.”
Only a few minutes later, Joan sat beside Mary in the duke’s luxurious carriage as it made haste toward his mother’s lodgings.
“She…” His attention wavered to the maid and back to Joan.
