Southampton Row - Anne Perry [98]
He was still staring at her, waiting for her to assure him that his fear was unnecessary, that it would all go away. She could not. Even had he been a child, not a man older than herself, she could not have given him that. Illness was real. It could not always be warded off.
“I’ll do all I can to help,” she whispered. Tentatively, she reached out her hand and put it over his where it lay gripping his knee. She felt the terror in him as if it had flooded through his skin and into hers. Then like fire she recognized what it was: he was afraid of dying. He had spent his life preaching the love of God, the obedience to commands that permitted no question or explanation, the acceptance of affliction on earth with the absolute trust in an eternity of heaven . . . and his own belief in it was only word deep. When he faced the abyss of death there was no light, no God at the end of it for him. He was as alone as a child in the night.
She heard herself with amazement, letting go of her own dreams. “I’ll be with you. Don’t worry.” Her grip tightened on his hand and she took hold of his other arm. “There is nothing to fear. It is the path of all mankind, only a gateway. This is the time for faith. You are not alone, Reginald. Every living thing is with you. This is just one step in eternity. You’ve seen so many people do it well, with courage and grace. You can too . . . you will.”
He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, but gradually his body eased. The pain must have subsided, because at last he allowed her to help him back into bed and within moments he fell asleep, leaving her to get up and go around to her own side and climb in also.
She was tired, but the blessing of oblivion escaped her until it was almost morning.
He rose as usual. He was a little pale, but otherwise apparently quite normal. He made no reference to the episode. He did not actually meet her eyes.
She was overwhelmingly angry with him. It was a meanness of heart not at least to have thanked her, acknowledged her, even if only by a smile. She did not have to have words. But he was furious that she had seen his abandonment of dignity, his naked fear. She understood that, but she still despised him for his poverty of spirit.
He was ill. She accepted that now. Even if he chose to forget it today, it was the reality. He needed her; whether it was affection, pity, respect, or simply duty that held her, she was imprisoned with him for as long as it lasted. And that might be years. She could see it like a road stretching to the horizon across a flat, gray plain. She would have to paint her own dreams on it, but never reach for them.
Perhaps they had never been more than dreams anyway. Nothing had changed except in her knowledge.
CHAPTER
NINE
“I don’t believe it!” Jack Radley exploded, holding the newspaper up at the breakfast table, his face pale, his hands shaking.
“What is it?” Emily demanded, her first thoughts flying to the murder of Maude Lamont, now just a week ago. Had Thomas found something damning that incriminated Rose? Only now did she realize how much she had been dreading it. Guilt overwhelmed her. “What have you seen?” Her voice was sharp with fear.
“Aubrey!” Jack said, laying the paper down so he could see her. “He’s written to the editor. I suppose it’s in rebuttal of what General Kingsley said about him, but it’s very ill thought.”
“Ill thought? You mean carelessly written? That’s not like Aubrey.” She could recall his beautiful voice, not just a matter of diction but his choice of words also. “What does he say?”
Jack drew in a deep breath and bit his lip, reluctant to answer, as if reading it aloud would give it a greater reality.
“Is it so very bad?” she asked with a chill of anxiety biting deep into her. “Will it matter?”
“I think it might.”
“Well, either read it to me or pass it!” she directed. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell me it’s bad and then keep it!”
He looked down at the page and began, his voice low and almost expressionless.
“‘I have in this newspaper recently