London house, so I can show them?”
Hawk accepted a replacement for his toast from Hildegarde. “Thank you, Aunt,” he said, taking a bite to stake his claim. “Why do we not wait, Bumble-Bea, until Alexandra joins us before I tell you how things stand with my title and estate.”
“You mean you have not even told her yet?” the wide-eyed child asked. “Take care or you will make her cry again.”
“Make her…. Cry? What are you talking about?” Could Bea have heard them earlier?
The child of seven-going-on-forty gave a long-suffering sigh. “Before you died—or we thought you did—you wrote to Aunt Sabrina, Damon and Rafferty’s Mama, remember? They were staying with us then?”
Why did everyone suppose that he had forgotten the members of his family while he was away? “I remember.”
“You did not write a letter to Alex when you were dying, or even think of her at the last, and that made her cry.”
“Devil take it.” Hawk rose, taking Beatrix with him, and in silence he deposited her in his chair and exited the breakfast room.
Halfway across the hall, he saw Alex coming down the stairs and waited for her at the bottom. “Alexandra, we need to talk.”
CHAPTER TEN
“No, Bryceson, I told you, I am not ready to talk.”
“This is not about what happened earlier,” Hawk said. “This is something I insist we settle, something I can at least explain.” He took his stubborn wife’s arm and urged her into the library.
“What is it? What is wrong?”
Hawk possessed himself of her hand. Surprisingly callused, it was small and pale, as opposed to her spirit, which shone bright and strong. “I am concerned by something Beatrix said.”
“If you let everything Bea says bother you, you will be disquieted for the rest of your days.”
“You cried when I wrote to Sabrina, before I supposedly died, because I did not write to you? Is that true?”
Alexandra turned to gaze out the window, except that she did not see the rolling lawn gone to seed, or the home wood overtaken by bracken, but her own life, as she had viewed it the day that letter came, stretching barren and pointless before her, without Bryceson in it.
“I was emotional, devastated, because I thought I— I thought you had died.” She shivered.
Hawk placed his cane on a nearby chair and slipped his hands down her arms to chafe and warm them. “You should have worn a shawl,” he said. “This place is as drafty as a dovecote.”
Alex closed her eyes, immersing herself in his nearness, and in his touch.
“I wrote to you first,” he said, from close behind, absently stroking her arms. “Or I began to, but I … I feared that I would expire at any moment, and I knew that Sabrina’s very life depended upon the arrangements I had made for her. So I put your letter aside, unfinished, to write hers, before it was too late.”
Hawk gazed into the past, at that smoke-hazed, bloody day, the pain and the horror of the Waterloo battlefield, of dead friends and dying comrades. Of lying atop the heap . He saw the blood in his eyes, tasted it in his mouth, and smelled it clogging his nostrils.
He remembered well the stench of death, especially his own.
In many ways, he had died that day, or a part of him had, anyway … until he beheld Alex from the back of that church, and had begun to come back to life, whether he wanted to or not, minute by minute, piece by lost and broken piece.
“Because I was incapable of writing myself,” he said. “An old woman at the Waterloo Inn wrote my final words for me. When I finished dictating Sabrina’s letter, I had no strength left, nor did I wish to share with a stranger what I could not seem to find the correct words to express to you. The last I remember, I was being excruciatingly loaded onto a dray for a trip to the country. Your letter was never finished, Alex, and I regret that more than I can say.”
“Where is it?” she asked, not turning from the window, almost as if she did not
Hawk accepted a replacement for his toast from Hildegarde. “Thank you, Aunt,” he said, taking a bite to stake his claim. “Why do we not wait, Bumble-Bea, until Alexandra joins us before I tell you how things stand with my title and estate.”
“You mean you have not even told her yet?” the wide-eyed child asked. “Take care or you will make her cry again.”
“Make her…. Cry? What are you talking about?” Could Bea have heard them earlier?
The child of seven-going-on-forty gave a long-suffering sigh. “Before you died—or we thought you did—you wrote to Aunt Sabrina, Damon and Rafferty’s Mama, remember? They were staying with us then?”
Why did everyone suppose that he had forgotten the members of his family while he was away? “I remember.”
“You did not write a letter to Alex when you were dying, or even think of her at the last, and that made her cry.”
“Devil take it.” Hawk rose, taking Beatrix with him, and in silence he deposited her in his chair and exited the breakfast room.
Halfway across the hall, he saw Alex coming down the stairs and waited for her at the bottom. “Alexandra, we need to talk.”
CHAPTER TEN
“No, Bryceson, I told you, I am not ready to talk.”
“This is not about what happened earlier,” Hawk said. “This is something I insist we settle, something I can at least explain.” He took his stubborn wife’s arm and urged her into the library.
“What is it? What is wrong?”
Hawk possessed himself of her hand. Surprisingly callused, it was small and pale, as opposed to her spirit, which shone bright and strong. “I am concerned by something Beatrix said.”
“If you let everything Bea says bother you, you will be disquieted for the rest of your days.”
“You cried when I wrote to Sabrina, before I supposedly died, because I did not write to you? Is that true?”
Alexandra turned to gaze out the window, except that she did not see the rolling lawn gone to seed, or the home wood overtaken by bracken, but her own life, as she had viewed it the day that letter came, stretching barren and pointless before her, without Bryceson in it.
“I was emotional, devastated, because I thought I— I thought you had died.” She shivered.
Hawk placed his cane on a nearby chair and slipped his hands down her arms to chafe and warm them. “You should have worn a shawl,” he said. “This place is as drafty as a dovecote.”
Alex closed her eyes, immersing herself in his nearness, and in his touch.
“I wrote to you first,” he said, from close behind, absently stroking her arms. “Or I began to, but I … I feared that I would expire at any moment, and I knew that Sabrina’s very life depended upon the arrangements I had made for her. So I put your letter aside, unfinished, to write hers, before it was too late.”
Hawk gazed into the past, at that smoke-hazed, bloody day, the pain and the horror of the Waterloo battlefield, of dead friends and dying comrades. Of lying atop the heap . He saw the blood in his eyes, tasted it in his mouth, and smelled it clogging his nostrils.
He remembered well the stench of death, especially his own.
In many ways, he had died that day, or a part of him had, anyway … until he beheld Alex from the back of that church, and had begun to come back to life, whether he wanted to or not, minute by minute, piece by lost and broken piece.
“Because I was incapable of writing myself,” he said. “An old woman at the Waterloo Inn wrote my final words for me. When I finished dictating Sabrina’s letter, I had no strength left, nor did I wish to share with a stranger what I could not seem to find the correct words to express to you. The last I remember, I was being excruciatingly loaded onto a dray for a trip to the country. Your letter was never finished, Alex, and I regret that more than I can say.”
“Where is it?” she asked, not turning from the window, almost as if she did not
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