“I don’t wish to speak of them.” Because they’d hurt. Because she could still feel the flames’ heat licking her face, the raw-throated cries of soldiers as surgeons sawed off their legs.
“Do tell. I am not sleepy yet. Too many biscuits in my stomach.” He winked at her “Louise was scared. If you talk about what bothered you, then perhaps you won’t have the same dreams anymore. Perhaps I can offer advice.”
“I do not wish to scare her further. I suppose you make a good point.”
“Don’t sound so reluctant to admit my finer qualities, Miss Gordon. Or should I say, Retta?”
She shot him a slit-eyed gaze, even though his use of the moniker threaded a surprising thrill through her emotions. “Very well. It’s a recurrent dream. Though it was more severe tonight, more intense.” She glanced at Louise’s prone form, wondering what exactly had happened to upset the plucky girl.
“She said you were screaming in your sleep,” said Dominic.
“The dream starts with the soldiers. One in particular. Adam. His leg had gangrene and it was spreading. He was the one who told me God loved me. That I could talk to God. He gave me his Bible.” She swallowed hard. “We had to amputate the limb, but infection set in and he died. Sometimes I dream of him. I dream that he blames me. He is crying for his wife and two children, and he asks why I didn’t stop the infection. Because I know how. Clean the wound. Use herbs and poultices to draw out impurities. But if the infection gets into the blood—” She choked, stopping.
“There was nothing you could do.”
“For any of them. All those men...whole families. The wives followed their husbands. Made camp on the outskirts of the battlefield. There was a fire set in Newark. It was wartime, and there is nothing good that I remember from that time, but sometimes my mind forgets that it is over.” She drew in a ragged sigh, staring at her clasped hands, digging her nails into her skin. “And then the dream inevitably turns to the night my parents died.”
She looked up in time to see his eyes flicker, as though surprised. She smiled a rueful smile. “It is silly, is it not, to dream of something almost ten years past? Yet I do. My mind will not let me forget. My father loved my mother, too. They had what is called a love match. She wanted the same for me, but love is truly a matter of our humors. Our brains at work, creating emotions. Perhaps chemicals within that cause us to feel certain responses.”
“But you speak of God’s love, and He is not made of chemicals.”
She blinked. “I have never thought of that.”
His mouth curved. “Perhaps my brain is not so atrophied after all.”
Finally, she could smile. The pressure lifted from her chest with that one sentence. “We shall give you the benefit of the doubt, my lord.”
“Why do you suppose you have these dreams?”
“Why?” She shrugged. “Perhaps your altercation with Louise brought back memories of my own family. My old home is not far from here. An hour or so? I believe Lady Brandewyne and Uncle William grew up as neighbors.”
A tickle curled at her neck. She reached up and realized her hair was falling out everywhere. One pin poked behind her ear. She pulled it and her hair cascaded over her shoulders and down the front of her pelisse. It was a particularly thick fabric that served perfectly when she’d been with her uncle, suitable for occasions for when she was called out suddenly in the middle of the night.
She dipped her fingers beneath her hair, lifting it to repin, and she noticed St. Raven staring at her strangely. An odd expression was in his eyes. When their gazes met, he looked quickly away, making a strange sound in his throat.
Frowning, she repinned her hair quickly. “Please say there is not a stray crumb in my hair.”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “Not at all. Your hair is just very long. Surprisingly so.”
“Well, most women have long hair,” she said primly. She rather liked her hair color, too. Perhaps it was vain, but the swirls of brown and gold reminded her of a caramel she’d once eaten in Paris. Her hair color was, perhaps, her only mark of beauty. “We should return to our rooms.”
“Your childhood home is nearby, you said.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t we visit it tomorrow?”
“Whatever for?”
“Remembrance. It might be a good idea to see it as an adult, to banish those childhood fears.”
“They are not fears.” She heard the starch in her voice. And she smelled the smoke again, the fire at home and the fire at Newark mingling into one overarching terror. The loss of those she held dear. Her parents’ graves were in the Morningside village cemetery. They had their own vault. “I have never, however, visited their mausoleum. That might be an important trip to make.”
“It’s set then. Tomorrow after we break our fast, we will depart for Morningside.”
Henrietta nodded, quickly making her escape to her room, but uneasiness gnawed at her throughout the night, and sleep eluded her.
Chapter Twelve
There was no denying the heavy dread weighing on Henrietta’s shoulders as they began their trip to Morningside Manor the next morning. They had decided to ride horses, after determining the fair weather would make for an enjoyable journey.
A cloudless cerulean sky accompanied their ride. Dominic had attached a lunch basket to his saddle and Louise rode ahead, sporadically sliding off her docile mare to collect wildflowers growing on the edges of the road. Her enthusiasm distracted Henrietta from the direction of her thoughts. Though she’d had no more nightmares, she still felt the thick, pungent stain of smoke coating her tongue, poisoning her day.
Memories were sliding through her, slippery and too quick to catch. She hoped visiting her parents’ mausoleum might bring a type of comfort.
