“I am here,” she said softly. “There’s naught to be afraid of. I will not let them hurt you.”
He huffed out a breath and flung his arms up over his head. His chest heaved with his breathing. And there to her shock she saw a beautiful, simple tattoo of a dagger beneath his arm, alongside his rib cage.
She stared, stunned. Why on earth had he done it—allowed himself to be so deliberately marked?
Her impulse was to trace the contours of this secret thing with her fingers, and this shocked her, too.
And then he shifted again, and the fight in him eased.
She leaned back, and then sat down. From her chair she saw that he was breathing more quietly.
As if she could will him to peace, she breathed right along with the rise and fall of his chest. And it slowed, at last, to the peaceful cadences of deep sleep.
She moved the chair a little away from him, so as not to disturb him.
“Mr. Bellingham, I hope you do not mind. I should like to tell you a few things I have never told anyone. When I was four years old, I took the boiled sweets meant for guests and I blamed my oldest brother, who was given three swats with a switch. I did not knowthey would switch him! I know you are not a priest but surely a man of God . . . perhaps you understand. I have a thousand memories of my brother, but this one—it lingers. I would take a thousand switches for him if only he were here.”
She listened to the music of his deep, steady breathing. Her own eyelids began to grow heavy.
“Is it a sin to say I sometimes used to wish I had died in his place?” she whispered. “But then that is visiting more suffering on him, no—my death? And alleviating mine? And also, I am not certain it is true. He would not want that of me. He would want me to avenge him. And also, I’m afraid that I am glad I’m alive. Even despite... even if I am not... am not as I once was.”
She had once taken such joy in her facility with words. Now, thanks to Brundage, there was something in her experience she could not ever imagine saying aloud.
Running had not been an act of fear, she told herself. It was an act of self-preservation. She owed it to everyone in her family who had been unable to escape their fates.
“...I’m not... worthy...” he muttered.
At least that’s what it sounded like. Her heart clenched. She stared at him, stunned.
Had she heard him correctly?
What torments haunted a vicar? Did he worry about the souls of his parishioners? Did he think he could not possibly be worthy of such confidences? Of such responsibilities?
“I am here,” she said softly.
Whoever he wanted her to be in this moment, whoever he needed, she would be.
He exhaled again, as if in relief.
She swallowed. And her heart began to speed.
“Mr. Bellingham. I have not told a soul this. I cannot bring myself to say what happened aloud to anyone, and perhaps I never shall, so I shall whisper it. I think perhaps Madame Aubert surmised, but I did not say anything aloud to her. And it is as though it happened to someone else while I watched. In some ways I feel as though I am still outside of myself, and I think that this is a mercy. I will tell you that I stared at his throat while it happened. I would not look him in the eye. Because then he would know he had gotten the better of me and I would not give that bastard the pleasure. I heard you say that word today, Mr. Bellingham, and this is the first time I’ve tried it out, and thank you. I like it. I think it will be useful. I stared at that bastard’s throat. I screamed once but I soon knew there was no use. No one would come. And so, then I made not a sound. I would not give him the pleasure of my fear, because that is what he wanted. He wanted me to be afraid. He wanted tobestme. I would not look him in the eye while he did it. And I did not weep. I did not weep.”
Her breath shuddered now. Her throat was thick.
Brundage deserved her rage, not her tears. But they came, and poured quietly. She dashed them away.
“And then I smoothed out my skirts and left the room without a word. All my life I have heard that my mother went to the guillotine with the same dignity.”
She had told him this story she could not imagine ever telling again, yet it had seemed necessary to hear it in her own voice.
And almost as if her story had released him, too, it was suddenly clear that Mr. Bellingham’s fever hadbroken. She refreshed the water in the basin from the pitcher, and gently, gently stroked the perspiration away from his brow.
“Mama,” he murmured.
Her heart jolted again.
“Yes, sleep, my sweet,” she whispered. “You will feel better in the morning.”