Just Like Heaven

I understand.'

For a moment Lady Winstead said nothing. But then her lips parted, as if she was deciding whether to speak. Marcus waited, knowing that silence was often the best encouragement, and a few seconds later, Lady Winstead cleared her throat and said, “We would not have come to Fensmore if Honoria had not insisted.” He was not sure what to say to that.

“I told her that we should not come, that it was not proper, since we are not family.'

“I have no family,” he said quietly.

“Yes, that is what Honoria said.'

He felt a strange pang at that. Of course Honoria knew that he had no family; everyone did. But somehow, to hear her say it, or just to hear someone else tell him she’d said it . . .

It hurt. Just a little. And he didn’t understand why.

Honoria had seen beyond all that, past his aloneness and into his loneliness. She had seen it—no, seen him—in a way even he had not understood.

He had not realized just how solitary his life was until she had stumbled back into it.

“She was most insistent,” Lady Winstead said, breaking into his thoughts. And then, so quietly that he barely heard her: “I just thought you should know.'

Chapter Fifteen

Several hours later, Marcus was sitting in bed, not even pretending to read Philosophical Inquiries Into the Essence of Human Freedom, when Honoria came by for another visit. She held about half a dozen books in her arms and was accompanied by a maid bearing a supper tray.

He was not surprised that she’d waited until someone else had had to come up to his room as well.

“I brought you some books,” she said with a determined smile.

She waited until the maid placed the tray on his bed and then set the stack down on the bedside table. “Mother said you’d likely need entertainment.” She smiled again, but her expression was far too resolute to have been spontaneous. With a little nod, she turned and started to follow the maid out of the room.

“Wait!” he called out. He couldn’t let her go. Not yet.

She paused, turned, and gave him a questioning look.

“Sit with me?” he asked, tilting his head toward the chair. She hesitated, so he added, “I’ve had only myself for company for the better part of two days.” She still looked uncertain, so he smiled wryly and said, “I find myself somewhat dull, I’m afraid.'

“Only somewhat?” she replied, probably before she remembered she was trying not to enter into a conversation.

“I’m desperate, Honoria,” he told her.

She sighed, but she had a wistful smile as she did so, and she walked into the room. She left the door to the hallway open; now that he was not at death’s door, there were certain proprieties that must be obeyed. “I hate that word,” she said.

“ ‘Desperate’?” he guessed. “You find it overused?” “No,” she sighed, sitting down in the chair by his bed. “Too frequently apt. It’s a terrible feeling.” He nodded, although in truth, he didn’t think he understood desperation. Loneliness, certainly, but not desperation.

She sat quietly at his side, her hands folded in her lap. There was a long silence, not quite awkward, but not comfortable, either, and then she said rather suddenly, “The broth is beef.'

He looked down at the small porcelain tureen on his tray, still covered by a lid.

“The cook called it boeuf consommй,” she continued, speaking a little faster than she usually did, “but it’s broth, plain and simple.

Mrs. Wetherby insists that its curative powers are beyond compare.'

“I don’t suppose I have anything other than broth,” he said dolefully, looking down at his sparse tray.

“Dry toast,” Honoria said sympathetically. “I’m sorry.'

He felt his head hang forward another inch. What he wouldn’t give for a slice of Flindle’s chocolate cake. Or a creamed apple tart. Or a shortbread biscuit, or a Chelsea bun, or bloody well anything that contained a great deal of sugar.

“It smells quite nice,” Honoria said. “The broth.'

It did smell quite nice, but not as nice as chocolate would.

He sighed and took a spoonful, blowing on it before taking a taste. “It’s good,” he said.

“Really?” She looked doubtful.

He nodded and ate some more. Or rather, drank some more.

Did one eat soup or drink it? And more to the point, could he get some cheese to melt on top of it? “What did you have for supper?'

he asked her.

She shook her head. “You don’t want to know.'

He ate-drank another spoonful. “Probably not.” Then he couldn’t help himself. “Was there ham?'

She didn’t say anything.

“There was,” he said accusingly. He looked down at the last dregs of his soup. He supposed he could use the dry toast to soak it up. He hadn’t left enough liquid, though, and after two bites, his toast really was dry.

Sawdust dry. Wandering-the-desert dry. He paused for a moment. Hadn’t he been wandering the desert thirsty a few days earlier? He took a bite of his entirely unpalatable toast. He’d never seen a desert in his life, and likely never would, but as far as geographical habitats went, it did seem to be offering a multitude of similes lately.

“Why are you smiling?” Honoria asked curiously.

“Am I? It was a sad, sad smile, I assure you.” He regarded his toast. “Did you truly have ham?” And then, even though he knew he didn’t want to know the answer: “Was there pudding?'

He looked at her. She wore a very guilty expression.

“Chocolate?” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“Berry? Ca—Oh, Lord, did Cook make treacle tart?'

No one made treacle tart like Fensmore’s cook.

“It was delicious,” she admitted, with one of those amazingly happy sighs reserved for the memories of the very best of desserts.

“It was served with clotted cream and strawberries.'

“Is there any left?” he asked dolefully.

“I should think there must be. It was served in a huge—Wait a moment.” Her eyes narrowed, and she speared him with a suspicious stare. “You’re not asking me to steal you a piece, are you?'

“Would you?” He hoped his face looked as pathetic as his voice. He really needed her to pity him.

“No!” But her lips were pressing together in an obvious attempt not to laugh. “Treacle tart is not an appropriate food for the sickbed.'