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“Of course,” I replied, chastened.
“I do have one, though, an ulterior motive.” He glanced at his feet, as sheepish as I’d ever seen him before lifting his eyes back to mine. “Will you walk with me?”
I had every justifiable reason to deny the request, but I wasn’t ready to return to the gloom of the house, and the professor’s company was better than none. I forcefully ignored the fluttering in my stomach denoting other reasons I was about to agree.
“All right, I don’t mind a brisk walk, then I suppose you’ll want to get back to work.” I turned, hoping to seem righteously put off, but the first step I took was on top of a branch, which rolled beneath my weight, sending me sliding forward into what would have been a sprawl had Professor Hughes not caught me on the way down, saving me from further injury. Heat expanded through me, a smelted combination of embarrassment and the shameful want inspired by the warmth of his arms. I’d been hoping that those inklings had been merely the crazed jumble of fear and the dark of night, but here in the bright sun, I felt it as intensely as before. As he steadied me, he took notice of my wounded hand, and with no awareness of how he affected me, he took it in his to examine the bandages. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
“What happened to you?”
“Your crystal glasses are heavy, and I’m clumsy,” I replied, though not snappishly. His tender handling had belayed the worst of my annoyance.
He pressed a small puff of air through his lips, conveying he found my explanation suspect, but after inspecting the bandage one last time, he finally let me go.
“Dr. Hannigan was still here, I see. I trust he treated the wound well, so I won’t worry, but maybe skip the whiskey next time.”
I colored. How had he known? He didn’t try to hide his smile this time.
“The only crystal glasses we own are for the spirits. I can’t imagine Ms. Dillard put one out for tea.”
I realized the picture this painted of me was not a flattering one. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have. The doctor offered, and I assumed I wouldn’t be working today.”
“It is not a reprimand,” he assured me, catching me off guard with his repentant tone. “Miss Foxboro, it is vital I apologize to you for my inexcusable behavior last night. Admittedly, it’s all a fuzzy farrago in my brain. I can’t recall everything I said to you, but I’m sure it was inappropriate and monstrous.”
Unlike the professor, I remembered every syllable he’d uttered and more. I wouldn’t bring it up; I was too thankful that he’d forgotten what had transpired. I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and remind him.
“I admit, I attempted to treat my insomnia too aggressively, and I wasn’t expecting company. Truly, as I said, it was inexcusable, no matter the circumstances. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I humbly ask it anyway as I’d like to maintain your assistance, though you’d have every right to leave.”
Won over by his sincerity, I softened but took the opportunity to insist on my own honesty. “I am sure I heard something, saw something. I would never have…”
Come to your room in nothing but a thin slip in the middle of the night.
“I never would have bothered you,” I finished with plenty of self-respect.
“I did manage to recall your worries this morning, and I assure you I’ve combed through the house myself. I even had Dr. Hannigan’s assistance. We checked all possible places a person could be lingering, and I guarantee you there is no one.”
Knowing the doctor had been aware of my ravings made his comment about my lack of sleep sensible. It also made it all the more mortifying.
“I admit, the house in its current state inspires a most awful imagination. I’ve found myself seeing things from the corner of my eye. I chalk it up to my studies of all the things that go bump in the night. Being familiar with the worst of people’s imaginations makes it easy for my own mind to believe.”
I weighed the merits of confessing my sleepwalking malady and found many reasons not to. I took the opportunity instead to veer the conversation away.
“You’re not a believer at all, Professor?”
A raise of his eyebrows.
“No. This”—he regarded the house—“this is all there is.”
This is all there is, my love. There is nothing else.
Damn me, I blushed.
“Are you, Miss Foxboro?”
“Am I?”
“A believer?”
“Once,” I admitted, gladly thinking of something else.
