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“We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Twenty-seven
The hack delivered Rowles back to where his carriage was waiting. In the interest of propriety, Morgan and Joan took the hack to their home, rather than have Joan accompany him back to his mother’s rooms. With a promise to send word, he said goodbye to the two siblings and gave his driver instructions to return to his mother’s home. As he sank into the carriage seat, his body slowly relaxed its tension. There was so much information to digest, to process, and he wasn’t sure where to begin.
Joan was uncommon, that much he’d known from the start, but her revelation of earlier was far more than an uncommon beauty and spirit. She worked for the bloody War Office as a consultant of sorts because she could differentiate between true missives and forgeries. Of all the astounding things. Had someone told him, he’d never have believed it, yet when it was so apparently true that even the War Office of England trusted her judgment on such matters, how could he do anything but trust her?
He’d be lying to himself if he said there hadn’t been a sharp pain of suspicion trickling into his heart after hearing her confession. His mother’s condition had rendered him suspicious and fearful of the unknown. However, he had come to the conclusion that he could trust Joan’s confession, because he trustedher. And that was enough.
She had told him all her secrets, knowing he could take them poorly or even cast her off. Her bravery humbled him, inspired him, and truly captivated him even more. However, what didn’t sit right was the fact that he had a secret he was keeping from her.
Morgan had told him in confidence, giving him the choice to tell or keep silent concerning Joan’s parentage. He had decided to tell her, but in light of today’s events, it seemed like too much for one day.
Too much truth.
Too much uncovered.
Maybe he would wait till tomorrow.
It had been a taxing afternoon, with the rescue mission for Morgan that was far less eventful than it could have been, but that didn’t dismiss the danger Joan had taken on. Rowles shook his head as he considered how she’d taken matters into her own hands.
Which reminded him: what exactly did she retrieve? He forgot to ask, but certainly it was something of note. And how in the world did she know it was there?
Marriage to Joan would certainly not be dull.
No, indeed, marriage would be one big adventure after another. Tomorrow he’d go to Doctor’s Commons and procure the license, and likely she and Morgan were already making arrangements for a wedding. It was almost too wonderful to bear—having her choose him, and without delay. Her words had echoed his own sentiments, but he wouldn’t pressure her. No, it was on her terms.
A time and season for everything—including weddings—and he wouldn’t rush his for selfish reasons.
That wasn’t love.
And Joan deserved everything he could offer.
He remembered his words as he had proposed. He wasn’t the best man, but his love would be the best love.
And he vowed they would be true.
The carriage halted in front of the town home that housed his mother, and with a deep sigh of concern for what he would find within the doors, he slowly stepped from the carriage and took the steps.
The door opened, and a footman bowed as a relieved expression lit his face. “Your Grace, please come in. The doctor sent word.” The footman motioned to the stairs and Rowles nodded, taking the steps two at a time.
As he reached the landing, the older doctor bowed at Rowles’s approach. The two nurses from earlier curtsied and stood beside the doctor.
“Doctor.”
“Your Grace,” the doctor greeted. “I have evaluated your mother’s condition and it is in fact deteriorating. I wouldn’t expect her to last the night. I wanted you to be aware, should you need to make any arrangements.”
Rowles released a silent breath and nodded in understanding. “I see. May I?” He gestured to the closed door.
“Yes, of course.” The doctor opened the door and waited as Rowles walked into the room. Candles were lit, giving the room a cheery glow but the air was still, as if death lingered.
The furnishings, all so familiar, gave the room a comforting feel, even with the stillness. The fire burned quietly in the hearth as Rowles stood beside his mother’s bed, then kneeled.
Her expression was drawn, her lips tight and unmoving, as if already frozen in that position. He placed a hand on her folded ones, the chill of her skin sending shivers through his body. Her breathing was labored, much more so than earlier; with short pants, she was breathing in and out, quarter breaths rather than full ones, as if her lungs couldn’t take in more than a teaspoonful of air at a time.
“Mother?” Rowles asked, whispered, begged.
Her eyelids didn’t flicker. The only movement was the short breaths that were both silent and useless.
