The Death of Jane Lawrence(36)

Yes. Yes, look. But if he was right, if there were no books there …

She shook her head. “I was so scared,” she whispered. “I’ve never had a nightmare like that before.” Why didn’t he remember? It couldn’t have been a dream. It felt real, far too real.

But her housecoat had been where she’d put it the evening before. If she checked his study, would his monograph still be there? Would her book still be in the stack of texts on his desk? She tried to think back to what she’d read, but her memories were too fuzzy. Her exhaustion had made it impossible to take everything in. She’d thought she woke up in bed because Augustine had moved her there after she collapsed, but if she’d fainted, surely she would have come to again far before morning.

Maybe he was right.

Three nights ago, she’d woken him from a dream and he had feared she wasn’t real. Wasn’t this the same thing? What she’d seen was impossible, but it was so beyond any nightmare she’d ever had, and—

“Let’s get you back into town today,” he said. “I’ll arrange to stay the night at the surgery with you. Would that help?”

Yes. She shut her eyes, exhaling raggedly. If, somehow, it hadn’t been a dream, she would have wanted him to come away from this place at all costs. And if she really was just being ridiculous, it would be nice to be somewhere else, and not alone. “Yes, that would help.”

She thought of going to him, of settling into his arms for just a moment’s comfort, but stopped half out of her chair when she heard footsteps.

“That will be Mrs. Luthbright with breakfast, I wager,” Augustine said, smiling.

But it was Mrs. Purl, who entered at a quick trot.

“Mr. Lowell is here,” she said breathlessly. “He says it’s the Maerbeck farm, the eldest son is, ah—”

“He’s vomiting uncontrollably,” Mr. Lowell said from the doorway. “The middle child rode into town to fetch you, says it’s been going on since last night.”

Augustine swore. “I’ll be right out,” he said, then looked back at Jane. “I’ll have to go straight there, and it’s a fair way from Larrenton.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no time for you to dress, and whatever has happened with the Maerbeck boy, it might be catching.”

“I could help,” she said, pitching her voice quieter so that Mrs. Purl, who was lingering, couldn’t hear. Mr. Lowell had already taken off, no doubt to see to the horses so that they would be ready to move again soon.

“If it were an injury, I might take you up on the offer, but this is different.” He fixed her with a serious gaze. “Mr. Lowell will need to stay with me in case we need to rush the boy to the surgery, so it may be some time before we can fetch you back to town. Will that be all right?”

She nodded, numb in the face of his determined, rushing pace.

Without so much as a glance at Mrs. Purl, he drew Jane close and pressed a fervent kiss to her lips. “I wish I had more time,” he murmured. “That nightmare seems to have distressed you so much.”

“It’s fine,” she said, voice weak. “I’m possessed of a rational mind. I’ll recover.” She managed a faint, wry smile.

He gave her shoulders one last squeeze, and then he was gone.

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Luthbright did bring breakfast. It was toast, salted fish, and porridge. Jane barely tasted any of it and didn’t speak more than a few words to either Mrs. Luthbright or Mrs. Purl except to send Mrs. Purl for her treatise. Mrs. Purl returned within a few minutes, having had no trouble finding it in the study. She’d never moved it, then.

It really had been a nightmare.

Several hours later, with her senses steadied by the sunlight and prolonged quiet, Jane set aside the book. The logic was so unfamiliar that she couldn’t say if she’d ever read it before. Rubbing at her temples and wishing for her spectacles, she stood up. The sun was already past its peak; she’d lost half the day in her work. Would that she could lose more.

She needed to forget all traces of Elodie, of her red eyes and her finger held to her lips. No wonder that Jane would dream of her, in the burst of chaotic relief at learning the tragic details of her story. But she needed to be practical, hard of spirit. Augustine needed her so; he needed a wife who could help his patients and who could stay by his side in this house with him if need be, a partner in every sense. She wanted to be that, for herself as much as for him.

And then, as she climbed the stairs to the bedroom, she saw it. There, bright pink against the pale skin of the top of her left foot, were the faint dotted burns of candle wax.

It hadn’t been a nightmare at all.

Augustine had lied.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


JANE STOOD IN the doorway to Augustine’s bedroom, looking at the rumpled sheets, her heart so in tumult that it seemed to be numb with the constant turning. They had lain together last night, and it had been sweet, and gentle, and passionate; she had been so glad to trust him, so glad to learn there were missing details, details that made it all make sense.

She wanted it all to make sense.

Why would he lie about Jane collapsing in his study? She knew he had lied, and yet the lie itself vexed her. He hadn’t known what she had seen. Even now, though she could still conjure up the image, she couldn’t name what had happened. Ghosts? Spirits? They did not fit into her orderly world, and surely they could not fit into his.